Skin and Bones - Softcover

Shahan, Sherry

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0807574015 ISBN 13: 9780807574010

Verlag: ALBERT WHITMAN & CO, 2015

Inhaltsangabe

Sixteen-year-old Jack, nicknamed "Bones," won't eat. His roommate in the eating disorder ward has the opposite problem and proudly goes by the nickname "Lard." They become friends despite Bones's initial reluctance. When Bones meets Alice, a dangerously thin dancer who loves to break the rules, he lets his guard down even more. Soon Bones is so obsessed with Alice that he's willing to risk everything–even his recovery.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Sherry Shahan is a travel writer and a children's book author. She has written several picture books and middle-grade novels, including Ice Island and Death Mountain. She lives in California.

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Skin and Bones

By Sherry Shahan

Albert Whitman & Company

Copyright © 2014 Sherry Shahan
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-8075-7401-0

CHAPTER 1

To Jack Plumb room number 19 B looked like an ordinary college dorm. Two beds, two dressers, two desks, two chairs. Cinder block walls painted eggshell. If the linoleum ever had color, it had long since been scuffed off. Even the bedspreads appeared to be sickly.

Unfortunately Jack knew the sorry truth. The room was in the corner wing of a hospital that treated all kinds of patients — in the wing that housed a program for people with major food issues, the Eating Disorders Unit (EDU).

"Welcome to the loony foodie bin," said the orderly. His name was Bruno, and he was muscle-bound with a square head and a bushy unibrow.

Jack guessed he was trying to ease the tension. "Uh, thanks."

Jack hefted his ratty duffle onto the bed that had to be his. The other one was unmade and a poster hung above it with Rachael Ray in a skin-tight, low-cut T-shirt with Yum-O! written across her chest.

"And Jack," the guy said, "group therapy is at ten o'clock."

"Got it."

"The rest of the gang is in the dayroom watching TV if you're interested."

"Thanks, but I think I'll unpack," Jack said, unzipping his duffle.

He hoped he wouldn't have much interaction with Unibrow, especially after the thoroughly embarrassing pat down an hour ago with Jack in a flimsy cotton gown with ties in back. Unibrow's job was to make sure no one smuggled contraband into the hospital. And that didn't mean cigarettes, drugs, or razor blades taped between butt cheeks.

"Damn," Jack had mumbled after Unibrow discovered the ankle weights he'd stashed in what he'd thought was a secret compartment in his duffle.

Unibrow had dropped the weights into a wastebasket with an ominous clunk.

Jack had tried to act like he didn't care. But he cared a ton, damn it! Ankle weights turned squats into relentless fat burners.

Unibrow had taken the standard vitals: temperature, blood pressure, height, and weight. Jack had sucked all the air from the claustrophobic four-by-four of a room before stepping lightly as possible onto the old-school mechanical scale with sliding weights.

"One-hundred-two and nine-ounces." Unibrow had scribbled on Jack's chart. "You can get dressed now."

Jack had grabbed his sweats and let out the breath he'd been holding. He'd lost four ounces.

* * *

Jack unpacked sweatshirts, sweatpants, thick athletic socks, wool beanies. He wore them to encourage his body to reach a temperature hot enough to melt solids. No matter what anyone said, sweat was nothing but liquid fat. That's why it smelled like rancid bacon grease. As conundrums go, sweat was also his most private and trusted confidante.

His sister had helped him pack for the extended incarceration, because their mom was upset about his being away for six weeks. The length of time of the program was designed to accommodate teens over summer vacation.

Jack had reluctantly agreed to the program, because it wasn't one of those lock-down facilities. Also because his school counselor had said, "If you keep going like this, you'll end up in a coma." Bully tactics.

Jack's parents blamed themselves for his eating disorder, convinced it was caused by something they did or didn't do. "I'm sorry I made you eat those disgusting strained carrots when you were a baby," his mom once said.

"Seriously?" his older sister had put in. "I ate them too and I'm not skinny."

Most of the time his dad avoided discussions like these.

Here's the truth: Jack didn't blame his family for his problems with food. He liked his parents okay. His workaholic dad sold car insurance, house insurance, life insurance, and had memorized how much his clients were worth dead — he was the kind of guy who'd give you the shirt off his back, then offer to wash and iron it. His mom ran the household like an executive — shopping, cooking, cleaning, paying bills. Any spare time was spent raising money for the homeless shelter.

"Try to get better," his sister had said while folding the Darth Vader sweatshirt she'd picked up for him at a garage sale.

Jack had looked away, feeling guilty, knowing what Jill meant. It would be great if we could go out for pizza sometime. Maybe even sneak a beer, you know, like normal teenagers. He wasn't sure what she had meant by better, but he was hoping to come home less obsessed about what he would or wouldn't eat.

Jack had opened up for a hug, holding her tight, even though he'd known he'd be absorbing calories from the vanilla extract she dabbed behind her ears, praying the huddle would produce enough sweat to burn it off.

Jill had bought him paperbacks from a used bookstore, cheesy novels with sexy women on the cover. As if she thought he should have a different date every night to keep him company. No way these books were safe to read. People ate all kinds of things while curled up on a recliner — smearing grease and leaving crumbs that an unsuspecting person might ingest. Used books were definitely a slippery proposition. "I love you, weirdo," she'd said. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Like I'll have a chance," he'd said. "It's a hospital."

Jack had sobbed a little. More leakage. He couldn't wait to weigh himself.

"No laxatives."

"I stopped using them after, you know —" he'd paused, embarrassed all over again remembering the day he didn't make it to the bathroom in time.

"No diuretics either," she'd said. "No ipecac syrup. No enemas. And, please, promise me, no fingers down the throat."

"No fun!" They'd both laughed, knowing how crazy this sounded. Then he'd reminded her, "I don't do that stuff anyway."

"I mean it," she'd said, suddenly serious.

"I know."

And he meant it too. No one likes to be sick. Any more than a heroin addict likes sticking a needle in his arm or a chronic masturbator likes having all that free time on his hands.

Jack finished hanging his clothes in the closet, pointing neck holes in the same direction. Everything was black so he didn't have to worry about coordinating colors. Next he checked out the boxy bathroom. It had a toilet, no urinal, and a mirror over a porcelain sink. A toothbrush and tube of toothpaste stood in a plastic mug, crowding a shelf with a brush matted with black hair. Next to the mug, shoelaces hung over a small box of hemorrhoid cream.

Jack decided to shower off the smog and exhaust from the drive through the San Fernando Valley. He undressed quickly, annoyed because he couldn't see below his chest in the mirror without overturning the waste can and balancing precariously on its circular bottom.

Jack was proud of his body, especially the six-pack stretched tightly across his abdomen. He stared into the glass and flexed a bicep, roughly the size of his wrist, and wondered if he'd ever be brave enough to get naked in front of a girl.

Then he blushed because he was really thinking, A skinny girl like me. But with curves and bumps where curves and bumps are supposed to be.

Jack stepped down from the waste can. He looked around for a scale, alarmed when he didn't see one. I'll have to ask a nurse about it, he thought, suddenly shivering. He cranked the faucet in the shower. For a moment he considered getting his sneakers so he wouldn't have to touch the floor of the shower. Maybe the gift shop sold flip-flops.

He left the bathroom door open. "As per EDU rule number one hundred," he muttered...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: ALBERT WHITMAN & CO
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2015
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0807574015
• ISBN 13: 9780807574010
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 272
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar