When I Look at the Stars, I Feel Like Myself

Sun streaks through the window of my bunk. Outside, the large ball of light is almost in the exact center of its path. Venue workers walk up and down the parking lot, putting finishing touches on all the show electronics. I watch them, just watch them as they roam, ignoring the pangs in my stomach.

It's been like this for two weeks. I lay here, curled in my blanket, watching the heads of workers bob as they walk past. In the past two weeks, I've only gotten up for essentials.

Vomiting, other restroom activities, eating when I don't think I can function without it, sound check, and performing.

Except yesterday.

Ross wouldn't let me perform yesterday. Something about me passing out at sound check making it too dangerous for me to get on stage. There was never a point during his speech where he asked why I passed out, never a point where he seemed to care I hadn't eaten in three days, four now. He told me I need to be a responsible adult and tell him when I'm not feeling well.

But that's okay, because he doesn't know.

And Jack wasn't there to watch sound check.

I haven't said a single word to Jack in the past two weeks. He tried to fix things for awhile, sent a bunch of texts, filled up my voicemail, tried to talk to me after performances. But he stopped.

Four days ago.

I'm not the only one having relationship problems, if I can even call them that. Sure, Riley and John are in their perfect world right now despite not being official, but Elina and Zack, I don't know. They were getting closer, but something happened and they haven't really talked in awhile.

Like Jack and me.

I feel dead. Everytime I think of him.

I overreacted in the bathroom. That wasn't something I came to the conclusion of on my own. My sister had to explain that to me. I couldn't have figured that out on my own.

But she also said Jack needs to be careful about what he says around me. I'm not capable of processing things properly due to my bulimia. I twist words, any words, to mean something negative. It's apparently pretty common for someone with an eating disorder to do.

I thought I had more control over myself than that. Apparently, not.

I'm hungry, I'm tired, and I need to throw away the vomit bags in my backpack. They're from last night. I haven't gotten so confined to my bunk that I started hoarding vomit. I do throw away bags at every stop. And I should throw these away while everyone is gone.

The managers sent the bands shopping for costumes before the show tonight. I don't know if we're wearing our costumes at tonight's performance or tomorrow's. I don't even know what day it is. I haven't been keeping track.

I sent Dalton with money to buy me something so I could stay in my bunk. I probably won't wear what he picks out. He'll get some cute outfit with a little skirt and an exposed midsection. I'd like to stick with my sweats and add fairy wings. I don’t think I'll get away with it.

I could always try Jack's idea.

Oh, Jack.

I miss him.

I shouldn't have pushed him away, because I know he won't come back. Why would he? He can do better.

His head bobs past the window. He doesn't glance at the window, doesn't stop and try to get my attention like he did two weeks ago. He keeps walking until he's out of my window's small frame.

Shaking my head, I push down the abandonment I can feel welling inside of me. I move to turn away from the window and accidentally kick my backpack. Instead of ignoring its presence and hoping nothing inside it opened, I grab it.

The filled Ziplocs need to be thrown away.

With minor struggle, I push myself out of my bunk, backpack in hand, and pad across the empty bus, careful of the controllers on the floor. I press the button on the control panel to the sliding door. It whooshes open, and he's standing there, hand prepared to push in our security code

I might faint.

He realizes the door is open and looks at me. We don't say anything. Neither of us makes a move. We're frozen in place, eyes locked. It seems like hours pass.

"Holl." His voice is strained, like he'll start crying at any moment.

I rush down the steps of the bus, drop my backpack on the pavement, and throw myself against Jack, wrapping my arms around his neck, face pressed against his skin. His arms slide around my waist, pulling me closer to his body. Tears spill from my eyes at the wordless acceptance and land on his neck.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles against my hair.

I can't speak. If I could, I would tell him I'm sorry, that I shouldn't have hurt him, that I want us to be okay again. I settle for shaking my head. He seems to understand that I'm too emotional for a conversation yet and coos calming words to me until my sobs turn into occasional sniffles.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I got your neck wet." I dab at the damp spot where my tears fell with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.

"It's okay," he chuckles and presses a kiss to the top of my head.

"I'm sorry for getting mad."

"It's not your fault. I was acting like an asshole."

"No, you weren't."

"Holl, I could have been nicer about it."

"I could have tried stopping."

"You've been doing this for three years. I can't expect you to stop overnight. We haven't even really talked about this. How am I supposed to expect you to stop if I don't know why you started?"

I suppose he's right. In order to help, he needs to know. Though I don't know what he will do once he finds out why I started.

It seems like such a petty reason.

"We could talk about that," I mumble, fiddling with the collar of his tee-shirt.

"Only if you'd like to," he replies, running fingers along my spine.

I shiver and press myself harder against him. It's nice to have his arms around me again. I think I may have missed that most while not talking to him. Had I not left the bus to throw away vomit bags, this might not have happened.

Crap. I still need to throw those away.

Pushing out of Jack's hold, I say, "I need to get rid of something first."

His eyes hook on the backpack that had been dropped unceremoniously in my rush to embrace him. I can see he's upset that I'm still doing this. As I grab the bag and unzip it to check the contents, I feel his eyes boring into me.

I really hope nothing popped in here.

"How many are there?" Jack asks.

"Ten," I mumble.

Five from the course of the night, five from the morning.

"That's a lot, Holl."

"I know."

I turn to the trash can near our bus door, tip the bag over, and let the bags plunge into the abyss. Thankfully, none opened when I dropped the bag on the pavement. I would have had to throw away the whole backpack in that case.

Deciding not to peer at the contents I threw away, I grab Jack's hand and tug him towards the bus steps. He follows without struggle.

"Have you eaten yet?" he asks, eyes scanning the bus.

I shake my head.

"When's the last time you ate?"

"Four days ago."

"I'll make you something." He stares at our kitchen, lost.

"I have a microwavable pizza in the icebox," I offer.

He nods and gets to work on making me pizza. I smile, watching him for a second. This isn't his first time on a tour bus with a microwave. It's obvious in the way he presses buttons without having to read each to figure out what it does.

It took me twenty minutes to figure out how to work that thing.

In my defense, it's not like the one I have in my apartment.

Pulling my attention away from him, I walk to the bunk area and toss my backpack into my bunk. A light on my phone is flashing, telling me I have a text message. I grab it off the charger, pressing a few buttons.

'How are things?'

It's my sister. She's been out of the facility for awhile. She still sees her psychiatrist. Next semester, she's going back to Harvard. I'm scared for her. She was having some trouble readjusting to living at home. I don't know how she's going to take living in her apartment up north again.

But I'm here for her.

'Okay. Jack and I are talking.'

Walking back to the front of the bus, I slip the phone into my pocket. Jack is putting Cheetos on the plate, around the finished pizza. The way he bites his lip in concentration makes me giggle. He looks up from his masterpiece, a smile spreading on his face.

"Sit down," he instructs, "You're food's ready."

"Smells good," I say, getting into the booth Ross normally sits at with his laptop.

"It should taste even better than it smells." Jack places the plate on the table and sits next to me.

"It's microwavable pizza. Those never taste as good as they smell."

"But I made it, so it'll taste amazing."

"Are you magic?"

"You know it," he winks. "Eat."

Rolling my eyes, I grab a slice and take a small bite. Tingling runs through my taste buds. It’s the first bite of food I've had in a few days, it takes a little getting used to. I admit, it tastes pretty good. But that might be because I haven't been eating lately.

Anything would taste good.

"Yummy in your tummy?" Jack asks.

"Yummy in my tummy," I nod.

"See, I'm magic."

"You should use those powers to save the world."

"I want to save you first."

I snap my head to face him. A sad smile is on his face, sincerity pooling in his eyes. He means it. He actually means it.

I don't know what to say, so I press my lips to his cheek and cuddle against his body. His arm drapes around my shoulders, his thumb rubbing circles against my arm. It's silent, a comfortable silence. I finish the first hand-cut slice and start on the next one.

"So, um," Jack hesitates, "Why did you start doing this to yourself?"

Right, that's why we came on the bus in the first place. I don't want to talk about it, but I know I should. This is important, not only for me to get better, but for us to get closer. Telling someone is a big step for me.

When I don't say anything immediately, Jack spouts some statement about not having to tell him.

"No, I have to tell you."

"Are you sure you're ready."

Taking a deep breath, I nod. Ways to tell him run through my head. I could just come out and say it, but that would take backtracking. I should start from the beginning. That's always best.

Where is the beginning?

Oh, I know.

"My sister and I have had this rivalry-type-thing since I was in the womb," I say, "Mom told her she was pregnant, and Italy threw a fit. By the time I was born, she was four and set on being an only child. Admittedly, she was a bit spoiled. My birth made her do something she had never done before: share the attention of our parents. She wasn't happy about it. As a newborn, neither was I."

"Your parents didn't try to make sure both of you got attention?"

"Well, my dad shared his attention as evenly as he could and made sure we had everything we could have ever want. I guess I ended up pretty spoiled, too. He was rarely home, though. As a surgeon, he's continually on call. The hospital always needs him."

Its not dad's fault he's never there. He has to work. Someone could die if he takes a day off. I understand that.

"What about your mother?"

I sigh, "You know, there's a reason Dalton calls me a daddy's girl. I never call my mother willingly when I'm around the band. She and I aren't close. She didn't understand the concept of sharing her attention when I was younger. She still doesn't. You can tell who her favorite is. Italy, always Italy."

"Why?"

"Growing up, Italy was my mom's little doll. She did everything mom asked without question, she was pretty, she was a pageant princess. She was everything I wasn't. She was perfect."

"Pageant princess?"

"Beauty pageants are mom's life. When she was a little girl, she used to compete. She wanted both Italy and me to be Miss Universe. It's been a dream of hers to have a bunch of girls and have them dominate pageants. We're not from Arizona originally. We're from Texas. Pageants are more popular there. We moved when I was ten because dad got a better position."

There aren't as many pageants in Arizona. Italy's had to compete out of state since we moved.

"You competed in pageants?"

There's a smile playing on his lips, like he can't believe I would ever parade around on a stage to be judged. I wouldn't believe it either.

"I quit pretty early on. Mom kept trying to push me to do them. But she didn't understand. Italy was made to do pageants. I wasn't. Even as a baby, I couldn't make it through a pageant without crying. Mom gave up on making me perform in them by the time I was three. I would have let me quit, too. I did things to purposely lose until she gave up. It would have been a waste of money to keep trying."

"Your mom must have been upset."

"She cried for a few days, then threw all her energy into making Italy a perfect pageant princess. I realized I should have just stuck with it instead of giving up, but it was too late to change my decision and I was too stubborn anyway."

"I don't see why you would have wanted to change your decision."

"Jack, it's hard to be the sister of a pageant princess, because the pageant princess gets all the attention."

"Why would you have cared? You had a father who loved you, so what if your mother was preoccupied? You wouldn't have been the first child to be close with one parent."

"Because her attention is what I wanted."

"What?"

He must think I'm crazy.

"Getting the attention of our mother was the ultimate goal. It was the one thing Italy and I both wanted, the thing Italy always got, the reason she and I never got along. It was like I was never good enough for my mom to talk to me every now and then or not make me feel like shit daily," I turn my head to look at him. "Did you know I was a chubby kid, Jack?"

"Uh, no."

"My mom couldn't stand it. She tried dropping hints that I needed to go on a diet, but I kept eating the way I wanted to. In third grade, she got so desperate she started replacing my lunches with a Slim Fast bar or shake. Only one. They're supposed to curb cravings. And she would leave little inspirational weight loss quotes that looked like they belonged in an anorexic's journal."

"Is that healthy for a third grader?"

"Probably not, but she didn't care. I put up with her attempts to make me lose weight. It was the only attention she would give me, even if it wasn't what I wanted. I tried not to let her get to me. I tried to be happy."

"It didn't work."

It's more of a statement than a question. I think he knows where this story is going. It's not really hard to figure out.

"Being happy when you have a mother insisting you're fat is impossible. I became antisocial. I was too self conscious to go out of my way to make friends. I stayed home a lot. When I wasn't eating or doing homework, I was sleeping. Friday nights were spent in front of a computer, playing role-playing games. I may have been depressed. In high school, things didn't change. My mom continued terrorizing me about my weight, my sister was perfect, and my dad was too busy working to notice."

"So when did your bulimia start?"

"I'm getting there," I pause, "Let's see, when I was sixteen, my sister was twenty. She was just finishing her second year at a local University, living at home and competing in pageants. She didn't start going to Harvard till she got her Bachelors. I couldn't wait for her to leave. I wanted her out of the house so badly. We used to fight all the time. More than one of those fights ended with one of us injured. I still have a scar from where she pushed me into one of the hall tables."

"She pushed you into a hall table hard enough to cut you?"

"I pushed her down the stairs two weeks before. It was a long time coming." I shrug. "Anyway, I went with her and mom for one of her dress fittings for a pageant. The dress fit a month prior, they just needed to make sure it fit right before she competed in a week. Amazingly enough, when she put on the dress, it didn't zip up. Italy managed to gain two dress sizes in a month. The tailor was more the willing to let it out before she had to go on stage, but mom would have none of that. She insisted Italy would fit into the dress within a week, that she would lose two dress sizes."

"I know damn well that's not healthy."

"It's not. Italy's weight loss regime was insane. For a whole week, she would eat half a grapefruit a day and exercise at least four hours straight. I'll be damned if she didn't fit into that dress by the end of the week. My mother was so proud," I pause before asking, "Do you know where my sister was for the past few months?"

"You've never mentioned it."

Of course I haven't.

"In an eating disorder facility. She had a heart attack due to her anorexia. She almost died. Last week, she got out. That week three years ago where she lost so much weight had hooked her into her unhealthy eating habits. I don't know if I can blame her. Losing two dresses in a week, shit, that's got to be exhilarating."

"But it's not healthy."

"Didn't stop me from trying it."

"What?"

"That week Italy dieted, I realized something. My mother wants a thin daughter, probably more than she wants a pageant princess. She was so excited for Italy, cheering her on while she lost weight. That's why Italy's always been the favorite. She's always been thin. The day of the competition Italy lost all of that weight for, I decided I would stop eating, just like her. I would lose weight and mom would love me, too. I would be perfect. I would be a daughter she was proud of." I sigh, "I lasted till lunch. Got hungry and had to eat. I felt like such a failure. But I didn't let it discourage me, I kept trying. All weekend, I tried to starve myself. I failed every single day. I couldn't do it. Food was too important to deprive myself of."

"So you got the idea to vomit?"

"Close. I went to school Monday, and in English class, we had some awareness presentation. It wasn't uncommon for my school to hold awareness seminars based on random topics. It depended on how a student died that year. We had drunk driving accidents, suicides, accidentally drug overdoses, cancer patients who ended up passing away. Our school was cursed. The awareness presentation that day was on eating disorders. A girl in our class passed away from heart failure caused by anorexia. The woman giving the presentation gave us information on all kinds of eating disorders, how to spot them, what to do if someone we knew had an eating disorder, how to avoid jumping on that 'bandwagon.' She said we were all beautiful in our own way. But she was wrong. According to my mother, having extra weight on you isn't pretty."

"Your mother is wrong."

"I believed my mother was right. I sat through the presentation quietly, pretended not to listen even though I was taking in every word. The anorexics reminded me of my sister. I remember thinking how similar her eating plan that past week was to their's. I felt terrible about myself while looking at their skeletal bodies. I knew my sister would end up looking like that because she had self-control. Perfect. All skin and bones. When the bulimics came up... It was like I had an epiphany. Those girls had the right idea. Eat anything you want and throw it up later. It was their idea, not mine. I just used it. After dinner that night, I tried shoving my finger down my throat. I couldn't get it down enough, so I used a toothbrush. It started as a weekly thing, escalated to more than once a week, to every day, to five times a day, to five times before breakfast. I was hooked from the beginning."

"Did you lose two dress sizes in a week like your sister?"

"No," I chuckle, "I didn't lose any weight in the first week. I didn't lose any weight in the first month. I sure as hell didn't lose any weight in the first year. It wasn't till I started going through periods of starvation that I started losing weight. Looking at it from a weight loss stand point, that first year was a waste."

"Then why did you keep doing it?"

"It made me feel good. Everytime I vomited, I felt good knowing I was keeping myself from gaining more weight. When I started losing weight, I felt even better."

"So you've ruined your body for your mother? Did it make her love you?"

"Funny thing about that, my mom doesn't even notice how much weight I've lost."

"And you keep doing it? If it's not working, you should stop. You shouldn't have done it in the first place."

"I can't stop. It's calming to do. When I'm anxious, or sad, or hurt, or happy, I vomit."

"When you're happy?"

"It’s a bad habit."

"Holl, you're way too pretty to keep doing this to yourself."

I don't say anything, but go back to eating my pizza. Whether or not I'm pretty is a shady topic. It’s all a matter of opinion, and I happen to disagree with a great deal of people. But I base my looks on how thin I am.

Or how thin I feel.

"Don't you think you're pretty?" Jack asks.

Why is he pushing this?

"I'm not thin," I mumble and open my mouth to take another bite of my pizza.

Jack grabs my chin before I can and forces me to look at him. Those Labrador brown eyes are swimming with something I can't place.

"You are thin. Weren't you listening to the doctor two weeks ago? You're underweight."

"I don't feel thin."

"Maybe you should stop walking around in clothing that's a few sizes to big."

"How would that help?"

"You'd be able to see that you are thin. You might feel a little better about yourself. Lounging around in sweats everyday isn't going to help you."

"I guess."

He sees he's not getting anywhere with that idea, so he switches paths. "Have you looked into any of the therapists?" He lets go do my chin.

"Not yet."

"I can help you with that."

"I don't feel like it right now."

"Well, what do you feel like doing right now?"

"Eating." I shove a large bite of pizza into my mouth for extra measure.

He smiles and relaxes against the booth, watching me while I stuff my face. I hadn't realized he was so tense during our conversation. Admittedly, I was kind of tense, too.

The whole 'telling your life story to a guy you like' thing is hard.

"Hey, Holl."

Can he ever stay quiet?

I make a noise in acknowledgment.

"Guess what."

One eyebrow raised, I look up at him. Mischief dances in his eyes, a smirk playing on his face.

"Yes?" I ask.

"Guess," he pushes.

"The sky is falling?"

He rolls his eyes. "That wasn't even a serious guess."

"Are you saying you wouldn't tell me if the sky was falling?"

"Of course I would tell you. We would hide in a cave until the sky was done falling, doing dirty things to keep entertained. But that wasn't what I was going to tell you."

Smile stretching across my face, I say, "I missed you."

Really, those ridiculous comments of his have found a way into my heart.

"I know you did."

"What were you going to tell me?"

"This."

His head drops down, lips pushing against mine. I'm stunned for a second, but recover quickly. Our lips move together in a pace he sets. Its slow, a speed that causes my stomach to flip and my heart to hammer against my ribcage. I can feel a want for something more in my core. I try to stifle it.

It's hard to not want more of Jack.

I almost pout when he pulls away. He smirks down at me.

"I thought you'd never kiss me again," I state.

True story. I was pretty sure he would hate me for the rest of his life and I would live as a spinster with thirty-seven cats even though I'm allergic to them.

"You seriously think I'd be able to stay away?"

"If I say 'yes,' will you kiss me again?"

"Depends, do I run a risk of a You First member appearing and harassing us?"

"They won't be back for another hour or so. It takes awhile for them to buy costumes."

"They went without you to buy costumes?"

"I sent Dalton with money to pick something out for me."

"I thought we already agreed on a costume."

"I'm not going on stage in just underwear, Jack."

"But you would look sexy. Where's the bag of underwear I bought you? I know exactly what you could wear."

"In the backroom where my luggage is. But—"

Jack grabs my hand and tugs me out of the booth. "Come on."

He doesn't give me much of an option to disobey the request. He leads me to the backroom like an excited three-year-old getting ready to show me macaroni art. In the backroom, he looks at me, waiting for me to point out my bag. I point to the paisley luggage in the corner.

It's best not to fight this.

Jack goes to the bag, opens it, and goes through the Victoria's Secret bag sitting on top of the rest of the clothing. I haven't taken all the undergarments out. I'm too lazy.

"Here they are," Jack declares, showing me what he would like me to use as a Halloween costume.

A royal blue push up bra—with a knot design decorating the top of the cups, reaching up the straps, and a small bow in the center—and a matching set of satin bikini-cut panties—their knot detailing is on either side of the center, angling from the leg holes near the crotch to the waist band, and another small bow in the center.

"I'm not wearing that on stage."

"Will you wear it for the party?"

"No."

He pouts, and I melt under his gaze. I could endure a few moments of discomfort to make him happy. After a few minutes, I'm sure I wouldn't even notice how scantily clothed I would be.

"Holl, please," he whines

My response doesn't slip through my mental filter. "I'll think about."

I can’t think properly when he looks at me like that.

"Really?" his face brightens.

"Don’t get your hopes up. Come on, I need to finish eating."