two days. She could get through that.
Except when she got home, the Metrecal was missing from the cupboard. “Jo!” she hollered. Of course, her sister wasn’t there. She was probably at field-hockey practice, racing up and down the grass, with her hair all sweaty and her rubber mouth guard stretching her lips into a fierce grin. Jo didn’t have to worry about her figure, and even if she did, she wouldn’t. Jo didn’t worry about anything.
It isn’t fair, Bethie thought, and, before she could stop herself, she’d hurled the glass she was holding, the one she’d meant for her Metrecal, against the wall, where it shattered into nasty glittering shards that of course she ended up having to pick up. When she’d done that, she went looking for shakes in the bedroom that she and Jo shared, reasoning that her sister wouldn’t have just dumped them down the drain. It took her a while, but eventually she found them, up in the attic, next to the boxes of baby clothes that their bubbe had knitted, a broken radio, a box of old records, the sled she and Jo had used when they were little, and a box she didn’t open labeled DAD’S STUFF.
After ten days, Bethie had lost eight pounds and she could button almost all of her skirts again. She’d stopped being hungry and started feeling airy, as if a balloon was expanding inside of her. At lunch, she could stare at Suzanne’s French fries without feeling even the tiniest bit of desire for one, and at home when there was whitefish or meatloaf or burgers or croquettes, she’d move the food around the plate, chewing each bite over and over until it was a tasteless paste, eating just enough to keep her mother from getting on her case. Nights when she worried that she’d eaten too much, she’d go for a walk. There was an empty house at the end of the street, where Uncle Mel used to park, and in the empty backyard she’d lean against a tree, stick her fingers down her throat, and kick dirt over whatever she vomited up, so as not to attract bugs or raccoons. Lines from the Metrecal ad tolled like a bell in her head. As for three a day, talk it over with your doctor first. You might disappear.
Could she? Bethie would wonder at night in bed, her fingers exploring the contours of her torso, the rise of her ribs beneath her skin, the jut of a hipbone here, the new ridge of a clavicle there. Probably not, but she could turn into something else, something that looked like a girl but was just pure steely will.
“You look good,” her mother told her, paying her a rare compliment after Bethie had completed two and a half weeks on the Metrecal plan. Jo just scowled and shook her head. Bethie stuck her tongue out at Jo when her mother’s back was turned, and Jo raised her middle finger.
“Oh,” said Bethie. “Very mature.”
“Stop fighting, girls,” said Sarah without looking at them as she picked up her purse and walked out the door. At the auditions, her voice was as clear and as expressive as it had ever been. Her hair was shiny, her eyes were bright, and she wore a narrow belt cinched tight around the waist of her skirt. “Wonderful,” said Miss McCullough, and even though the cast list wouldn’t be posted until the following Monday, Bethie could see on her face that she’d done well, that she would get the leading role, as expected. “Wait here.” Miss McCullough raised her voice. “Harold! We’re ready for you!”
The boy who walked out from the wings looked desperately uncomfortable. His head was bent and his broad shoulders were hunched inside his varsity jacket, as if he were trying to make himself invisible. Good luck with that, Bethie thought. He was big, maybe a little taller than six feet, with a broad chest and wide shoulders, reddish-brown skin, close-cropped, tightly curled dark-brown hair, and sparse eyebrows, like an artist had started to sketch them in and had gotten called away on something else. He had full lips, an aquiline nose, and brown eyes that tilted up at the corners. The wooden crate he was holding looked no bigger than a lunchbox as it dangled from his hand.
“Hey,” he said, and stopped squinting in the direction of the seats long enough to remove his free hand from the pocket of his khaki pants and