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me to join him for a drink at the bar, and… I don’t really remember what I talked about. I know I took him back to my room.” She turns to me and takes my hand. “You have to believe me, Kathy. I swear I was drugged. I’d never cheat on Hank. Never.”
    Hank is the man I
thought
was my father until today.
    “How do you know I’m his?” I whisper, “I mean, are you sure it was
him
? Couldn’t I still be Hank’s?”
    She shakes her head sadly. “No, honey. Hank was impotent. Honestly, I think he might be gay.”
    I let go of her hand. This is too much information.
    My mother lets out a loud, nervous laugh. “Wow!” she says. “It feels
good
to finally be able to talk about this with you. It’s been such a weight on my mind.” She reaches to turn the keys, satisfied with the end of the conversation. She pulls away from the curb and makes a U-turn before turning back onto the main road. It makes me dizzy.
    “So you have no idea who he is?” I ask as she’s driving. “Or where he is?”
    “Nope,” she says. “I don’t even know his name.” She’s smiling. She must really feel relieved. “And you know what? I don’t care. I got what I wanted out of it.” She takes one hand off the wheel and takes mine. “I got my new best friend.”
    I have never felt more hatred for her than at this very moment.
    I am still mad when we get home, and the scale reads 192.
    * * *
    I spend the weekend in bed. I sleep through the days, waking up with dust on my sheets at sunset.
    On Saturday night my mom supervises my visit to the scale. I can hear her gasp when it displays 173.
    “You need to eat,” she says, as if figuring out the solution to an equation.
    “I’m not hungry.”
    She forces me to drink a full glass of milk. I manage to drink it down without gagging. As soon as the glass is empty, she takes me by the hand and leads me back to the bathroom.
    “On the scale,” she says.
    “I already did this,” I object.
    “Just let me try something.” She must not believe that I’m keeping my food down. I oblige and get on the scale.
    It reads 171. She starts crying.
    “Now do you believe me?” I ask. I step off the scale and go back to my room.
    * * *
    The next afternoon Dr. Morris calls. I can hear both sides of the conversation from my room, even without speakerphone.
    “The tests came back negative,” he tells my mother.
    “I don’t understand. What’s wrong with her?”
    “My guess is her hormones are still straightening out. The teenage body is in a constant state of flux.”
    “But she’s lost so much weight!”
    “True, but she is still above a healthy level for her age and height. All her tests came back healthy—healthier than she has ever been before, I might add. If anything, all this weight loss has been beneficial to her health, not detrimental.”
    “But what about her mood swings? Her lack of concentration? Her depression?”
    “Mrs. Blythe, there’s nothing wrong with your daughter physically. If you want my advice, what you should do next is seek out a psychologist.”
    My mother thanks him, and that evening when she collects me for my weigh in, I am down to 148. I am wearing her clothes now.
     “We’ll find a different doctor,” she says. “That Morris doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
    “I’m not sure a doctor can help,” I say, stepping down from the scale.
    She starts to cry again.
    “I’m sorry, Mom,” I say, putting a hand on her shoulder.
    She shakes me off. “I’ll bet you are. You don’t even care how
I
feel about all this.” She sneers at me and stomps out of the bathroom.
    I guess we’re not best friends anymore.
    * * *
    Monday is the start of Spring Break. I begin to worry I might disappear altogether before it’s time for back-to-school. After all, if you keep subtracting from a number, eventually it will get to zero. What will happen to me then? Will my mother come into my room one morning, and in my bed she’ll find nothing but dust? I