6. Addy
Chapter six
Addy
I ’ve just stepped out of the shower, water dripping down my skin, when the bathroom door suddenly flies open. Cheryl storms in, eyes blazing.
"It's weigh-in day," she snaps, before I can even reach for my towel.
Every day is weigh-in day.
Without warning, she snatches the towel off the hook and throws it aside, leaving me naked and exposed. I instinctively move to cover myself, but Cheryl is having none of it. She grabs my wrists in her claw-like grip, scrutinizing my body up and down.
"Look at you, you're practically bursting out of your skin," she scoffs, pinching at my waist and thighs harshly. "We'll need to cut your meals down after all the indulging you did last night."
I whimper softly, trying to wriggle free, but her sharp nails only dig deeper into my flesh. She continues critiquing every inch of me, from the jut of my ribs to the narrow curve of my hips, as if appraising livestock.
Finally, apparently satisfied with her invasive inspection, Cheryl drags me over to the scale. "Let's see the damage you've done."
The woman who’s meant to be my mother drags me across the cold marble floor, her claw-like grip bruising my wrists. I shudder as we enter my closet, my eyes automatically drawn to the centerpiece—the gilt scale upon its pedestal.
The closet itself is designed like a high-end boutique, with ornamental mirrors covering three walls to ensure every angle of my body can be scrutinized. Harsh overhead lights illuminate the pedestal, spotlighting the scale that will pronounce judgment upon me.
Most teenage girls have cozy furnishings and pretty decorations in their private spaces. But this room was designed with one purpose—to facilitate Cheryl's relentless micromanaging of my body.
She positions me in the center of the mirrors now, critically examining every view of my frail form. I keep my eyes downcast, trying in vain to preserve some modesty as she circles like a shark. My skin prickles with shame under her pitiless appraisal. I fight the urge to wrap my arms around myself, she’d only wrench them away from me with her talons.
The numbers on the scale taunt me as I step on each morning. At 5'4" and 92 pounds, I'm a walking skeleton. The hollows under my cheeks are cavernous. I can count every rib through my paper-thin skin. I haven't had a period in months, not that anyone cares.
My health is rapidly declining trying to maintain the "perfect" measurements demanded of me.
"Disappointing," Cheryl finally pronounces. "We'll have to be even more vigilant about your discipline." She gives me a little shove towards the scale. "Now, let's see the damage."
I step onto the cold metal platform, suppressing a shudder as I wait for the digital readout. The red numbers will seal my fate for the next day, determining whether I will be granted sustenance or starved further into submission.
Cheryl records my weight each morning, scrutinizing the digital readout. "92.6 pounds," she announces. "That's up half a pound from yesterday." Her mouth settles into a firm line as she glares at me.
I inwardly cringe, already knowing what comes next. A lecture, more food restrictions, over-exercising until I "correct" this unacceptable weight gain.
I don't even know what I ate to cause the gain. Shame maybe? My thoughts drift momentarily back to Dre and his lips on mine.
"I don't know how you expect to keep your figure if you can't even maintain a double zero size," Cheryl scolds. "Do you want to end up some obese, sad sack of a girl?"
I bite my tongue until I taste blood, choking back angry words I know better than to speak. I want to scream that there's nothing wrong with being overweight, not that I am. That I'm already a sad sack of a girl, miserable and unhealthy. Instead I simply nod and apologize for the inexcusable crime of gaining half a pound, likely water weight.
She sighs, as if dealing with the most unreasonable child. "I think we'll start with juice cleanses for the next three days," she declares. "And double your exercise regimen until you shed this weight. Honestly, all that money spent on your gown and glam, wasted on such an ungrateful, undisciplined girl."
I nod meekly and step off the scale, smoothing my protruding hip bones self-consciously. Inside, I weep for the girl wasting away in this house of nightmares. But on the outside, I obediently start planning my additional workout. A fraction of an ounce heavier, and still nothing but skin and bones.
And with that, she turns on her heels and leaves me shivering and vulnerable in her wake. I want to scream after her that I am more than a dress size or number on a scale. That no matter how perfect I look on the outside—and I would hardly call this perfect, I’m borderline emaciated—it could never make up for how broken I am within. But instead, I swallow my words and begin to dress, steeling myself for three more days of misery.
I feel the familiar numbness wash over me as I steel myself for another day. I let the hurt, fear and anger drain from my body, focusing only on breathing steadily. My face relaxes into a neutral expression, blank and unreadable. I am a statue, motionless and emotionless.
As I get ready, I avoid the mirror. I don't want to see the deadness in my eyes, like a doll's glassy stare. Moving through the motions, each action is mechanical and detached. Wash face. Brush teeth. Comb hair. Nothing elicits joy or sadness.
As I choose my outfit from the rows of high-end perfection, I give a grateful sigh that I'm at least allowed to choose how I want my nails. To a degree anyway. It’s the only place on my body where my personality—whatever that was—has a chance to shine.
At breakfast, I eat slowly, tasting nothing of the cottage cheese mixture. The threats and criticisms swirl around me but never penetrate my armor. I am untouchable in my shroud of apathy. When I speak, my voice is monotone, robotic and hollow. My body is a shell, my spirit in hibernation.
This is how I survive. By freezing my emotions, smothering my humanity. I lower my gaze, nod obediently to instructions. A compliant automaton. Better to be an empty vessel than break under the anguish I cannot show. And so I wear this mask of indifference, my only defense against complete despair.
??????
I glide through the polished halls of Saint Ignatius High alone, not that anyone would realize it. Flanking me are Sera and Penelope, carefully selected friends from prominent families my parents approve of. To the outside, we appear an enviable trio—beautiful, pedigreed, elite.
But there’s no true camaraderie between us. They tolerate me to elevate their own status, hoping my Winthrop name will open doors. As for me, I gain nothing but the illusion of belonging.
"Ugh, I'm so tired," Sera complains as we reach my locker. "Daddy is dragging us to the lake house again this weekend. It's going to suck."
"At least you'll get a tan," Penelope says. "We're stuck going to my mom's stuffy gala on Saturday."
Their mundane chatter fades to background noise as I retrieve my books. Part of me aches with loneliness, but I learned long ago not to let anyone too close. My life is too full of facades and secrets. It hurts to be anything more than the pretty little doll my family purchased.
"What about you, Addy?" Sera asks, more out of obligation than interest. "Any big plans?"
I plaster on the expected smile. "The usual—tennis lessons, studying. Maybe brunch with my parents on Sunday." My real weekend will be spent locked in my bedroom, enduring weigh-ins and scrutinizing mirrors. But I would never confess that truth.
As I close my locker, I catch a glimpse of Dre at the end of the hall, blue eyes piercing me even at a distance. A tremor of excitement ripples through me. I wonder if he can see past the act, to the girl crying out in isolation. But I quickly avert my gaze. Such fantasies only led to ruin.
With a smile and air kisses, we part ways for the next period. The halls clear, but I remain adrift in my friendless bubble. In truth, I’m alone at Saint Ignatius...just as I’m alone everywhere else. But maintaining appearances is all that matters.
Thankfully the morning passes in a monotonous blur of classes. I go through the motions on autopilot, speaking when spoken to and completing my work diligently. But my traitorous mind keeps returning to the gala last night—the heat of Dre's touch, the hunger in his icy eyes. A dormant part of me strains against its chains, tempted to pursue that provocative danger.
When the lunch bell rings, I make my way to the bustling cafeteria. I enviously watch my classmates heap their trays with pizza, sandwiches, fries—forbidden indulgences I crave but am denied. I haven’t had bread in years… All I carry is a bottle of cucumber-mint water, part of the meticulously planned juice cleanse Cheryl has prescribed this week.
As I approach my usual table, I see Preston practically draped over Cecily Burke, shooting daggers at me with his eyes. I’m not jealous in the slightest—if anything, I’m relieved. It will be a respite from his pawing hands and sloppy kisses. But clearly he’s trying to punish me for last night's perceived slight.
I sit down calmly, ignoring the theatrics unfolding before me. "Hello Preston, Cecily," I greet with perfect poise, taking a ladylike sip of my water.
"Oh don't mind us, Ice Princess," Preston sneers. "We know you're as frigid as the Arctic." Cecily titters stupidly.
I meet his anger with indifference, which only frustrates him more. Inside, I smile. His wounded ego is not my concern. All I want is to sip my water in peace without his meaty hands upon me.
The bell rings, sending students scurrying to class. As Cecily drags a fuming Preston away, I make my escape. In an unused classroom, stashed behind a dusty bookcase, is a box of granola bars—contraband I had hoarded to keep myself going when Cheryl's diets left me faint from hunger.
As I eat one now, savoring each bite, I think of Dre's smoldering eyes at the gala. Perhaps it's foolish, but something in his darkness called to my own. I’m tired of merely surviving. For the first time, I want to live. I doubted Dre was my way out. He was only indulging me to get under Preston’s skin, but still.
I’m hurriedly stuffing the granola bar wrapper in my bag when the classroom door suddenly swings open. I whirl around, heart leaping into my throat, and come face to face with an unexpected visitor. Chess Ortega.
His hazel eyes dance with amusement as he strolls inside. "Well, well...what do we have here?"
My cheeks flush hotly as I scramble for an excuse. "I...I was just..." But lies fail me. He’s caught me red-handed, defying my regimented diet. If word gets back to Cheryl, there will be hell to pay.
Chess lifts his hands disarmingly. "Hey, no judgment. We all need a secret stash now and then." He winks and leans casually against a desk. "So this is your sanctuary, hm? Cozy."
I frown, thrown by his casual demeanor. He doesn't seem intent on exposing or blackmailing me. But trusting anyone's motives feels dangerous.
"Did you follow me?" I ask carefully.
He shrugs. "I like to know people's hiding spots. Information is power and all that."
I bristle at the implied threat. But before I can respond, he smiles warmly. "Relax, princess. Your secret snack closet is safe with me." He pantomimes locking his lips and tossing the key.
Against my better judgment, I feel myself soften. Perhaps I’ve misjudged him.
My heart is racing. Despite his playful demeanor, there's a sharpness in Chess' eyes that makes me wary. I try to shrug it off, to make light of the situation. But my body feels hot and tight.
"Well, now that you've found my secret snack stash," I say, forcing my voice to sound unaffected. "Is there anything else you wanted?"
"Oh, princess," He takes a step closer until we're only inches apart. I can feel his breath on my face as he leans in to whisper in my ear. "That's a dangerous question."
My whole body tenses up at his words. My mind races and I can feel the panic rising within me. What is happening to me? I've never felt anything like this before.
Hell, I've never felt much of anything at all. It's too dangerous. But, my reaction to Chess is as visceral as my reaction to Dre last night.
I take a deep breath and try to calm myself down. This is just another game for him, another way to manipulate people into getting what he wants. He and his friends have a reputation, one they've more than earned.
But despite my logical reasoning, there's a part of me that wants to believe in Chess. A glimmer of empathy in his eyes that I can't ignore. Maybe, just maybe, he's more than the reputation he wears. Maybe he understands what it's like to be trapped in a web of expectations and secrets.
I shake off the internal struggle and narrow my eyes at him.
"You think you can scare me, Chess?" I say, my voice dripping with defiance.
Chess raises an eyebrow, seemingly amused by my bravado. "Oh, I don't doubt your ability to put up a fight. I think I'd enjoy it."
I reel back at the implication. People didn't speak to me like this. But Chess isn't just anyone. He's different. And that difference, as unsettling as it is, intrigues me.
It's like he can see through the layers of my carefully crafted fa?ade, straight into the depths of my soul. And somewhere deep down, I want to let him in.
But, that's too dangerous. I square my shoulders, ready to take him on when the bell rings, puncturing the moment. Students start to stream past in the hall outside.
"Time for prison, I mean class," he offers a roguish wink that has me wrinkling my nose. "See you around, princess."
I sling my worn backpack over my shoulder and hastily maneuver around him, accidentally brushing against his broad chest. Trying to keep my cool, I quicken my steps and hold my breath as I pass by him.
I'd barely made it a step down the hallway when a hand grips my wrist tightly and yanks me back.
"What the hell do you think you're doing with him?" My brother's voice is like ice, freezing any warmth or emotion within me.
I try to pull away from his grip but he only tightens it, causing a sharp pain to shoot through my arm.
I meet Chess's eyes beyond Wesley's shoulder. I can see the muscles in his neck tense and his jaw clench. Without a word, he turns and strides away from us. My gaze follows his rigid profile as he storms down the hall, shoulders tense and fists clenched at his sides, leaving me standing alone with a heavy weight of disappointment sinking in my chest.
"Let go!" I hiss through gritted teeth.
He finally releases me but not before giving me a shove against the lockers.
"Stay away from him. Do you hear me?" His eyes are full of anger and control, just like our parents'.
I swallow hard and nod, knowing that arguing with him will only lead to more pain for both of us. He walks away without another word and I'm left alone in the hallway, trying to shake off the fear and humiliation from our encounter.
I take a deep breath and head into class, trying to focus on anything but Chess or my brother.