Laurie Halse Anderson - Wintergirls

Viking

Published by Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England First published in 2009 by Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Copyright Laurie Halse Anderson, 2009

All Rights Reserved

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING -IN-PUBLICATION DATA Anderson, Laurie Halse.

Wintergirls / by Laurie Halse Anderson.

p. cm.

Summary: Eighteen-year-old Lia comes to terms with her best friends death from anorexia as she struggles with the same disorder.

ISBN: 1-101-02639-1

[1. Anorexia nervosaFiction. 2. DeathFiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.A54385Wi 2009

[Fic]dc22

2008037452

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for building the fire that keeps me

warm when the blizzard rages outside.

[Persephone] was filled with a sense of wonder, and she reached out with both hands to take hold of the pretty plaything. And the earth, full of roads leading every which way, opened up under her.... She cried with a piercing voice.... But not one of the immortal ones, or of human mortals, heard her.

Homeric Hymn to Demeter, translated by Gregory Nagy The King gave orders that they should let her sleep quietly till the time came for her to awake.

The Sleeping Beauty in the Woods, by Charles Perrault, 1696, translated by Charles Welsh

So she tells me, the words dribbling out with the cranberry muffin crumbs, commas dunked in her coffee.

She tells me in four sentences. No, five.

I cant let me hear this, but its too late. The facts sneak in and stab me. When she gets to the worst part

... body found in a motel room, alone...

... my walls go up and my doors lock. I nod like Im listening, like were communicating, and she never knows the difference.

Its not nice when girls die.

We didnt want you hearing it at school or on the news.

Jennifer crams the last hunk of muffin into her mouth.

Are you sure youre okay?

I open the dishwasher and lean into the cloud of steam that floats out of it. I wish I could crawl in and curl up between a bowl and a plate. My stepmother Jennifer could lock the door, twist the dial to SCALD, and press ON.

The steam freezes when it touches my face. Im fine,

I lie.

She reaches for the box of oatmeal raisin cookies on the table. This must feel awful. She rips off the cardboard ribbon. Worse than awful. Can you get me a clean container?

I take a clear plastic box and lid out of the cupboard and hand it across the island to her. Wheres Dad?

He had a tenure meeting.

Who told you about Cassie?

She crumbles the edges of the cookies before she puts them in the box, to make it look like she baked instead of bought. Your mother called late last night with the news. She wants you to see Dr. Parker right away instead of waiting for your next appointment.

What do you think? I ask.

Its a good idea, she says. Ill see if she can fit you in this afternoon.

Dont bother. I pull out the top rack of the dishwasher. The glasses vibrate with little screams when I touch them. If I pick them up, theyll shatter. Theres no point.

She pauses in mid-crumble. Cassie was your best friend.

Not anymore. Ill see Dr. Parker next week like Im supposed to.

I guess its your decision. Will you promise me youll call your mom and talk to her about it?

Promise.

Jennifer looks at the clock on the microwave and shouts, Emmafour minutes!

My stepsister Emma doesnt answer. Shes in the family room, hypnotized by the television and a bowl of blue cereal.

Jennifer nibbles a cookie. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Im glad you didnt hang out with her anymore.

I push the top rack back in and pull out the bottom.

Why?

Cassie was a mess. She could have taken you down with her.

I reach for the steak knife hiding in the nest of spoons.

The black handle is warm. As I pull it free, the blade slices the air, dividing the kitchen into slivers. There is Jennifer, packing store-bought cookies in a plastic tub for her daughters class. There is Dads empty chair, pretending he has no choice about these early meetings. There is the shadow of my mother, who prefers the phone because face-to-face takes too much time and usually ends in screaming.

Here stands a girl clutching a knife. There is grease on the stove, blood in the air, and angry words piled in the corners. We are trained not to see it, not to see any of it.

... body found in a motel room, alone...

Someone just ripped off my eyelids.

Thank God youre stronger than she was. Jennifer drains her coffee mug and wipes the crumbs from the corners of her mouth.

The knife slides into the butcher block with a whisper.

Yeah. I reach for a plate, scrubbed free of blood and gristle. It weighs ten pounds.

She snaps the lid on the box of cookies. I have a late settlement appointment. Can you take Emma to soccer?

Practice starts at five.

Which field?

Richland Park, out past the mall. Here. She hands the heavy mug to me, her lipstick a bloody crescent on the rim. I set it on the counter and unload the plates one at a time, arms shaking.

Emma comes into the kitchen and sets her cereal bowl, half-filled with sky-colored milk, next to the sink.

Did you remember the cookies? she asks her mother.

Jennifer shakes the plastic container. Were late, honey. Get your stuff.

Emma trudges toward her backpack, her sneaker laces flopping. She should still be sleeping, but my fathers wife drives her to school early four mornings a week for violin lessons and conversational French. Third grade is not too young for enrichment, you know.

Jennifer stands up. The fabric of her skirt is pulled so tight over her thighs, the pockets gape open. She tries to smooth out the wrinkles. Dont let Emma con you into buying chips before practice. If shes hungry, she can have a fruit cup.

Should I stick around and drive her home?

She shakes her head. The Grants will do it. She takes her coat off the back of the chair, puts her arms in the sleeves, and starts to button up. Why dont you have one of the muffins? I bought oranges yesterday, or you could have toast or frozen waffles.

Because I cant let myself want them because I dont need a muffin (410), I dont want an orange (75) or toast (87), and waffles (180) make me gag.

I point to the empty bowl on the counter, next to the huddle of pill bottles and the Bluberridazzlepops box.