Wintergirls by Laurie Halse Anderson

the first bite. “I keep dreaming about my research and waking up Jennifer because I’m punching the mattress.” He frowns. “I should never have agreed to write this one.”
    “Why not?” I ask.
    He takes another bite and chews. The smell curls up next to me, sweet sweet pumpkin, whipped cream melting on my tongue That pie is almost a week old, slick mold is growing in the crust, it’ll make him sick.
    He wipes a dab of whipped cream from his mouth.
    “I didn’t do enough preliminary research before I wrote the proposal. I assumed that I’d find plenty of primary sources and made too many promises. Now I’m stuck.”
    “Tell your editor,” I say. “Tell her you made a mistake and offer to write a different book.”
    “It’s not that simple.” He shovels in another enormous hunk of pie.
    Watching the food go into his mouth, his jaws working like a grinding machine and the gulping swallows, boils up a panic inside me. I run my fingertips along the edges of the cover of my book, pushing on the corners until it hurts.
    “You used to say things always look better in the morning,” I say. “Maybe you should just go back to bed.”
    “This is grown-up stuff, Lia, a little more complicated than that. But it’s nothing you have to worry about.”
    Because I am still a little girl who believes in Santa and the tooth fairy and you.
    He fumbles in the pocket of his robe for his reading glasses. “Is my laptop over there?”
    I point to the bookshelf above the television.
    “Ah.” He stands up and crosses the room. “Why don’t you finish this for me?” he says as he shoves the pie (545) in my face.
    “I don’t want to.” I push it back. “It’s disgusting.”
    He frowns. “It won’t hurt you. It’s just pie.”
    He keeps the pie plate inches away from my face. If I smacked his hand, the pie would splatter against the en-tertainment unit and slide down the television screen.
    “We don’t want your mother to be right about this, do we?” he asks.
    “Right about what?” I ask.
    “About you slipping back into your old habits. The bad ones.”
    I stand up, forcing him to step backwards and give me some room. “I’m tired,” I say. “I’m going to bed.”
    My feet on the carpeted stairs do not make a sound. I open the door slowly.
    Cassie is gone. The room smells a little like a bakery at Christmas, but she’s not here. I set the computer to play country music because she hates it, and crawl into bed.
    Just as I start to doze, the music stops.
    Cassie sits at the foot of my bed, looking stronger, healthier than before, like she’s getting the hang of being a ghost. She pats the shape of my leg under the blankets and says, “Go to sleep. It’ll be okay.”
    There are no spiders in sight, no friendly critters to make her go away. I want to tell her to leave me alone, but my mouth won’t open.
    Thursday.
    I wake up breathing dirt. I cough and spit out the pebbles in my mouth, but when I inhale again, wet clots of clay fill my lungs—
    No. It’s the sheet trapped over my face. I rip it off and get out of the bed as fast as I can. The house is dark, 5:45.
    This is the first time in weeks I’m awake before Emma.
    Down the hall, my father’s shower turns on. He probably has another committee meeting.
    I turn on all the lights and catch a glimpse of me in the mirror. My metabolism is slowing down again. Yellow bubbles of fat are bloating under my skin. I am starting to look disgusting again, weak.

    ::Stupid/ugly/stupid/bitch/stupid/fat/
    stupid/baby/stupid/loser/stupid/lost::
    They gave me rules for moments like this: 1. Identify the feeling.
    2. Recite magic incantations affirmations, reread Life Goals, meditate on positive thoughts.
    3. Call therapist if negative self-talk continues.
    4. Maintain required caloric intake and hydration.
    5. Avoid excessive exercise, and alcohol or drug abuse.

6. Click heels together three times, and repeat,
    “There’s no place like home, there’s no place