I had never asked Trista how she made herself throw up. I just assumed she stuck her finger down her throat. I lifted the lid of the toilet. The faint scent of disinfectant filled my nose and made me even more nauseous.
Good. Maybe that would help.
I leaned forward, resting my forearm on the edge of the toilet seat and reaching a finger down my throat as far as it could go.
I gagged. I coughed.
I didn't throw up.
I tried it again and again. My fingernails rasped the back of my throat.
Nothing. Coughing and gagging, that was it.
I began to panic. What if I couldn't do it? What if I was stuck with everything I'd eaten? I could feel the mass of it in my stomach, large and bulbous and festering. I couldn't keep it inside me. I'd lose my mind if I had to.
I leaned further over the bowl, thrusting my finger deeper and deeper, swirling and scratching and searching for the trigger that would finally end the—
Bliss! A waterfall of half-digested shake and French fries poured out of me. Immediately, I dove back in, ignoring my watering eyes and running nose. My body knew what I wanted now, and soon another lava flow erupted. I was purging; purging my sins, triumphantly scraping them out of my body over and over until there was nothing left.
I was empty.
I was also dizzy.
My heart raced and pounded like I was being chased, but I had no energy to run.
I curled up on the oval bath rug and went to sleep.
***
When I woke up, I couldn't swallow. For just a second, I didn't know why.
Then the rancid sweet smell hit me and I remembered.
I reached up and flushed it away without even looking,
My teeth felt mossy. My jaw ached and the glands beneath were swollen like golf balls. I could smell the sick on my hand. I had to wash it away. I tried to stand, but I was too woozy. I rested on the rug a bit then used the sink to pull myself up. I saw myself in the mirror: Red, watery, and blotchy. I ran the tap and splashed cold water on my face.
I had no idea how this worked for Trista two or three times a week. If she thought she wasn't a "real" bulimic, she was crazy. I felt completely wrecked ... but the worst part was I could already sense every hideous feeling I thought I'd flushed away still lurking, just waiting to pounce on me again.
I tried to put myself back together. I brushed my teeth, sipped a big glass of water, and popped a throat lozenge. I went back to my room, opened my window, and took another nap to try to clear my head.
When I woke up, I still felt completely lost. I went to my computer and checked my mail.
Trista Camello had invited me to join a new group on Facebook: Cara Leonard Is a Great Big Whore.
So it begins.
I clicked on the link and joined so I could read all the posts. Trista had been busy. She'd already put together a pretty large group. So far seventy-five people believed I was a Great Big Whore.
All the Populazzi were members of the group. Even Eddie, who I thought needed me to be his beard. I guess he now agreed with Trista that my word would be easily discredited. Nate Wetherill was a member. That was quite a coup, since I thought he never used his computer for anything but psychedelic screen savers. He was kind enough to post an MP3 of his "Succubus" song for the group. There were lots of other members, many of whom I didn't know by name, but their profile pictures looked familiar: I'd seen them at my party less than twelve hours ago.
Sorry—I meant Trista's party.
The posts themselves were pretty fascinating. Some were even laughable, like the one from the Jock who said I'd managed to "cheer on" the entire basketball team during a five-minute time-out. Some were practically investigative reporting, like the Scenester who posted, "TheMany Faces of Cara Leonard," along with a frumpy picture of me from the start of the year, a picture of me as emo-girl, and a picture of me looking fabulous at the start of last night's party. Some posts took a grain of truth and ran with it, like one that started with my penchant for odd foods and extrapolated to me being part vampire. That, she explained, was why I did