Prologue #3
I ignored it.
At five, my mother sent a tray to my room. Grilled chicken, vegetables, and a small dish of rice sat beneath a silver cover beside a note written in her careful script.
In case studying runs through dinner. Proud of you.
The food smelled good. I ate three pieces of broccoli and half the chicken before imagining the skirt pulling across my hips the following morning.
My fork stopped halfway toward the rice.
I covered the plate.
When my father entered at seven, I had completed every problem in the textbook section twice. He stood behind my chair with one hand resting against the back while he reviewed the pages.
“You’ve been working.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Since I came home.”
His attention shifted toward the tray. “You didn’t eat.”
“I had a late breakfast.”
“At what time?”
“Nine.”
His mouth tightened. “You need fuel if you expect your mind to perform.”
Shame climbed through me. My mother wanted discipline from my body, and my father demanded precision from my mind. Somehow, I had failed both of them with the same plate.
“I’ll eat later.”
He sat beside me and chose one of the more difficult problems. “Show me.”
I solved it while he watched. My hand trembled slightly near the end, and I erased one number after writing it in the wrong column. The smudge remained after the correction.
My father tapped the page. “Slow down. Precision matters more than speed.”
“I know.”
“Then behave as though you know.”
I swallowed and rewrote the equation. This time, the answer was correct.
He selected another problem, then another. By the fifth, my thoughts had begun moving through syrup. Hunger pulsed behind my eyes, and every number required more effort than it should have.
I changed another sign.
My father leaned back. “You know this material.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you making careless errors?”
“I’m tired.”
“Being tired isn’t an excuse for failing to apply what you know.”
“I’m not failing.”
The word came out too quickly.
He looked at me, and I immediately lowered my voice.
“These are only practice problems.”
“Practice is where habits form.”
“I understand.”
“Charlie understood that naturally. He never needed anyone to remind him that preparation was the difference between potential and achievement.”
The room blurred.
My brother smiled from the framed photograph on the shelf across from us. Sixteen forever. Brilliant forever. Loved without conditions because death had removed every disappointing thing he might have become.
“I’m not Charlie.”
My father’s expression changed, and silence expanded between us. The sentence felt cruel the moment it left me, as though saying I wasn’t my dead brother meant I didn’t miss him enough.
“I know that,” my father said.
The disappointment in his voice hurt worse than anger.
“I’m sorry.”
He closed the textbook. “I’m trying to help you succeed, Charmagne.”
“I know.”
“You have every opportunity available to you. The finest school, private instruction, tutors whenever you need them, and parents willing to invest in your future. There is no reason for you to perform beneath your ability.”
“I know.”
“Then stop giving me apologies and show me results.”
He stood and left me staring at the smudged equation until his footsteps disappeared down the hall.
My stomach growled, and the sound disgusted me.
Hunger had made me tired. Being tired made me careless, and carelessness disappointed my father. The logic was simple enough to understand, but eating meant facing my mother and the skirt again.
I carried the tray into the bathroom and dumped the remaining food into the toilet. The chicken took two flushes to disappear. I watched the final pieces vanish, then rinsed the plate so no evidence remained.
Afterward, I stood in front of the mirror and lifted the hem of my shirt.
The reflection had changed since morning. My stomach curved outward beneath the bathroom light.
I pressed my hand against it and turned sideways. The curve remained, soft and obvious. I caught the skin between my fingers, pulling it away from my body while my mother’s voice repeated the word discipline.
I had eaten three pieces of broccoli and half a piece of chicken. The rational part of me knew that amount of food couldn’t change a body within hours.
My eyes insisted it had.
I turned toward the other side and hated that angle more. Squaring my hips the way my mother taught me, I tightened my stomach and lifted my chin. The body in the mirror improved.
When I relaxed, it became wrong again.
My reflection held two girls at once. One knew she was hungry. The other looked like proof that hunger was working.
I pulled down my shirt and stepped away from the mirror.
On my desk, the clean algebra review waited beside the page where I’d made mistakes. I tore the flawed copy into smaller pieces and buried them beneath tissues in the trash, then opened a new notebook.
At the top of the first page, I wrote, Things that require more discipline.
The words looked mature and responsible, exactly like something my father would approve of. Beneath them, I listed algebra, drill transitions, focus, posture, and food. I wrote everything I’d eaten that day beside the final word: strawberries, three pieces of broccoli, and half a chicken breast.
The list made the hunger feel productive.
When my mother knocked, I closed the notebook. She entered carrying a glass of water and placed it beside me.
“I saw you rubbing your temples when your father left.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve been studying all day.”
“I need to do better.”
“He pushes because he knows how capable you are.”
“I disappointed him.”
“You challenged him.”
“I said I wasn’t Charlie.”
My mother’s eyes filled immediately, and guilt flooded me.
“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
“I miss him.”
“So do we.”
“I’m sorry.”
She touched my cheek. “You’re all we have now. Sometimes that makes us hold too tightly.”
The confession sounded like understanding. It gave their control a kinder name and made me feel guilty for wanting room to breathe inside it.
Her gaze dropped toward the covered tray visible through the bathroom doorway.
“Did you finish eating?”
“Yes.”
The lie arrived without hesitation.
My mother smiled and kissed my forehead. “Good girl.”
After she left, I opened the notebook again. Beside food, I added one more word.
Less.
I underlined it twice, pressing harder the second time until the paper nearly tore beneath the pen.
The following morning, I stood in front of the mirror before dressing for rehearsal. My stomach looked flatter, and the skirt zipped easily. Relief settled through me so completely that I forgot how hungry I’d been the night before.
Downstairs, my mother noticed the difference.
“Much better,” she said as she smoothed one hand over my waist.
My father looked up from the financial section of the newspaper. “Ready for the quiz?”
“Yes.”
“No careless mistakes?”
“No.”
He nodded with quiet approval.
For the first time all weekend, I felt as though I had become the daughter they still deserved. My body looked disciplined, my father believed my mind was prepared, and nobody could see what making both things true had cost.
I skipped breakfast before leaving the house. By lunch, hunger had turned sharp enough to make my hands shake, but the emptiness felt cleaner than failure.
I told myself I would eat after the quiz, then after rehearsal, then when I had earned it. Each promise sounded reasonable when I made it, and I didn’t understand yet that this was how it began.