To my horror Mike almost gets into a conversation with her, about feeling like the odd one out. He’s lonely here—but of course he is! He doesn’t belong here. This isn’t his real life. He isn’t really here.
This girl is a waste of your time.
Mike: [nothing]
Miranda: “See ya, I guess.”
Mike takes off.
Later in the week, the girl who used to sit at the drawing table during activity period goes home, and Mike sits there now. He doesn’t really draw, just sketches a little. I don’t like it, but it’s a small piece of time out of a long day.
Oh, no—the fat girl is here. She pulls up a chair and joins him.
Miranda: “Whatcha doin’?”
You have nothing to say to her.
Mike: [nothing]
Miranda: “It looks like bones.”
Mike looks down at his paper. He thinks it does look like bones, now that she said so, but to me it’s a bunch of meaningless shapes.
Miranda: “Is it some kind of animal?”
Mike: [nothing]
Miranda: “I like portraits. I like going to a museum and looking at the faces on the walls and wondering what the people in those paintings are thinking about. They had to sit there for hours, maybe days or weeks, you know? All they did was think. And the artist captured those thoughts, if you look carefully enough to see.”
She’s an idiot.
Mike is thinking about landscapes, about Ray Harryhausen’s favorite artist, a French illustrator named Gustave Doré, who created dark, moody foregrounds and light-filled backgrounds. There’s one image of a fallen tree with steps leading somewhere. Mike has always wanted to set foot on those steps, see where they go.
Miranda (pointing to his drawing): “Look at that. Your animal’s got two heads. Cool.”
Mike looks. Now he recognizes it. It’s the two-headed Cyclops he drew all those years ago, when he first met Tamio.
Miranda: “Are two heads better than one?”
This is so boring.
Mike stands. He crumples up the drawing and tosses it away. He walks over to the itchy couch and sits there.
Good for you.
But Mike’s thinking that maybe it was kind of rude to get up and leave—
Of course not.
—and he’s sorry he threw away the drawing.
Don’t be. It belongs in the garbage.
CHAPTER 28
WEEK FOUR.
Mike sits at a new table now, with Allison (Cheryl is still at partials) and a girl named Sandy who is instantly forgettable. He eats veggie burgers and tuna fish with mayonnaise. They’re stuffing him like a piñata. He hates it, but he knows he’ll take better care of himself at home and get his body back. For three weeks Mike has been putting up with a lot, and now the end is in sight.
Darpana: “You’ve got some wonderful qualities, Mike. Qualities to be proud of. You’re smart and creative. A hard worker, a straight-A student.”
Why is she complimenting you? She’s up to something.
Mike: “Thank you. That’s kind of you to say.”
Darpana: “Everything that’s good about you—anorexia loves it. Anorexia takes your intelligence and creativity and uses it to lie, repeatedly and convincingly, about why you don’t eat, why you wear long underwear in the middle of summer. Anorexia uses that work ethic to force you to exercise even when you’re famished and exhausted.”
You can run over hunger, remember? And you felt great doing it.
I was so close, Mike thinks. I was almost there.
Darpana: “Anorexia takes a terrific person and turns him into a lying, moody, deceitful, self-centered manipulator.”
In other words, an asshole.
Thanks a lot! Mike thinks.
Mike: “Yes, I wasn’t myself.”
Darpana takes out a blank piece of paper and a pencil. She draws a circle.
Darpana: “Mike, this is you, before the eating disorder.”
Mike looks at the circle. To my discomfort, he is getting drawn in, so to speak. Darpana draws another circle next to the first one, and shades it in.
Darpana: “This other circle is the eating disorder. Now, as time goes by …” She draws another plain circle, partly covered by a shaded circle. “The circles begin to overlap. Until finally …” She draws another circle, this one almost completely covered by shading. The leftover plain part looks like a sliver moon. “Do you see? There you were.” She points to the first plain circle. “Then came the eating disorder—the shadow.” She points to the shaded circle. “The shadow covered you more and more, blocking out your light. You can barely see the first circle anymore. It’s been eclipsed.”
Mike: “I’m a shadow?”
Darpana: “Yes.”
Mike: “I’ve been eclipsed?”
Darpana: “Yes.”
Mike: “So—what you’re saying—I’m not real.”
Darpana: “The only real thing about you now is your eating disorder.”
I can’t believe Mike is upset about this. But this has happened before, more than once. I calm him down. He remembers this is not his real life and that he is not really here. He will go home and run, and nothing will bother him, and he’ll get fit and strong, and he’ll master the chaos.
They show an old movie in the rec room—The Picture of Dorian Gray. Generally I’m not a fan of movies because I don’t see the point of sitting and staring when you could actually be doing something, but this one isn’t too bad. It’s about a good-looking man (Dorian Gray) who has his portrait painted, and the portrait has super- natural powers, so whenever Dorian commits an evil act, his portrait becomes more and more evil-looking. Dorian doesn’t age but his portrait does. By the end of the movie, Dorian is still young and handsome but his portrait is old and hideous. It’s some kind of cautionary tale, but I can’t be bothered to figure out the moral.
In group the next morning, Miranda can’t stop talking about the movie.
Miranda: “It got me thinking. I’m my mom’s portrait.”
Richard: “How so?”
Miranda: “My mom’s terrified of gaining weight. So it happens to me—that way, magically, it doesn’t happen to her. Ha, which gives me a great idea for a remake, y’all. A guy can eat and eat and stay thin, and his portrait gets fat for him. It could be called The Eating Disorder of Dorian Gray.”
Some other girclass="underline" “I wish I had a portrait that could reach my IBW for me.”
IBW—Ideal Body Weight. A little eating-disorder-clinic humor. It shocks me, how much the other girls like Miranda now. They tell her how beautiful her hair is, and how much they like her eyes, which are brown with yellow in them. She’s repellant is what she is.
And Mike can’t get rid of her at the drawing table.
He’s been working on his two-headed Cyclops again, drawing in a ridged back and hairy legs, and carefully placing white dots in the eyes to indicate reflected light, something Tamio showed him how to do. But I’m sure he’ll throw the picture away before going home.
Miranda: “He’s awesome.”
Mike: “Um… thanks.”
Miranda: “Can he think two thoughts at the same time?”
Mike: “Huh?”
Miranda: “Well, he’s got two heads. So maybe one head can look up and admire the moon, and the other head can think about his lonely childhood.”
Mike: “His—what?”
Miranda: “I mean, look at him. He’s a two-headed Cyclops among all the one-headed Cyclopses. He’s a mutant in a race of mutants.”