The Art of Adapting (28 page)

Matt had made a schedule for the next month, outlining each meal and highlighting the one new thing for her diet each day. It was a nice schedule, written on a thick piece of orange construction paper, with straight freehand lines for the rows and columns and a small picture of each new food in each day's square. He was proud of the chart and wanted to hang it on his wall, but Abby had asked him not to, so he kept it on his desk under one of his kangaroo pictures.

Matt wanted to bring his notebook and green pen to the table, to watch Abby eat and record each bite the moment she swallowed, but Abby didn't like to see the notebook. She also didn't know how to measure an ounce of chicken without a scale, but Matt had an excellent sense of spatial relations and had already figured out what one ounce of chicken looked like when cut up into little Abby-sized bites. Abby was going to cut the meat into small bites and move the pieces toward the corn, one by one, until Matt nodded that she had a one-ounce portion piled there. This all made dinner so interesting that Matt thought that even if Byron was loud he'd stay at the table just to watch Abby's pile of chicken bites form and then disappear. He could do that even with his hands over his ears. So it was just as well that he wouldn't have the notebook there. He couldn't write anything down with his hands over his ears.

When she was not eating, not running, not playing soccer, not staring at the wall, and not doing homework, Abby wrote poetry. Matt had read some of the poems. Abby didn't rhyme or follow any specific meter. Matt preferred meter and rhyme, but they weren't his poems. She mostly wrote about her body. Not her whole body, but parts of her body, as if they weren't even hers. Matt had a couple of the poems tucked into the notebook, behind the daily calorie counts. He pulled one out, written in Abby's purple pen on a lined sheet of school paper with three holes punched in the margin.

Hip bones sculpted into bookends

Beginning and end to the same old story

Legs strong but pockmarked with failure

Dimpled with lard

Juts of collarbone whittled free

Shoulder blades transformed into flightless wings

A hidden fairy emerging from within

Born not from pixie dust but carved from bone

A new sprite carefully shaped yet still unformed

Her magic is invisibility

Her face is angular, striking, but

Still not beautiful enough to be noticed

The scale whispers to her in her sleep, makes promises

To tip the balance of power in her favor

If the fairy achieves weightlessness

Only then will she be able to fly

Matt didn't know much about fairies. He preferred real things to mythical ones. But if Abby liked fairies, that was fine. He didn't understand why she didn't use punctuation, though. As a freshman in high school she should know all of the punctuation rules. He was tempted to add some, to show her how, but it was her poem, so he left it alone. He tucked the poem inside the notebook and left it on his desk, hidden under the photo of the rabies-resistant kangaroo. It was a Tasmanian forester kangaroo, which was endangered.

Matt settled at the dinner table, arranging his plates and bowls as he visualized a one-ounce portion of chicken. He wanted to get it exactly right. Lana set the platters of food on the table and, like always, offered to serve Matt first.

“Abby first,” he said. He was bristling with anticipation. “That piece, right there.” He pointed at the smallest piece of chicken. Lana slid it onto Abby's plate and Abby smiled, not at Lana or Matt, but at the chicken itself. Then she began slicing it, very slowly, into tiny bites. She made her pile and Matt, watching her closely but distracted by his own heartbeat, nearly missed when the pile was the
exact right size. He was supposed to nod subtly toward her when she was done measuring, but instead he smacked the surface of the table with the palm of his hand and made a half-cough, half-bark sound that he'd never heard himself make before. Byron and Lana jumped and looked at him strangely, but Abby understood and just laughed. Matt laughed, too. It was the best dinner he had enjoyed with the whole family in a long time.

Abby ate her chicken very slowly, chewing more times than necessary. Matt watched her throat, waiting for her to swallow. She took so long that he thought she might spit it out. She did that at the window a lot, but he had never seen her do it in front of Lana.

“Water helps wash down the chicken,” he told her. She kept chewing, so Matt pointed to her water glass. Twice. Three times.

“Is it too dry?” Lana asked.

Abby shook her head. She took a sip of water, swallowed, and smiled. She didn't usually smile while eating. Matt wanted to write that down in the notebook, too. He waited, too agitated to eat, until her last bite was swallowed, washed down with more water, two full glasses of ice water in all to get the small pile of chicken out of her mouth and down into her stomach. She set the glass down and bit her lip, like she wasn't really happy with what she'd just done, but Matt was happy. He clapped his hands together, smacked the table again, and rushed toward his room, excited to add to his notes. His chair tipped over backward and made a horrible banging sound against the white linoleum as he hurried from the table. He heard Lana say something, but he didn't have time to listen or go back. The notebook was waiting.

A few days later, sitting at the window and looking at the maple tree full of hopeful blossoms and new spring leaves, Abby helped Matt count birds. There were more of them fluttering about the front yard these days, including a couple nesting in the tree. Well, Matt suspected there were more. It seemed like more. It was possible they were just busier, flapping around more than just two months ago. Matt didn't like guessing. He liked data. He wanted to prove that there were more. So now he was counting them all.
He tried to do it every day at exactly eight in the morning and five in the afternoon, when the birds seemed busiest and easiest to count. They were hard to count if they weren't flying around. If he kept counting for a whole year, then he'd know if there were really more in April or if it was just the same birds, happier and busier in spring weather.

Matt and Abby agreed that there were nine different birds right now. Not including the hawk Matt had seen earlier but which wasn't around now. Matt wasn't counting hawks, though. He just wanted to know how many birds were in the tree. Robins, jays, and finches. He wrote down the date and the time and the number nine, and set the notebook down.

“Eggs,” Matt said. “Six grams of protein. Seventy calories in the large ones your mom buys. I think there must be more protein in the jumbo ones, but Lana never buys those. Of course, they'd have more calories, too.” The birds had made him think of eggs. Another possible protein source for Abby. “Oh, sorry,” he said. He wasn't supposed to talk about calories.

“I don't really like eggs,” Abby told him. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. She was eating a Triscuit with a small scoop of peanut butter on it. It was her one change for the day. Matt had suggested three crackers with peanut butter, but Abby was still upset about eating the chicken, so she would only add one cracker today. And it was a very small amount of peanut butter. The whole snack only added three grams of protein. Not nearly enough. Matt had to be careful about the next foods he added. Too much protein, like the chicken, and Abby said it made her stomach hurt. Too little, and he felt anxious that her daily total wasn't increasing fast enough.

“Beans,” Matt said. “Black beans, kidney beans, garbanzo beans.”

“Beans, beans, the musical fruit?” Abby asked.

Matt shook his head. He didn't understand what music had to do with it. “I like kidney beans. Garbanzo beans make good hummus, but I don't like them by themselves. They have this skin thing on them and they're too dry. Baked beans are good, but sometimes
too sweet. Black beans are best. With sour cream. Don't you like beans?”

Abby giggled, leaning to the side and holding her ribs, as if beans were very funny. Matt didn't understand what was so funny about beans.

“Soybeans!” he shouted. Abby jumped and started laughing even harder. Matt nodded, pointing toward the window, down the street, across town, at the little Asian grocery store a mile away. “Yes. Edamame. You like vegetables. It's a vegetable. Surprisingly high in protein for a vegetable, but also low in fat. I know you don't like fat.”

“Okay,” Abby said, sitting up and sighing, which seemed to stop her laughter. “A vegetable with protein sounds good.”

Matt pulled out the notebook and wrote down
edamame
. He used a pencil, just in case they changed their minds. He'd written
banana
in pen and then there was no changing it. But he was so excited that his writing was sloppy. He erased it and nearly tore the page in his haste to revise it. Abby, watching him closely, smiled as he swept the eraser dust away and blew the page clean. Matt wrote
edamame
again, carefully rounding out the letters, giving them a little calligraphy flair for good measure. The second time it came out better. Matt nodded at his work.

“An excellent addition,” Matt said. He tipped the notebook toward Abby so she could see his fine writing, but then remembered that she didn't like to see the notebook, so he snapped it shut before she could see it. And then Abby was laughing again. He liked her laughter. It was like a sound a small animal would make. A small happy animal. Almost as happy as the birds outside.

He opened the notebook again, wrote down the date and time, followed by,
Abby laughs. Two times
.

It was every bit as bad as Abby had anticipated, and worse. After seeing Abby and Gabe together, Caitlin went on a full-blown rampage, intent on ruining what little social status Abby had. First came the rumors about her and Carter James, which were ridiculous. Carter was a junior-year jerk: a geek-turned-bully who couldn't seem to carry on a conversation without pissing someone off. He was an obnoxious know-it-all, quick to pick arguments and even more annoying for almost always being right. He made people feel small and stupid as cheap entertainment, and he was toxic to everyone linked to him. The rumor died as quickly as it began, though, because Carter wasn't shy about letting everyone know that he'd never consider dating a freshman, let alone sleeping with one. Which meant, as much as she disliked him, Abby owed him some small debt of gratitude.

The rumor that caught and burned longest was about Mr. Franks. It was a disgusting accusation, low even for Caitlin, but kids love gossip about teachers, and a sordid tale of a chem teacher hooking up with a student in the lab after hours seemed irresistible, and so it just kept going, spreading around the school like a wildfire that died down each night and flared up again each morning. Abby heard snickers in the hall behind her, noticed long looks
at soccer practice, felt too many eyes on her in Mr. Franks's class, which did nothing to help her stay clearheaded in chemistry.

She'd also started avoiding Mr. Franks's daughter Celeste. After several text and email exchanges about Celeste's road back to normal eating, chock-f of suggestions for Abby like getting rid of the scale, finding an accountability partner for meeting her calorie-increase goals, cutting back the exercise to only thirty-minute sessions instead of hour-long ones, she felt like she'd betrayed Celeste somehow by getting her innocent father thrown under the bus of high school gossip. Celeste was funny and sympathetic and easy to chat with, but how do you tell a girl there's a rumor going around school that you slept with her father to save your grade? It was better just to lay low, but Abby missed checking in with Celeste each day she added something new to her diet and getting the nicest, most encouraging messages in response.

Gabe sat two rows in front of Abby in chem, and after the third round of giggles rose and fell in class, when Gabe turned to give Abby yet another apologetic smile, Mr. Franks caught it.

“Gabe, Abby, please stay after class,” Mr. Franks said. He didn't look at them as he said it, he spoke to the blackboard, where he was listing the elements they needed to study for the next quiz. Which just made it worse. Made it seem like they were all so familiar there was no need for him to look at them. The whole class rippled with murmurs until Mr. Franks turned and glared at them all. Which, again, just made things worse.

“What's going on?” Mr. Franks asked after the class had emptied. He perched on the front corner of his desk like usual, but his arms were crossed tightly and his fists were white balls. Gabe and Abby exchanged glances, but neither said anything. Mr. Franks looked at his watch. “We can sit here for the next hour. I have an open period.”

“It's just stupid kid stuff,” Gabe said, checking the empty open doorway. Abby realized there must be kids out there eavesdropping, just out of sight, but well within earshot. Mr. Franks crossed the room in his angry stride and closed the door.

“Abby?” he said. She looked at her shoes, the cracked beige
leather of her flats, too worn out to hold on to much longer, too perfectly molded to her feet to ever give up.

“I don't know,” she whispered.

“Is someone bothering you?” Mr. Franks asked. “Both of you?” So, he already knew, on some level. Abby supposed you couldn't be a high school teacher for long without learning to decipher all those teenage scoffs and giggles.

Abby was going to cry. The tears stung the backs of her eyelids, threatening to come full force. She had to get out of there. She needed to run, hard and fast, on the track, until there was nothing left of her body but air heaving into her lungs, burning her throat, her mind clear of all other thoughts, even if just for a moment.