These Cold, Cloudy Stars

   “One more.” I breathe, forcing down Cambria’s socked feet. 

   She sits up, eyes tearing up and sweat beading on her upper lip. She crashes back down, exhaling in agony and on the verge of tears. “How much?” 

   I look away and multiply in my head: “Ninety-eight cals.”

   “That’s it?” She shakes her head. “Alright, your turn. Here. Give me your watch and I’ll hold your feet.”

   My eyes feel heavy as I force myself on the floor, in sit-up position. I close my eyes. “Cam, we are out of our minds.”

   She grins slightly as I clench my core and sit up exactly two hundred and forty-four times, teetering and tottering in the dark until the sun finally rises and the world is bright and loud again. The entire time, we are silent. 

   “I know.” Is all she says.

**********

   When we finally wake up, our tailbones are sore, but we know we’re off to a good start for today. 

   “Aria,” She’s pulling at my hand, and I want it to stop. “We need to go. Get up.”

   With much effort I sit up one last time, propping my bruised elbow on my pillow. 

   “I told Aunty we need to get to school early and that we’ll pick something up on the way. I got us out of breakfast, so we’re still at negative cals.” I look at her, and I can tell she’s excited behind her darting, glinting eyes.

   We grab each others’ hand and she pulls me out of bed. “Negative ninety-eight.” I say, tracing veins on my hand with my finger. “Negative ninety-eight.”

   I pull on my shoes and a baggy hoodie because Precalculus and Chemistry are in rooms colder than the Costco freezer section. I collect my books — which feel heavier every day. Cambria tugs at my hand. “Let’s go.”

   In History, we sit together. The teacher is talking about Bacon’s Rebellion but I’m not listening. Negative ninety-eight. Negative ninety-eight. I say the number again and again. I say it fast — I whisper it. I know I need to do even more sit-ups than my sister, because I had an extra slice of bread yesterday. Yes, more. Negative ninety-eight.

   We don’t have Chemistry together. Cambria grasps my hand and squeezes it slightly, and I look over. “Remember,” She tells me in her big-sister voice. “Don’t eat.” 

   I stare at her, and she swivels around and melts into the flow of people. “I’ll see you on the other side” is the last thing I hear.

   At three the pangs of hunger start to scrape and claw at me. Nathan’s pear looks really good, and I end up stealing a cheez-it from Julia’s open zip-lock. I hold it in my hand, grease contaminating my skin. I can’t eat it, but it feels good to hold it. Nathan leans over and whispers to me. “Don’t tell your psycho sister.” I smile. “Pinky promise.”

               *******

   I’m pulling books out of my locker when Cambria shakes my back. She looks anxious.

   “I had a small apple in Chem.” She admits. “Did you have anything?”

   “Actually, yes.” I lie. “A few crackers from Julia Duplin.”

   She smiles. “So we’re still even then. Come on, let’s go. Scale day.”

   I nod stoically, but my heart is racing. She had an apple and I didn’t. I am stronger. The cheez-it burns warmly in my back pocket. I’m winning.

   At home Cambria goes first. She peels off her socks and steps on the scale, eyes closed and fists clenched. “Tell me.”

   “Ninety-two.” I say, watching a smile come over her face. She grins dangerously, her silver eyes darting around. “Your turn.”

   I step on, holding my breath. Negative ninety-eight. Negative ninety-eight. 

   “One hundred exactly.” I can see her stifling a grin.

   I look away, eyes slightly glossy. “I’m winning,”  Cambria teases, but she’s only half-joking. I dig my nails into my thighs and swear silently that tomorrow, it will be negative one hundred.

   Later that night I feel particularly dizzy. I scrape Aunty’s spaghetti into my trash can, stealing a lick of the sauce. I cover it with scrap papers and stumble to the edge of my bed. I watch the world from my window, watching the evening sprinkle slide down the glass, and Mr. Witschorik walking his terrier. Cars splash by, a cat ducks into a bush, the orange tree sways lightly. The stars are not out tonight; it’s too cold and cloudy. 

   My head hurts tonight and my stomach aches. I swallow one of the pills that Cambria gave me. “When you feel like eating,” she had explained. “To make you feel sick.”

   I lean back on my bed. Cambria walks in, not pouty anymore. 

   “I’m hungry.” I tell her, my eyes lazy. 

   “I know. Me too.” She comes and sits on my bed. “But we’re strong. We’ll be skinny. We’ll be beautiful and famous one day, you know.”

   “Sit ups?” I ask, touching the scabbed, red slits on my wrist lightly. She nods, and we both lie on the floor.

   “Three hundred?” Cambria asks, and I nod in response. 

   “We’re crazy, Aria.” Cambria laughs and grabs my hand. “Absolutely nuts. You know that?”

   But I don’t move or talk or even hear my sister. I just stare at the glossy window, cold and cloudy. Cold and cloudy. Cold. Cloudy. Negative ninety-eight. 

   Negative ninety-eight.

               ******

   Bright, cold, nippy September. I’m ninety-five pounds today, and Cambria is ninety exactly. The sit-ups continue. 

   “I’m hungry.” I tell my sister.

   “Take a pill.” 

   “Still hungry.” 

   She shoots me a glance. “I’m still winning.” She reminds me. 

   I’m not hungry anymore.

   In December Cambria is eighty pounds, and I am ninety-two. I can’t beat her. I can’t.

   My sister is getting smaller. I see her when she’s changing; the split second from when she slips from one baggy hoodie to the next. We do sit ups twice a day. There are eternal bruises on our backs, and scrapes and pricks dot our translucent skin like red stars. 

   Cambria is seventy-nine. The days are frosty and dark now. Cold clouds line every morning and Mr. Witschorik doesn’t walk his dog anymore. The Bellarmine boys have stopped walking to school—their mom takes them in her red Corolla. Cambria and I still walk.

   I am eighty-four. 

   She is seventy-seven.

   Aunty is too busy to notice. She leaves us money for dinner, which we spend on sugar-free gum and Coke Zero. 

   I am eighty. 

   She is seventy-six.

   Ms. Nora calls our Aunt, but she doesn’t pick up. Mr. Hansen calls us in, but we laugh and run away, chewing zero-calorie gum. We are strong.

   On her seventeenth birthday, Cambria is seventy pounds.

   She is winning.

   She is sixty-nine. 

   These days, I find myself staring at the night sky out of my window often. I can never see the stars. Always raining. Always too cloudy. Always something.

   We hold each other’s tired hands, winter girls trapped in the black holes of each other’s minds. We hold each others’ feet, sweating into midnight. We count calories.

   Four hundred.

   Two hundred-fifty.

   Zero.

 It is not enough for us to love each other.

It is not enough to want each other destroyed.