It’s been a rough-and-tumble day so I’m tired

It’s been a rough-and-tumble day so I’m tired. Of course, when I say “rough and tumble” day here at Kilk’s, it means I’ve made a couple too many lanyards and talked about myself for more than three hours.

They told us to make these journals, and I refuse to fall into that “dear journal” or “dear diary” bullshit. Instead, I’ll just write.

Leanne—my anorexic best friend—told me that maybe one day we’ll publish them and people will smile fondly at us and our Character Development. I told her that’s shit. Who wants to read some cynical diary by some screwed-up fourteen-year-old lazy ass? I doubt I’ll even have character development except for my growing hatred of my own voice. I swear, if I have to say one more thing about my dad or my sister or my mother, I’m going to kill somebody. Anyways, back to this being published.

Shit! I told Leanne that, and she told me not to be such a hard-assed no-fun jerk and I told her to go to hell. Then we hugged. That’s the way it is with Leanne and I. We have all these problems caking our insides, jarring up our emotions, so our feelings are all screwed up. You can’t love somebody when you’re as messed up as we are, but you can only do a half-hearted try. That’s why, when I get out of this white-walled hellhole, I’ll never get another friend. I wish Leanne didn’t live in Rockville while I live in Bethesda. That means it’ll be harder to see her, we have no chance of going to the same school, and she can’t even go to Cabin John Park when I need her to because it’s 15 minutes away and who wants to go through that hassle?

Leanne and I know we love each other. Ever since I came here, six months ago, I knew we were destined to be. It was art class and I was in one of my two-day crying jags were I don’t stop crying for a couple of days. At this moment, it was just a low mess of quiet sobs, which was better than the wailing, animal-noise kind that had been coming out of me in cooking. Leanne came next to me and quietly showed me which two paints mixed together to make nice colors and we finished my birdhouse. Then, when they took us on the walk later that afternoon, she caught up with me and asked what my problem was. I told her. Then, she told me how she was anorexic and she’d been 79 pounds just four months ago. They hadn’t thought she’d live but then they nursed her through twenty pounds and took her to Kilk’s. Within two days, we were at the front office, begging to room together. They granted our wish because you don’t get a lot of good friendships in this place, and they love it when we get one. Ever since that day, Leanne’s been my best friend. We vent for hours to each other, sitting on the grass during one of the outside visits or under the covers at night. It’s a screwed up relationship but it’s beautiful. I don’t know if I’ve ever connected with a human being so much other than Leanne…other than Lily.

Leanne’s crazy optimistic, which balances out my intense pessimism. Her and I share the same random music tastes, from Jordin Sparks to the Birthday Massacre. She’s smart, too, and she says she’ll be a doctor—a pediatrician—when she grows up, and while she’s listening to some kid’s heartbeat, she’ll tell them about Kilk’s and the way she gave up eating and was once 79 pounds at age 14, which wasn’t natural because she was tall. I don’t know how I would survive without her.

We always say, “God, Hollywood producers would eat this shit up.” They would. They’d gobble up the way we’re best friends and how it’s so tough-love but so easy-love. Let me tell you: Hollywood wouldn’t understand Leanne and I if they burned out their brains trying. No moron in the world could understand the way I won’t let anybody touch my hair except Leanne, and the way she’ll eat like a normal person only when she’s around me, but when she’s around others, she’ll categorize her food and eat it one nibble at a time. Nobody can understand why we tell each other the other’s a bitch one minute and the next, we’ll be all over each other, hugging and sobbing. Hollywood would be so confused that they’d just turn around and shrug. Then, they’d go locate Cameron Diaz and Jack Black and make some other crap movie. I hate those actors. No, “actors.” Maybe they’ve done some good movies—well, only Cameron Diaz. But other than that, they’re just wannabe brats. Them and their obnoxious voices can just go die in a hole somewhere in the Sahara desert.

Okay, that’s the end of my journal entry, because we’re going to go bake cookies. Yeay?

Love,

Phoebe