Color Me Pretty

right now, my brain is absolutely, one hundred percent fixated on my mother's animal fat mashers. I mean, I'm sure the people here don't use lard in theirs, but how I am supposed to know?
    “Do what?” Kylie asks, leaning back and watching me inquisitively. I wonder what she's thinking. If her sister had … God, I can hardly even think that word … anorexia then she must know the signs. I look away, but not because I'm ashamed; I won't be. This is my life and these are my choices. Yes, I'm ashamed at some of the things I've done to the people around me, but not about the state I now find myself in. I got here chasing something bigger than me, searching for happiness, fighting with every last ounce of strength I had in me. And there's nothing, nothing, nothing that can make me feel bad about that.
    “Order mashed potatoes. They had boiled baby red potatoes.” Kylie chuckles, putting a small hand to her mouth. She looks young on the outside, but her eyes hint at deep, deep pain hidden in there somewhere. I can't even begin to guess her age.
    “Listen, Claire, if you want to get out of here, you'll eat the food. Trust me. Madelyn did it. She ate what she was supposed to, took food shopping seminars, went to therapy. And when she got out, she still had the presence of mind to wither away and die. So, don't worry. Whatever happens in the next few days can easily be undone.” Kylie doesn't stop smiling; I think she really means what she just said. I think about responding to that, but I can't. There's nothing I can say. “Listen, I'll help you polish your plate off and then you can come up to my room and take my phone time. It's not like I have anybody left to call.”
    “Kylie,” I begin and when she looks at me, her eyes seem a tad wider, like maybe she's holding back tears. “I'm sorry about your sister.”
    “Yeah,” she says, trying to keep a smile plastered on her face. “Yeah, so am I.”

I wish I could say that lunch was uneventful, that I just dutifully ate my meal with a false smile tacked to my lips and went about the rest of my day with glee. That would've taken a miracle.
    I ended up sitting there, staring at a plate that was more numbers and less food.
    One chicken breast, slow roasted, 282 calories. One cup of raw green beans, thirty-four calories. One serving of mashed potatoes, 237 calories.
    This combined with the orderly I had hovering over my left shoulder and you've got the perfect recipe for disaster. If it wasn't for Kylie sneaking bites of my food while the bitch's head was turned, I'd have never escaped that room. Even now, as we walk down the hall towards Kylie's room, my mind tries to guess at a total count. I ignore it. It's not easy, and it actually ends up giving me a migraine right before it dumps the number on me anyway: 396. I don't know how it arrives at this number, but it does and it leaves me feeling worse than ever.
    Imagine this: you are suffering from morbid obesity and starvation both at the same time. That's how I feel right now. My body feels one way; my mind feels another. It's enough to make me want to curl up on my bed and sob.
    But then I think about Emmett and those words and what they could mean for my life. Modeling is important to me, but love is … love is everything. Could I give up one for the other? I don't know. I hope I wouldn't have to, but at least there's a chance that Emmett's feelings for me could become a contender, one of only a handful of things in this world that even compete.
    Kylie lets me into her room, hands me the receiver for the phone and then immediately heads for the bathroom. She pauses in the doorway and leans her head out to wink at me.
    “I'll be in here with the faucet on, my ass planted on the toilet seat, and a book in hand. I won't hear a damn thing.” She closes the door behind her, giving me at least the semblance of privacy. In all reality, she isn't the one I have to worry about eavesdropping on me. It's the employees that work here. With the exception of Dr. Hial, everybody here seems vindictive, like they have a personal bone to pick with each and every one of us. Their looks of contempt do not go unnoticed. God, I can't even imagine someone checking themselves in here voluntarily. Rock bottom wouldn't even be enough for me; I'd have to fall further than that, straight into the fiery depths of hell.
    I dial Emmett's number and immediately, my heart starts to palpate painfully, a hollow sound of desperation and