Girls Under Pressure Read online

  “You ready for something to eat yet?” Dad says, proffering the crisp bowl.

  “No, thanks,” I say, turning my back.

  One crisp would be fatal. Then there’d be another and another until I’d munched the lot and licked round the bowl for the crumbs.

  The phone rings for ages at Dan’s house. Then one of his even geekier brothers answers. He starts waffling some nonsense about Dan being otherwise engaged. At last Dan comes to the phone himself.

  “Hi! It’s me.”

  “Hi,” says Dan.

  There is a little silence. I thought he’d act more thrilled. I’ve never phoned him up before, it’s always him phoning me.

  “What was your brother wittering on about?”

  “Oh, nothing. You know what he’s like.” Dan sounds awkward. “What are you phoning for, Ellie?”

  “Just to say hello.”

  “Right. Well. Hello.”

  I wait. There’s a long pause.

  “Well, can’t you say something else?” I say.

  “You’re not saying anything either.”

  I don’t usually have to. He’s the one who burbles nineteen to the dozen. I can’t normally get a word in edgeways. But the edges are wide open now.

  “What have you been up to?” I say limply.

  “Well, right now I’m watching the match on television.”

  “What, football? Are Manchester United playing?”

  “Rugby.”

  “What? Rugby? You hate rugby. Everyone hates rugby.”

  “I’ve got quite interested recently. It’s a great game actually.”

  There’s a distant roar at his end of the phone.

  “Oh, nuts. I’ve missed a try,” says Dan.

  “Don’t let me keep you then,” I say sharply, and I slam down the phone.

  great art girl

  I can’t sleep. I lie on my back and think f-o-o-d. If I breathe in deeply I can still smell the takeaway pizza they had for supper. Dad ate a good half of it. Eggs nibbled the topping and the crusty bits. Anna went without, saying she’d eaten a lot with her friend. And I said I still felt sick.

  I feel sick now. Sick with hunger. My tummy is like a geyser, gurgling endlessly. I’m so hungry it hurts. I groan as I toss and turn. I feel like a baby bird with its beak gaping, cheeping nonstop. Think cuckoo. Great big blobby baby cuckoo, twice as big as the other birds, far fatter than the frantic stepparent feeding it. That’s me, that’s Anna.

  I’m sick of her being so much skinnier than me. I’m sick of being Nadine and Magda’s fat dumpy friend. I’m sick of being fat. I’m sick. Think sick to stop yourself eating. I’ve got to lose so much weight, I’ve got to get thin, I’ve got to, I’ve got to. . . .

  I’m out of bed, running barefoot down the stairs, into the kitchen, where’s the pizza box? I thought there was a huge great slice left. Oh, God, did Anna dump it straight in the dustbin, no, here it is, oh, food, food, food!

  The pizza is cold and congealed but I don’t care. I bolt it down, barely stopping to chew, tearing off great chunks. I even eat the bits that Eggs has licked. I run my finger round the box. I get a carton of milk from the fridge and wash it all down so quickly that milk dribbles down my nightie but I’m still not satisfied. I feel hungrier than ever.

  I go to the bread bin and make myself a jam sandwich, then another, then another, then a spoonful of jam by itself, more, more. . . . Now, what else is there? Frosties! I eat them straight out of the packet, scooping them up in my hand, and there’s raisins too, I’m cramming so many into my mouth I nearly choke. I cough and a disgusting slurp of raisins dribbles down my chin. I catch sight of myself in the shiny kettle and I can’t believe what I look like. Total crazy woman. Oh, God, what am I doing? What have I eaten? I can feel the food going down into my stomach. It’s starting to hurt. What am I going to do?

  I run to the downstairs loo by the back door. I crouch over the toilet. I try to make myself sick. I heave and heave but I can’t do it. I shove a finger in my mouth. It’s horrible, oh, my stomach, two fingers, I’ve got to, I’ve got to . . . oh . . . oooooh . . .

  I am so sick. So horribly revoltingly disgustingly sick, slowly—again and again and again. I have to hang on to the edge of the toilet to stop myself falling. Tears stream down my face, sweat runs down my back. I pull the chain and then try to get up, the room spinning round me. My throat burns and my mouth stays sour no matter how many times I swill it with water.

  “Ellie?” It’s Anna in her blue pajamas, her pageboy hair ruffled, so she only looks about my age. “Oh, you poor thing. Have you been very sick?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Come here, let’s get you sorted out.” She puts the lid down on the loo and makes me sit on it. Then she runs the towel under the tap and gently mops my face and hair as if I was Eggs. I lean against her weakly and she puts her arm around me.

  This is weird. Anna and I are acting like a regular mother and daughter. We never ever act like this. I made it quite plain right from the start when she came to live with us that I didn’t want another mum. I had a mum, even if she was dead. For years I wouldn’t let Anna near me. We didn’t exactly fight—we were just like two strangers forced to live under the same roof. Just recently we’ve started to get a bit closer. We go shopping together or we watch a video or we flick through a glossy magazine but it’s just like sisters. Big sister, little sister. Well. I’m bigger than Anna. Not taller. Fatter. It’s so unfair. Why do I have to be fatter than everyone?

  Tears are still running down my cheeks.

  “Hey,” says Anna gently, wiping my eyes. “Do you feel really terrible, Ellie?”

  “Yes,” I say mournfully.

  “Have you got a bad tummyache? Headache?” Anna puts her hand on my forehead. “I wonder if you’ve got a temperature. Maybe I should call the doctor?”

  “No! No, I’m OK. I was just sick, that’s all. Probably just something I ate!”

  “You’re still ever so white. And you’re shivering.” Anna leads me into the kitchen and gets her old denim jacket that’s hanging on the back door. “Here.” She wraps it round me and sits me down at the kitchen table. “Do you want a drink of water?”

  I sip it delicately.

  “Your dad said you’ve been feeling lousy all day, not eating anything.” Anna sighs. “I wish I could say the same for him. Look at the state of the kitchen! He must have had a secret midnight feast—and then he moans because his jeans won’t do up!”

  “Why does he still try to squeeze himself into those jeans anyway?” I say, feeling guilty that Dad’s getting the blame.

  “He just won’t admit that he’s too fat,” says Anna, sticking everything back in the food cupboard.

  “I’m even fatter,” I say, the glass clinking against my teeth.

  “What? Don’t be silly,” says Anna.

  “I am. And I didn’t even realize. I mean, I knew it, but it didn’t really bug me. But now . . .”

  “Oh, Ellie. You’re not fat. You’re just . . . rounded. It suits you. It’s the way you’re supposed to be.”

  “I don’t want to be fat, I want to be thin. As thin as you.”

  “I’m not thin,” says Anna, though she looks like a little pin person in her schoolboy pajamas. “I wore my old black leather trousers today because they’re about the only sexy garment I’ve got nowadays and I was so desperate not to look dull and mumsy and suburban, but the zip’s so tight now I could barely breathe. It was cutting into my stomach all through lunch. Which was not a success. Oh, God, Ellie, this friend of mine, Sara, she looks incredible. She’s got this fantastic new hairstyle, all blond highlights, and the shoes she was wearing, really high, and the way she walked in them! Every man in the restaurant was staring at her.”

  “Yes, but you don’t want to look like some blond bimbo,” I say.

  “But she’s not a bimbo, she’s the top designer for this new fashion chain. They’re even going to be bringing out her own label, Sara Star. She showed me