Zoe Letting Go by Nora Price

Author:Nora Price [Price, Nora]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781101572504
Publisher: Penguin Group
Published: 2012-06-13T16:00:00+00:00

[Day Eight]

One week at Twin Birch is done. Finished.

Crickets scream from the trees outside as I write. The summer bullfrogs sound like a hundred boys burping in chorus, and my stomach echoes the animal din with its own sonic protests from breakfast, which I forced down after spending a restless night grappling with Caroline’s inquiries—it was impossible, of course, to sleep after our conversation. Our seating arrangements at mealtimes have been flexible until now, with Haley sometimes sitting at Jane’s table and Caroline taking the seat next to Victoria occasionally. Last night’s exchange was a line drawn in the sand—from the moment Caroline turned away, I knew that the factions at Twin Birch were set in stone. On one side is me, Victoria, and Haley. On the other side is Brooke, Jane, and Caroline. From now on, there are no neutral parties.

The only area in which this proves to be a problem is cooking class. To wit: Victoria and Haley are roommates, so they automatically partner up. Brooke and Jane are also roommates, so they automatically partner up. Which leaves—you guessed it—Caroline and me to chop plums and chiffonade basil in acrimonious silence. That’s what happened today, and unless somebody dies or disappears, I don’t see how it will change.

After a pleasant morning spent batting gnats away and turning our fingernails into filthy crescents in the garden, we gathered in the kitchen to prepare tonight’s dessert: a plum galette.

“A galette is meant to be rough around the edges,” Devon instructed us as we sliced fruit. “It doesn’t need to be perfect.”

I rolled out an almond crust while Caroline tossed plums in sugar, standing as far as possible away from me. In the past week, I’ve learned that girls with eating disorders tend toward fanatical precision when it comes to food. This applies double to baking, which—unlike cooking—is a precise science. Girls with a history of disordered eating excel, in general, at tasks that require precision. What seems like a behavioral defect in one context becomes an asset in the other: Every ounce of flour must be portioned out, every drop of vanilla extract budgeted correctly. Victoria would be a shoo-in pastry chef hire at any four-star restaurant, given that she can eyeball the difference between two and three ounces of sugar at fifty yards. Whenever we work alone rather than in partners, my baked goods turn out poorly. Yesterday’s class yielded five perfect onion tarts and one that resembled a chewed frisbee. Guess which one was mine.

Practically everywhere I look, I see evidence that I don’t belong here.

In the mirror, I see that I’m thin but not ghastly thin like the other girls.

In the living room, I digest my meals without wrapping myself in a blanket.

In the kitchen, I level a cup of flour without spending ten minutes on the process.

As we assembled our galette today, I thought about what I would tell Alexandra about Caroline. “I tried,” I imagined myself telling her during our session. “First she shrunk, and then, later that night, she attacked me.

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