BATHROOM

She presses her forehead against the cool glass, allowing the door to slam shut behind her. Loud music and laughter from below becomes muffled as shallow, forced

Her shoulders shake from the effort, and a choked sob escapes her throat instead.

She wanted today to be perfect, like one of those video montages where someone picks their life back up over cheerful background music. In retrospect, she was foolish to think it was possible. Foolish for believing that the critical voices, growing louder by day, would pause their violent rampage on her mind just for the occasion, just for her hopeless plea for perfection. After all, she’d spent years trying to perfect herself, and look where that got her.

Backing away from the mirror, she watches her reflection transform once again. Her pale limbs, “like little twigs,” as everyone calls them, bloat and bulge. Her eyes dart to her face, hoping to catch a glimpse of the thin, gaunt complexion others see, but the mirror only shows chubby baby cheeks and messy mascara. She spins to the side automatically, pinching desperately at barelynoticeable rolls of fat under her tight, sparkling party dress. Cursing her own idiocy, she makes a mental note to tie her corset tighter tomorrow.

Pig. Her disproportionate image is replaced swiftly by that cake, disgustingly saccharine, with its mountain of chocolate frosting and fifteen large, overly-festive candles. The sickly sweet lingering on her tongue makes her gag.

You filthy pig.

She knew that just one slice would add too many calories to her daily maximum, but her mother, setting it upon the table with a broad smile, insisted. So she shoved it down. She did it for everyone else, dressed up for everyone else; all she ever wanted was to please them, to be pretty and perfect for them. You’re such a fake, you know that, right?

Her entire body trembles. The blue-tiled walls are shifting and twisting before her, the floor tilting, confettilike silver sparks materializing at the edges of her fractured vision. All her mind registers, however, is her own distorted figure: now a faceless, shapeless blur of body parts and colors. She stumbles onto the scale. The digits race and climb, finally flickering to a stop: nearly two kilograms higher than this morning. Her cheeks pale.

And suddenly she’s flinging open drawer after drawer, digging through beauty products and sending them flying, one hand clamped over her ear to block out the voices screaming, slicing through her: You’re an idiot! You’re an idiot! Her other hand seizes a small white container and bursts open the lid. She moves quickly, kneeling in front of the toilet as two tablets spill onto her palm like dusty pearls. Two for two kilos. The walls press in on her skull, pushing and squeezing until water leaks from her eyes, and she swallows without hesitation. Almost immediately, the familiar lurching sensation, all hot and red and sticky, creeps up her torso.

She bends forward once she tastes chocolate.

A quiet, timid knock sounds.

“Are you okay?”

She freezes, liquid trickling from her bottom lip. Her gaze snaps to the door, still shut tight as a soft yellow glow filters through its rectangular frame. She exhales relief. The blue tiles contract, then slowly sway back to normal; her head pounds dully as ever.

“I’m okay, I’m just a little s-sick.” The lie, one of thousands, burns slowly through her throat and roots itself in her stomach.

“Are you sure?”

“…yeah. Don’t tell Mom.”

A pause.

“Is it the stomach bug again?”

“Yeah. Stomach bug.”

“Mommy made your friends go home. She said it was too late.” Oh. Thank goodness.

“Please don’t tell her I’m sick.” She stands shakily, and the hot red settles uncomfortably in her chest. “I don’t want her to worry. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

A rustle and click, and darkness seeps through the door frame once again.

She sighs and flushes the toilet. Her body aches slightly and her stomach growls; the insides of her mouth no longer taste of chocolate but of something sour and ugly and rotten. Dizzy, she steadies herself. It’s always like this afterwards. Her feet drag as she switches on the faucet, silently scrubbing her hands and mouth clean of any evidence.

While a singular voice echoes in her mind, taunting her. Keep it up.

Michael and I. The two speedsters. The tag champions. Our strange dynamic of a back-and-forth battle could lead to the darkest times or overwhelming joy. By the bajillionth rematch, we were tired of the war and struck a deal of non-aggression: the beginning of a perfect, flawless, mutual friendship where absolutely nothing could go wrong.

Michael and I did everything together. We partnered on projects, homework, and targeting kids in tag until they quit or cry. The normal stuff.

Eventually, kids looked at themselves, looked around, and questioned why they were wasting their whole recess to be chased around—never to win. With that, the obsessive game dwindled away, vacating space for a new one.

Origami. A kid could sit for hours meticulously crafting cranes or fortune tellers.

Naturally, Michael and I immediately set out to take it to another level. To become the kings of the uncharted origami world. We wanted something no one has seen before. Something that everybody would want. Every second of our day was invested in the search. Class time? More like origami time. Lunch time? Nope, origami time. Sleep time? Well, I guess we kind of need this to grow, function, and live. Just kidding. It’s origami time.

Four weeks later, every link on Google was purple, every book on origami showed our names on the “checked out” form, and every YouTube suggestion on my account was another origami video.

Then it happened. A notification popped up on my computer: “How To Make a Paper Transforming Ninja Star—Origami.”

Ha! More clickbait. No way that’s possible. My cursor hovered over the close button. Whatever, might as well check it out. My eyes slowly widened as I skipped through the tutorial. The transforming ninja star. It’s real.

Michael and I could practically see the gold piling up in front of us, and we talked endlessly about our business and all of the cash we’d make. Little did I know, he would reveal his lethal spikes and strike down the “our” and “we” to make it “his.”

In order to kickstart the process, Michael asked me to buy sticky notes. My eyebrows immediately furrowed.

“Hey, why don’t we both pay for it?”

“I didn’t know you were broke,” Michael responded. Being called “broke” was an insult of the highest degree. My relative youth and lack of experience led to my gullible nature; my gullible nature led to me immediately backing off and buying the supplies.

That did not just happen, I thought. Absolutely not. He did not just do me like that. I’ll let him go this time, but I’m ready if he tries to pull that stunt again.

Sticky notes in hand, I was ready for us to get to work. Michael then asks me to make them while he sells them.

Hold it right there.

I questioned, “If I make it and you claim it is ‘our’ origami, then how is that fair?”

“What, are you dumb or something?” he sneered, falling right into my trap.

“What, are YOU dumb or something? Can’t YOU make some?” I felt on top of the world.

“You’re so much smarter and better than me at it.” That world came crashing down. It was either accept a compliment or be free from folding origami. I grudgingly got to work.

He played an uno reverse card, and I toiled away like a string puppet receiving nothing more than a few bucks every now and then. Apparently, my production wasn’t enough for his capitalist greed, leading him to start hiring his friends who also received a handsome wage while I strangely received less.

At first, I was willing to take one for the team (sorry, his team), but my patience was quickly approaching the limit. While working towards my quota of seven ninja stars and watching Michael with a client across the room, I see not one, but two flashes of green exchanging hands.

I was ready to pounce; there was absolutely no reason to lie about the profits of our business—sorry, his business. When confronted, he quickly morphed back to his innocent, harmless self and slowly explained, “it was a one time deal” and indifferently pushed a dollar into my hand. My stomach lurched as I clutched the bribe in my hand. My heart sank. I realized there can only be one king.

With the school year ending and the summer rapidly approaching, we didn’t want to slow down our business (sorry, his business), so we, the workers, went into overdrive and eventually produced enough transforming origami ninja stars to fill an entire backpack.

We presented it to Michael hoping to earn substantial profits by the new school year. But, he moved later that summer and, of course, he “borrowed” the backpack for a very long time.

While he saw dozens of ninja stars ready to sell, I saw the result of hours of work, Post-its, and a dream. Oh, and there was one more thing at the very bottom of the backpack beneath the massive stack of transforming ninja stars.

My trust.