My stomach grumbled. My throat was sore from repeatedly apologizing to my violin mentor. Lately my mind was frozen in a distant land, my fingers fumbled over simple chords that I'd known since age six. I couldn't play London Bridges, and I had done my fair share of crying that afternoon. I needed to see Charlotte, her smile would rethink my day, saving it from utter disaster.
The cold made my head sting and nose pink as my jacket. The dance hall ornate doors stood, intimidating and I pushed on through. I knew just where to find Charlotte's studio, in the center of the expansive building. Charlotte was always in the center.
The claps of the dance master Stoyavich rang out, hollowed by the long mirrored hallways. I breathed into my muff, smothering any noise. I knew better than to disrupt the Master's class. Among scattered sneakers, sweatpants, and jackets I stood, a lone figure watching the silhouettes of dancers, their details doubtful by watery sunlight that December allowed.
My best friend moved with sure movements, and I saw the dance master flash an approving smile at Charlotte, and I smiled in response. She didn't have to waste her time in tears and apologies, wiping her nose like some bloody school age girl. His clapping stopped at once, as did the routine. He had caught my intrusion and wanted no escape of secrecy he desired. Perfection lie in quiet, not to be admired by the outside world.
"Carlina, your leg work was sloppy, and your tilts misplaced. Stretch it out before class, if your rolls of fat will allow this," Stoyavich condemned her with a gloved finger. The youngest girl nodded without emotion, taking off her pinching slippers with the six other girls.
"Charlotte!" I whispered loudly, waving. My friend's blank look morphed into an ear splitting grin.
"LoeLoe!" Charlotte squealed, dodging Stoyavich, barefoot and jumping over forgotten sneakers.
"Charlotte!" snapped Stoyavich, "leave your socializing for out of doors. Come here to the bar and do 50 first to third transactions. For the elite, you were lazy today. I'm sure you wouldn't want to end up like 'LoeLoe'. He took a harsh grip on her arm, leading her to the mirror. "Begin. And one.!" the master commanded. Charlotte slipped her gaze to me as I stood with my mouth agape.
Fumbled.
She had 15 added on. I couldn't bear to watch.
I walked out the door and down the steps, a pigeon descending from among where doves flew.
I greeted my mother's dinner with scorn. Thinking of it later, I sounded exactly like girls I can't stand to be around. "Mom!" I whined, "I can't eat that. You're stupid for thinking I'd touch that."
Dad told me I made her cry when I was laying in bed that night, hands pressing against my hated flesh under the covers.
"You're selfish, that's all you are. Your mother just wants you to eat something. Just go fucking eat something, Chloe," he yelled through the door, pounding relentlessly I didn't answer, my hands stopped wandering on my thighs. I heard him curse again, frustrated of this daily occurrence.
I didn't care. Don't; never abandon the mission - even if it means making your own mother cry. Even if it makes your father curse at you.
The violin invited me, gleaming under the light of my overhead fan. It whirled. I played til my fingers were numb and went to bed, empty as always.
Six AM and the alarm set off, blaring and beeping in a horrible fashion. I groaned, gazing at the dark wall. Kill me now. Shower, make- up, dry my hair, pretend to eat breakfast, bust stop, spring down mid-town, sit through endless classes with glazed eyes, stay hungry, more droning teachers, find Charlotte, stay hungry, sing like a bird, stay hungry, oh and it's time to do it all over again.
Step one: sit up. After my usual mental run down, I showered, wishing only my routine could stay this easy, as I lived this day, December 12. Perfumed and ready, I took a banana, discarding it from my mother's far seeing eyes. The sleet was achingly cold through the layers I wore. Thank God for the layers that covered my body's thinness every morning.
The public high school I attended housed over 2500 students and I realized this was the population of some small towns. It depressed me to think I was just another face in a desk, score on a test, name in an activity flyer. But life called for me to be a success and so I went.
Leaden books, avoidance, and first mod - analytical geometry at 7:30 AM, kill me again. I was early and surrounded by the elite. I could be one, if I ever opened my mouth to someone else besides beautiful Charlotte.
My mind fought past screeching giggling to hear the taunting words of the dance master the previous evening. The phone rang later that night and the drained voice of my best friend repeating apologies - "I'm sorry, you know he's hard on anyone who isn't perfect, which means everyone."
Yeah. He had called her lazy. Not fat like LoeLoe. And oh my god, she was fat, just not fat but lazy and fat and irresponsible. Mission: stay hungry was working but mission: become skinny and beautiful like Charlotte was not and the result was headaches and layers of clothing to hide the ugliness. She wouldn't want to spoil the elite's eyesight as one girl sat on her desk, making her binder fall to the ground and CRASH: papers everywhere. Thoughts collected and dumped into the trashcan.
Class began. Class ended.
I battled my way through the hallways. The new principal played orchestra music over the intercom. The system was old, the speakers shaped like triangle funnels.
In the bathroom, I washed my hands, numbly staring up into my own eyes. Charlotte walked in behind me, hurried and flushed. Her dark curls were frazzled and her olive skin was green under the poor lighting. She caught me by the arm and hoisted me from the loud lavatory. Her arms gripped past my sweatshirt, shirts underneath. She clutched me in concern, her eyes desperate. "We'll do something this and you - something fun - get away from here," she promised me and ran off, leaving me amongst looks of curiosity.
"But what about your practices? I know you have them and Stoyavich won't let you slack!" I called after her but her tall figure carried her off into the mass of people.
Standing there in the hallway, I felt all but educated. The orchestra music the supposedly nut case principal played between classes could barely be heard over the chaos of hormonally charged teenagers. But I strained to hear the violin strings softly carrying the sad epiphany that sang in reflection to my soul. She was on to me. I couldn't hide behind layers anymore. Mission: stay hungry was changing to mission: avoid at all costs.
I could scream into the interrupted melody and no one would hear except for her.
I went to my Grandmother's that weekend to escape my mother's tears and pleadings and my father's screams of irritation. The Brooklyn townhouse was quieter than the Manhattan street sides. Here my mind slowed down; obsessions, cravings, needs seemed less idealistic. But I was still trapped in my body. And the highly wrought Victorian mirror unmercifully showed my flaws in microscopic detail. Sculpted in golden glaze, the outer rim oppositely contrasted with my outer self - why couldn't I have the body to match my insides, barely shining through my eyes?
The shower was on, steam beginning to cover the mirror. Two blue eyes scrutinized the lines, sticking out like a knobby tree. I hated my skin, the roundness of my thighs, my cheeks, the absences of bones; I wanted bones, to be concave. The shower's hiss continued and I slipped the robe off just as the mirrors vision fogged up completely.
Charlotte came by, as promised, but with a guy from the dance company. I sat with my hair in a towel on the upstairs balcony, mostly freezing in the air. Charlotte came upstairs alone, speaking no words but suggesting a scandalous outing by holding up a corset for clubbing.
I snapped into a smile - an equal playing field for I could grind like the best of the ballerinas. I wanted attention from guys, to be touched and wanted, even it was an illusion. This was where Charlotte and I had met; I lost in the music and her in the dancing. It was in a club I had learned to be desired. It was the best gift being 18 had to offer.
"Who came with you?" I asked as she pulled down my wet hair and began brushing it. I took over though, pointing to what I wanted to wear. She knew I needed help with the tricky strings.
She handed me the corset and laced it tightly. "His name is Jason and he's the only straight guy I've ever been placed with and I want him."
"I'm sure he wants you too, love." I sucked in one last time, but Charlotte shook her head.
"It's too big, the strings won't go any tighter, there's nothing to suck in, LoeLoe."
"Yeah there is. But whatever. I'm sure he wants you too." I stared into Charlotte's eyes. "You're so beautiful Charlotte, I wish I were you, I'd die to be you." my voice trailed into nothing.
Charlotte looked sadly at my torso, corset laced until the fabric bent and yet it wad lose around my pale skin. Low rise jeans and two protruding hips.
"Chloe, I can't pretend there's nothing wrong. You might not speak of your trials but I know you're aching. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry but we have to do something for you. Before you die, die in your own skin."
Mission: avoidance was stamped through with failure notice.
We danced that night, as always, my top slipping down further and further. My boobs still possessed a soft shape, and I saw men and boys staring. There was no magic though. I had been discovered in hiding, and like the prey from his hunter was dazed and shocked before death. I believed duration at a hospital would kill me. Weight would kill me. Disruption of the mission would kill me.
Charlotte's face, done up in light make-up, flashed blue, purple, lime green in radiating rainbows. Jason smiled at me and he was beautiful too. As a unit the strobe lights hit them, and soon I was spinning within, outwards, inwards, backwards, forwards, and the room collapsed as I fell into a floor, void of light, stained with sticky soda.
"CHLOE!" was all I heard from Charlotte. I woke up in a paper nightgown, an IV violating my veins, and a new reality in existence.
Mission: get out of the eating disorder unit of the intensive care before Charlotte's ever so crucial dance recital was instigated.
I walked into the bathroom of 24 Apt. B 5th Avenue. Digital digits roamed and reached 95. Ninety-five pounds on a 5'6" frame. In a month's time I'd added 15 pounds of flab, unwanted weight that held me down. He doctor pronounced, in a more formal tone, "all better, go about a normal life now" once the scale satisfied him.
The physical aspect was fixed, and maybe I understood, slightly, why I had to gain the weight. The mirror still lied. I disowned my body. I wanted nothing to do with it, and the weight was proof that it wanted nothing to do with me.
I dressed myself carefully after hugging my mother for the fifth time in two hours. Dad stood in the doorway as I fixed my hair just so, smiling at me. "My pretty girl is back," he said and I shot my glance back to my enemy, seeing nothing not so pretty. I forced my façade upon, which I had perfected in the eating disorder unit.
Mission accomplished.
Tonight was Charlotte's recital premiere; her part an important, even prominent one. I was killed at the scale's reading, but staying any longer in the eating disorder unit would mean missing the show. No weight could prevent me from seeing Charlotte dance to instruments of old with the man she was enthralled with.
The Christmas lights were coming down systematically at the mid- January date. My heels made little noise as I carried myself down Time Square, knowing I was the eye of many. The air was bitter and the new lack of sparkling lights created cynicism in my heart.
Winter is finally dark as it should be, matching my heart, I thought. I stepped up the steps to the theatre, golden lights twinkling through. It was only here, where Charlotte that glitters.
Seat taken, breath captured and taken hostage in my throat, eyes searching for the form I wish I could posses. I saw her and my heart swelled with pride and adoration. My only friend, beautiful under lights and make-up and under a tough exterior that held a heart that matched her eyes.
The music crescendoed high from the orchestra pit until I could breathe again, my heart racing. Dancers worked through intricate forms I could only begin to pronounce.
My thoughts stretched back into childhood. Charlotte and I stood in a mirror, her body tall and slender and I looked like a pumpkin. We had matching tutu's on and our mothers looked on from behind the glass, waving cheerfully. We twirled, twirled, twirled to the crystal echoes of Swan Lake.
Charlotte had kept twirling.
I just listened. I was lost between a joint world of daydreaming and witnessing the splendor. "I am the pigeon, chased from humble charity and they are the doves, but in this music, I see who I am. Only notes of sound, echoing in my ear, and the illusion that everything in life is synchronized and perfect." My mind twirled language into revelation.
It moved into an hour and I was lost in a daze of protruding disclosures, not revealing bones. The velvet plush of the seat cradled my body that was a lost vessel during the two hour ballet. I forgot it was there, connected in ligaments and bone. It didn't matter its size, its shape, its colour - it was an addition, not her - the soul behind blue eyes.
Charlotte leaped into her partner's arms in a drum beating finale that carried such a silence no one breathed until the curtains closed and reality was realized.
I stood up slowly, limbs foreign and awkward. But I felt uniquely glad to have their sensation. By instinct, I found Charlotte backstage, adoration and affection raining down, around, through her. But she aw me, teal eyes in a grey dress and pushed pass the media. Four weeks without seeing me, and to see her here, the climax of her young life surpassed any other feeling. She leaned into me, speaking softly, "I danced for you tonight, dearest and I felt your heart sing. You lent me your body's strength when I almost faltered."
"I never had to die to be you. We share our strength together, and I have nothing to fear."
Alone again for awhile, I let the music return to my ears, memory powering it. It marched in, arching into a line of high and low.
High then low, gradual and sudden - I understood suddenly, and it was all going to be okay - body, mind and soul.
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