When I Look at the Stars, I Feel Like Myself

Heat radiates from the large fire in front of me. It's warm, calming. I shift on the log I chose as a seat, easing the pain surging through my tailbone. The fire in front of me seems to dance with the music pounding from the speakers of the entertainment system. People fill the open space. Musicians, techs, special effects workers, merch workers, managers, everyone all packed together, dancing, talking, drinking, and letting loose.

The first day of tour went off without a hitch. We deserve a bonfire.

Last time I was at a bonfire was the day before graduation. It was fun. Except for being hyperaware of the amount food adorning the tables, and even more aware of how fat I felt in my attire.

I was like a tightly packed sausage link.

Right now, I'm ignoring the food, giving it the cold shoulder. I know its there. I'm very clear on where the table is located. I'm also very clear of my want to eat everything on the table and force myself to vomit. My neck muscles are tightening at the thought, my stomach churning.

It’s a very strange want, I'm aware.

"I can't believe we're on tour again," Calvin says from his seat on the ground in front of me.

"It's surreal," Dalton agrees, also on the ground.

Am I too big for them to fit on the log with me?

The rest of the band is around. Elina and Riley had skipped off somewhere together. And RJ and Ross are mingling with their respective groups.

"I just hope it goes better this time around," Calvin states.

"It should." Dalton's eyes catch on something, or someone, behind me, a sparkle coming to them. "Hottie at twelve o'clock."

That can only be one person.

"Hey, Calvin, Dalton," his voice reaches us before he does. I turn my head slightly to face him. He looks at me, his Labrador brown eyes shining, nose as large as always, "Hey, Holl."

"Hi, Jack-Attack," Dalton greets.

"What's up, Jack," Calvin nods.

Jack's body takes the spot on the log next to mine. Close. Very close. Our thighs are mere millimeters from touching. His shoulder lightly brushes mine. I think I can feel his breath against my hair. I'm almost uncomfortable.

"You guys were great today. John wasn't lying when he said you were fantastic," Jack says.

"Thanks," Calvin says, "We were so pumped going out there."

"You were great, too," Dalton says, "Even with a sprained ankle, you were absolutely amazing."

"Yeah?" Jack looks at me again, "What did you think, Holl?"

About that.

"I didn't get to watch," I say, "I had to take care of some things."

"She had to talk to her daddy," Dalton blurts.

"Dalton, hun, go choke on a Jones Soda."

Dalton pokes his tongue out but retracts it quickly, eyebrows drawing together. He glances frantically around himself.

"Where is my soda?" he asks.

"You didn't bring one out here," Calvin answers.

I always thought he produced them via magic.

"Shit," Dalton stands, "Come with me to get one, Calvin."

"Sure," Calvin pushes himself up and brushes dirt from his behind. "See you guys in a bit."

With a wave, they leave. Calvin slings his arm over Dalton's shoulder as they walk. I can hear Dalton laughing at something Calvin must have whispered. They have such a strange relationship. They fight when they're nervous. They makeup when they're not.

Well, they don't actually apologize to each other. They just start talking civil again.

It's weird.

"A daddy's girl, huh?" Jack teases.

Shit, I'm alone with him.

"I love my dad," I return.

I do love my father. He encourages my music career despite the fact that it's not the career path he wanted for me. He listens when I talk to him. He treats me like his little princess. He's absolutely amazing.

Besides the fact that he's always working and he's still married to my harpy of a mother.

"That's cute," Jack nods, "So how old are you?"

"Nineteen."

"You're the oldest in the band? Not counting your manager."

"Technically. I'm older than Calvin by some amount of months."

Jack nods a few times. Silence takes over the conversation. I decide not to break it, staring into the fire instead. Jack's eyes are on me. I can feel them. And it makes me nervous. Most of my imperfections are covered with a baggy black sweatshirt and large sweatpants. But the fat on my face, nothing can cover that.

"Do you want anything to eat?" Jack's voice cuts through the silence, "I think they have those cool triangle sandwiches. You know, the one's in the supermarket that are precut in those plastic containers. Those things are fucking delicious. I can go get us some."

"You have a sprained ankle. I don't think walking around and getting me food is part of the healing process."

"I can hobble just fine. Plus, the table's not that far away. I don't mind getting you something to eat."

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry."

"Are you sure?"

I'm starving.

"I already ate."

No, I didn't. But eating leads to vomiting, and vomiting on a bus is difficult. You can't do it in the bus toilet because that will clog the system. Clogging the system can get you caught. In such a closed area, people can hear you easier. I have tricks to get away with it, of course, but I don't want to use them just yet.

"While you were talking to your daddy?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. He packed me an assortment of chocolates that I ate while on the phone with him."

I haven't actually eaten those yet. My father did sneak a chocolate assortment into my luggage at some point. I'm just waiting to eat them.

Jack chuckles. "Well, I guess that saves my ankle for a little while."

Shouldn't he be using crutches? They would keep the weight off his ankle. Not that there's much to keep off, but I'm sure his ankle would benefit from it. Then again, he would probably end up killing himself by trying to perform some trick on the crutches.

Yeah, he shouldn't have crutches.

"So, I was wondering," Jack starts, "Can I get your number?"

My mental processes screech to a halt. The circus could benefit from having my flipping stomach in their show. I'm afraid the escalated beat of my already unstable heart will cause me to keel over.

Jack wants my number.

I don't remember any member of the male species that isn't one of my band mates ever asking for my number.

Despite the reaction of my body to the request, I almost don't want to give it to him. Giving him my number is a small step towards a bigger, scarier commitment. With my binging and purging cycle controlling my life, I don't have time for something like that.

I open my mouth to respond, but am cut off by the guitar solo from Metallica's "Enter Sandman". Holding up a finger, I draw my phone from the pocket of my hoodie. "Mother" stretches across the touch screen in bold letters.

Why is she calling me?

I look at Jack again, "I'm sorry. I have to take this."

Jack smiles, "It's cool."

I stand from the log and walk quickly to an area where I can hear, and where no one can hear me. Out of habit, my thumb taps the answer button, and I bring the phone to my ear.

"Hi, mom," I say, "What'd you need?"

There's no point in beating around the bush with her.

"I was going through the stuff in your apartment—" she starts.

"Why are you in my apartment," I hiss.

The moment I turned eighteen, I moved out of the house. Mainly because I couldn't handle my mother. I don't think I ever told my band mates. They may assume I still live at home. But I can't tell them without explaining everything to them. They've met my mom a few times, and they think she's great. They wouldn't understand why I moved out.

"Well, honey, it has to be taken care of while you're gone."

"There's no one there to mess it up."

"Of course not, but someone needs to go through your pantry and refrigerator to clean them out."

"My refrigerator and pantry are just fine."

"No, they are not. The food in here is junk."

"Mom, get out of my fucking apartment."

"You move out and this is how you start eating? You better not be eating like this on tour. You can't afford the extra weight."

My stomach drops. Tears spring to my eyes. I'm sure the little color I have has drained from my face. I should be used to this by now, but I'm not. I never will be.

Who gets used to their mother calling them fat?

"Mom, I have to go," I say.

Without waiting for her reply, I hang up, gaze directed to my feet. Jack's still watching me. He's had his eyes on me the whole time, probably waiting for me to return to the party so he can get my number. I guess he'll be pretty surprised to see me walking to the tour buses.

I'm not going back to the party.

The walk to the parking lot doesn't take too long. They set the bonfire up in the field near the expanse of cement to avoid having to take the entertainment system far out. It was easier for whoever set this up to get everything out there from the buses and U-hauls at that distance.

I storm up the steps of our bus, closing the door behind me. It's quiet. Dalton and Calvin must have already left. But it doesn't hurt to check.

"Is anyone here?" I yell.

No answer. But that's not a good enough check.

"Oh my gosh, someone drank all of Dalton's Jones Soda," I yell.

That would catch the attention of all of my band mates. No one messes with Dalton's soda. And if something happens to the beverages, that problem better be fixed before Dalton finds out.

Hearing no response, I smile. No one's here. That makes this easier for me.

I walk to the kitchenette of the tour bus, and tug open a set of cupboards. The junk food I bought at the convenient store fills the space, brightly colored wrapping putting my mind at ease. From the selection, I grab the Cheetos Puffs, the Little Debbie cakes, and the bag of Sour S'ghetti that Riley picked out. I lay them out on the counter in the order I'll eat them.

I won't eat everything. But I'll eat part of everything on the counter.

Starting with the Cheetos Puffs, I work my way through the mass amounts of food. I'm sure I look quite similar to a starving animal. I would hate for someone to walk in while I do this.

By the time I've eaten through half the bag of Cheetos, all the Little Debbie cakes, and most of the bag of Sour S'ghetti, my stomach is so full it hurts. I may not need to stick my finger down my throat this time.

There's still one thing left to do.

I toss the containers back into the cabinet and pull open the mini-fridge. Two bottles of Dr. Pepper stare back at me. The fizzy substance will cause everything in my stomach to come up with ease.

I yank one large bottle from the fridge, crack it open, and chug as much as I can without drowning. Lungs on fire, stomach throbbing, I pull the bottle away to breathe and screw the top back on. The contents of my stomach churn uncomfortably, begging for some kind of release.

There's only one solution for this.

The bottle returns to its spot in the mini-fridge, contents noticeably different from the full bottle. At this point, everything I've touched is lacking in contents. Except for my own body. I wish I could empty as easily as a bottle. But I suppose I do. I force the nutrients that fill my body out and never really change size. Don't bottles go through the same treatment? They can get crushed, but that's not the same thing as getting thinner.

Hoping no one will think anything of the sudden decrease in snacking supplies, I leave the kitchenette, cross the expanse of the living room area, and enter the bunks. I stop at the bunk closest to the bathroom.

My bunk.

It will be easier when I start having mid-night bathroom runs to have this bunk. I won't have to cross the other bunks and possibly wake up all of my band mates in the process of getting to the bathroom.

Pulling the curtain back, I grab my nearly empty backpack from the foot of the bed. Quickly, I unzip it, shove my hand inside, and pull out a few Ziploc bags. They won't all be necessary, but better safe than sorry.

Bags in hand, I slip into the bathroom and lock the door firmly behind me, protecting myself from any unwanted company. To keep any noise I make from reaching the ears of those deciding to come on the tour bus, I turn on as many faucets as I can. Sounds of rushing water fill the bathroom.

I'm sure I've covered every privacy base.

It's probably all unnecessary anyway. The party shouldn't be ending for awhile, and my band mates won't leave until it's over.

But the buses do need to head out soon.

I kneel on the polished tile flooring in front of the toilet, leaning over it and placing the plastic bag in the right position to catch the bulk of the vomit. Any excess splatters of vomit will fall into the toilet bowl and aren't likely to be enough to clog the system.

There shouldn't be anything splattering outside of the bag. I've done this enough times to have it down to a science. Leaning over the toilet is just a precaution. I don't want to accidentally dirty the bathroom or myself.

One hand holds the bag open, the other shoves itself down my throat in desperate motions, scabbed knuckles hitting against the rough edges of teeth. Vomit immediately rushes up my esophagus. I don't pull my hand away in time to keep it clean, and I don't really care. I have no time to care about that.

Grotesque substance fills the bag, expanding it to its limits. I close the Ziploc with my clean hand and grab another bag. This is hardly done yet. I'm sure I haven't gotten everything out. My food marker hasn't come up yet.

I continue the vomiting process until blood is mixing in with the orangey color of the Cheetos, my food marker. Seeing blood in my vomit isn't uncommon. I very clearly remember the panic that ensued the first time a speckle of blood appeared in the toilet. But I'm still alive, and I'm used to seeing it.

I'm sure it means something is hurt inside me. As long as I'm not dead, I see no reason to worry. Being in pain isn't that big of a deal.

I pull away from the toilet, flushing just in case I didn't see something, and stand. For the moment, I leave the plastic bags on the floor. It's more important that I clean the vomit from my hand, which I do without looking in the mirror.

I don't particularly want to see what it has to show me. It's never good. Plus, I don't need a mirror to take inventory of my body after vomiting. I know my eyes are watery, I know my throat is throbbing, I know I can still taste vomit in my mouth, I know my heart is beating at an irregular pace, and I know I'm still fat.

I don't need a mirror to tell me that.

Hands clean, I shut off all the faucets. The lack of noise causes the bathroom to seem eerily quiet. There's no water splattering into porcelain frames, no vomit rushing into plastic bags. It feels empty.

Just like me.

Sighing, I take my toothbrush from the holder next to the sink and press some mint-flavored toothpaste onto the bristles. Mint overcomes the vomit as soon as the brush touches my teeth. In swift motions, I scrub my mouth clean of the nasty taste, spit, and rinse. I drop the toothbrush back into the holder and grab the bags of vomit from the ground.

Cautious, I poke my head out of the bathroom and look around. I don't see anyone, nor do I hear anything on the bus. Music is still pounding outside, some people are cheering.

I'm pretty sure I can hear Dalton's voice above the rest.

Regardless, the coast is clear. I step out of the bathroom and crawl into my bunk, grabbing my backpack. Careful not to pop anything, I place the bags inside, causing the backpack to grow in size. This is why I keep it empty. The space in the bag is reserved for the used Ziploc bags to go in until I get the chance to throw them away. That won't happen till we get to our next stop.

They won't start smelling by that time.

Alright, it's disgusting. But what else am I supposed to do? I can't vomit in the toilet or the sink. It's too hard to wait until we get to venues. I have no other choice. So what if it’s a little disgusting?

No one said bulimia was pretty.

I situate the bag in an area where I shouldn't hit it during the night and lay down in my bunk, feeling the abnormal beat of my heart against my rib cage. Minutes later, the door to the bus slides open, loud as per always. A slew of voices and feet get on the bus.

I guess the party ended.

"That was amazing," Dalton's voice rings.

"Best bonfire ever," Calvin agrees.

"Where’s Holland?" Ross asks.

"Let me check her bunk," Riley says.

I can't hear her light footsteps make their way to the bunk area, and I barely hear her knock on the side of my bunk. I clear my throat, the best thing I can do to avoid croaking.

"Yeah?" I ask.

The curtain is pulled back and Riley is smiling down at me. "We wanted to make sure you were here. You left early."

"Yeah, I was tired."

"Rest up then. Our next show is tomorrow night."

"Thank you for the prescription, Doctor Riles. Here I was thinking I had a life threatening disease that required ages of therapy. It's nice to know its just fatigue." The sarcasm dripping from my tone is thick.

Something flashes in Riley's eyes. Just as soon as it appears, it disappears. Her face seems strained, though. Like she's forcing a smile. But that wouldn't make sense. I must be seeing things.

Massive vomiting does that to you.

"That's Doctor Mega Awesome Riles to you," she says in her "serious voice."

She's not fooling anyone with that tone.

"Well, excuse me."

She chuckles, "I'll let you sleep."

"Thanks," I reply.

The curtain is closed again, and I'm in my bunk, left with only bags of vomit and my abnormal heartbeat to keep me company. I know I'm not going to sleep tonight. It's far too hard to sleep after vomiting. So, instead of drifting to sleep, I stay up and listen to my band mates separate to their bunks. During the night, I keep my mind on our set list, running it through my head so many times I'm sure I could play it if I were asleep. Morning comes quickly. Though I didn't go to sleep, I don't leave my bunk until I hear commotion in the front of the bus and smell pancakes and coffee.

Wait, when did we get pancake mix?

We don't have a stove, either.

Maybe its not pancakes.

I slide out of my bunk and walk to the living room area, meeting a sight not unfamiliar to me. RJ and Dalton are playing videogames. Calvin sits next to Dalton, exerting grunts of approval in his tired state. Ross is in our dining booth, computer in front of him. Riley and Elina are in the kitchen, talking.

And there is a stack of pancakes on the counter.

I'm so confused.

Noticing my presence, Elina chirps, "We made pancakes."

"How?" I ask.

"The microwave," she shrugs.

Is that even possible?

"I have your coffee," Ross says, holding up a blue mug.

Shaking off the confusion, I cut through the view of the gamers on the couch. They mutter profanities as I cross. Rolling my eyes at their behavior, I grab the coffee from Ross's hand and take a sip. My body relaxes into the booth, across from our manager.

Black coffee puts my mind at ease.

"I just got a text from Jack," Dalton exclaims, breaking through the calm my mind was in. A few clicks later, he says, "Holli-bear, he wants to know what you think of his guitar," he pauses, "I don't get it."

"Must be a guitarist mating ritual," Calvin comments.

"Well, Holli-bear, what response means 'I want to have wild sex with you'?"

"He doesn't have a Schecter, therefore his guitar doesn't deserve an opinion," I answer.

"Ouch," Riley mumbles.

"Do you really want me to tell him that?" Dalton asks.

"What else are you going to tell him?"

"Something nice?"

"Then you may as well tell him I'm asleep, so I don't have to provide an answer."

"That's not how you get a boyfriend, Holli-bear."

"I'm just fine being single," I reply, standing from my seat, mug tight in my hand. "I'm going to go get ready."

And possibly vomit.

I have an urge to do it this morning.

I re-cross the path of the gamers and return to my bunk. I pull the curtain back, lean over, and begin to probe around in my filled backpack.

Remind me why I forgot to put the empty plastic bags on top of the full ones.

"What are you doing?"

I shoot to an upright position, head hitting against the wooden frame of my bunk. Immediately, I clutch my head and fall into the cushioned space.

"Shit." I groan.

"Really, what are you doing?" Elina repeats, "That's not your clothing bag."

"Getting tampons," I return.

I don't even think I own tampons anymore. I lost my period some time ago. One of the perks of not eating properly.

Her face twists in understanding. "That time of the month?"

"Yeah."

"I have Midol if you need it."

"Thanks. Is there a reason you followed me?"

"I," she hesitates. She looks as if she may not even say what's on her mind, but she continues, "I think you should be a little nicer to Jack. I know he's eccentric, comes off too strong, and is way too touchy feely, but he's a good guy."

"Is that all?" I ask.

She nods.

"I'll try to be nicer," I say.

"Good," she says, "I'm going to go finish eating my pancakes."

I still don't understand how they managed to make those.

She flutters off, and I turn back to my bag, fishing out a Ziploc bag.

Nothing like a little early morning vomit to wake you up.