Don’t worry about the number. What matters is how you look, not what you weigh.
Doctor: “According to your record, you’ve lost about thirty pounds since the spring.”
Ha, with all that water, make it closer to thirty-five.
Doctor (raising the bar that measures height): “You’re five nine and a half.”
Mike: “I didn’t grow at all in six months?”
Doctor: “I’m sorry—what?”
Don’t worry about it. Growth comes in stages.
Mike: “Never mind.”
The doctor moves on to Mike’s blood pressure. It’s taking all of Mike’s concentration not to pee.
Doctor: “Well, Michael, your weight’s a little low for your height, and your blood pressure’s a little low too. Do you exercise? That might explain it.”
Mike: “I run.”
Doctor: “Good for you! So do I, when the knees don’t bother me. You’ve got to watch the knees, especially when you’re an old fart like me. Are you cold? I try to keep it warm in here.”
Mike (teeth chattering): “I’m fine.”
Doctor: “Look at that, your finger’s bleeding.”
Mike looks down. The cut, from the day he bought the mirror. He doesn’t know how it opened up again. Did the paper cup stab him?
Mike: “Is it okay if I go to the bathroom?”
Doctor: “Go right ahead.”
After Mike goes to the bathroom and gets his clothes back on, he returns to Dr. Steiner’s office. His mom is there.
Mom: “Don’t you think he’s too thin?”
Doctor (slowly, like he’s talking to a child): “I know what you’re thinking, Mrs. Welles. What all the girls are getting—anorexia nervosa.” He says it like it’s Italian food. “Michael’s just a skinny teenager, like we all were, once upon a time.” He laughs.
Mom: “He barely eats. He skips breakfast. Who knows what he has for lunch? At dinner I see him pushing his food around—”
Mike: “I eat after school. That’s when I get hungry. I make some mac and cheese—”
Mom: “But you don’t eat it! You throw it all away!”
Amber was right. His mom goes through the garbage. Dr. Steiner gives Mike a look of sympathy, for his crazy mom. Dr. Steiner stands. He casts a shadow over Mike and his mom.
Doctor: “Mrs. Welles, Michael’s in excellent shape.” Unlike you, he seems to imply. The doctor is smiling. Mike is smiling. I am smiling, in my way.
Mike’s mom is not.
CHAPTER 19
ACCORDING TO THE WEATHER REPORTS, IT’S UNSEASONABLY warm for November. Then why does it feel to Mike like Belle Heights is ushering in a new ice age? At any moment he expects to see icebergs floating down the expressway. But, freezing weather aside, life is perfect. Mike and I are in sync, partners in the project that is Mike. He works out until his body sings—that’s how it feels, this pain that is also not-pain, because its intensity is so satisfying. He looks in the mirror and admires the tightness of his skin, the clean lines of his body. He is focused. If his mind ever drifts to unpleasant topics, I put him back on track:
Strong body, strong mind. Everything in its right place.
Mike takes Amber’s advice and starts putting the food he’s not eating in Ziploc bags. He stashes them all over the house—behind shelves, under his bed, in the corners of closets. But sometimes he forgets to take them outside, and one night his mom says, “It smells like something died in here.”
Mike tries to remember all his hiding places, but it’s difficult. He has so much on his mind.
Mom: “I think it’s a mouse.” She sounds frightened. “I always thought, because of Mighty Joe Young, mice would stay away. Could you look around? Just the thought of finding a dead mouse …” She shivers.
Mike finds bags of rotting food hidden everywhere. The worst offender is in the coat closet, near the front door—a moldy greenish-brownish mush of something in the pocket of a jacket belonging to his dad.
Mom: “Did you find anything?”
Mike: “A dead mouse in the coat closet. In the corner, all curled up.”
Mom: “Oh! Poor thing.”
When Mike tells Amber about it, she laughs and laughs. She finds it hilarious that his mom feels sorry for a mouse that never existed.
Now Tamio’s waiting for Mike outside homeroom. Before Mike can brush past him, Tamio says, “Amber’s in the hospital.”
Mike: “No way. I just talked to her.”
Tamio: “When was that?”
Mike has to think. He wonders why it’s so hard to concentrate sometimes.
Because your mind is on important things.
Mike tries to remember his most recent conversation with Amber. It feels like they talk all the time, but he realizes they haven’t actually spoken since lunch on Friday. Today is Monday. The weekend—running, working out, looking in the mirror—flew by.
Tamio: “She had a heart attack.”
Mike: “You’re crazy. She’s too young.”
Tamio: “Well, she screws up her body. She makes herself throw up.”
Mike: “Where’d you hear that?”
Tamio: “Why do you think she’s always trying to cover it up with those candies? Like the ones I smell on you.”
That is not why Amber likes FireBalls. But never mind. Mike is so upset, his hands start shaking.
Calm down. Tamio doesn’t even know Amber, remember?
Mike (taking a deep breath): “You don’t know anything about Amber.”
Tamio: “I figured you knew. I thought maybe you were trying to help her out.”
Mike: “She doesn’t need help. She’s happy. She’s the happiest person I know.” Mike remembers how Amber almost fell down in the cafeteria. “She probably just broke her ankle.”
Tamio: “Dude. It’s not her ankle.”
The bell rings.
All day everyone is talking about Amber.
Melissa Sacks (stopping Mike in the hall): “Have you seen her in the hospital? Is she okay? A heart attack! That’s, like, such a huge thing. Is there anything I can do?”
Mike remembers Melissa pretending to stick her finger down her throat at the sight of Amber. She can go to hell, that’s what she can do.
Finally Mike makes it to the last class of the day. He’s exhausted. Mr. Clayton is talking about a new star system that’s just been discovered. Apparently Mr. Clayton is the only one excited about it.
Mr. Clayton: “Imagine—a triple-sun system! The main sun is bright yellow. There’s also a large orange sun and a small red one. It’s one of the oddest places in our galaxy.”
When class ends and kids pile out, Mr. Clayton looks right at Mike.
Mr. Clayton: “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
Mike wants to go home, call Amber, run, work out. He wishes he were anywhere else, even in that triple-sun system, which at least sounds warm.
As Mike approaches Mr. Clayton’s desk, Mr. Clayton says, “Your finger’s bleeding.”
Mike looks down. It’s covered in blood. He wonders why he never feels it. Why hasn’t it healed yet?
Some things take time.
Mike (all innocence): “Is that what you wanted to tell me, about my finger?”
Mr. Clayton: “I’m concerned about you, Mike. Several times you seemed to lose your balance. I thought you might pass out.”
It’s unfortunate that Mr. Clayton noticed that. The last class of the day is always the hardest to get through because Mike is so eager to leave and get on#x2 with his life. Sometimes he stands up too fast and he’s short of breath and the room goes suddenly dark. But it only lasts a moment.
It gets hot in here and that makes you dizzy.