Marianne Elizabeth Hammer (top young adult novels TXT) 📖

“Isn’t a date just a date?” he said, but he looked almost ready to acknowledge that she had a point.

“Nope-p.”

“You.” He paused. “Are a weird girl.”

Marianne nodded. “I get that a lot.” She turned around and carried the kids’ dinner outside to the patio table.

When she got home, Marianne went straight to the kitchen. She had the urge to whine to someone, but she didn’t act on it. Mom and Dad weren’t home—not that she’d actually tell them even if they were—and since whining never felt as good as it sounded anyway, she didn’t bother picking up the phone to call Sally. Vegging out was her only alternative. She snatched the container of caramel ice cream out of the freezer, wrapped it in a dishtowel, and headed off for the TV with a spoon. She was surprised at herself because she never ate ice cream, even if it fit inside her tyrannical calorie allotment. She wondered if she was more upset than she cared to admit.

The remote control found her hand, and the ice cream lid sailed across the living room to land on the carpet. There was nothing on that she wanted to watch, and Dad was too cheap for a DVR, so she settled for VH1’s I Love the 80s. She watched the show for a while, coming up with better lines for today’s conversations than she’d actually used. Ten minutes later, she realized that ice cream sucked. Marianne finished half a bowl of leftover spaghetti and then grabbed the gingersnaps. One show segment and seven cookies later, she decided that gingersnaps were also the worst.

She got up and went to the fridge. She grabbed a bag of baby carrots and the mustard. Gross, yes. Fattening, no.

The credits rolled on the TV as she finished the last carrot. She’d abandoned the mustard idea after the second try. Ranch would have been nice, but she was too lazy to get up and get it. Ugh, she was too lame to even binge properly. Marianne turned over to lie on her back, crumpled up the carrot bag, and stuck it in her pocket. She could hear Dad’s voice in her head again. What are you eating carrots for? Aren’t teenagers supposed to eat junk food?

“Eff off,” she said out loud. She got to her feet.

And almost started hyperventilating.

She felt really full. What the fat-gram had she been thinking? She stumbled to the trashcan in the kitchen and tossed in the carrot bag. She closed the lid, then opened it again and shoved the wrapper to the bottom of the heap where she wouldn’t have to see it again. The thought of her binge evidence at the bottom of the bin, right by the SlimFast can from earlier, was plain embarrassing. Diets sucked. What was the point of suffering for thirteen hours if it could all be undone in forty-five minutes? Biology was an unfair system.

Marianne tried to watch more TV, but she couldn’t get her mind off of the ache in her stomach. Actually, it wasn’t her stomach so much. More like her throat. Even her esophagus felt full to bursting. Crap. Crap. Crap. She was so stupid. And not just for overeating. She was stupid in general. Seriously, what level of fool must one reach to inspire a pity date?

Stupid Patrick and all his sympathy. Everyone thought charity and compassion were such noble qualities. They were self-righteous morons. Try being the recipient for once. Stupid Danielle and her wild, loose lips. Marianne usually found it endearing, but today it had been next-level annoying. Stupid Marianne and her utter lack of self-control. Maybe she needed medication, except how did one get any if one didn’t have any real problems? She had just settled that she’d have to find some South County trophy wife and get the lowdown on Oxy supply chains when she started laughing out loud like a lunatic.

Oh, she was the perfect candidate for drugs. Prescription drugs, illegal drugs, teenage faux-drugs like markers or nail polish remover. Bring it on, effers. She wasn’t afraid. No side effect could be worse than the monotonous, defeated tune that played in her head every waking hour. Marianne was so stinking sick of herself. Sick of her dumb face. Sick of her layer of blubber. Sick of her fricking misfiring brain that plagued her with guilt all the livelong day.

“Oh, shut up,” said Marianne. Her internal bitching and moaning were even getting on her own nerves.

She stood up and tried to shake off the yuck that was her own thoughts. Easier said than done. Her constricted windpipe just wouldn’t let her forget how she’d blown it. She wanted nothing more than to be hungry again. Right now. She paced around the house, breathing heavily, wishing that someone out there had been smart enough to build a time machine. Wishing that she had some of those mythical pills that stopped digestion. Wishing that she was bulimic.

Well, snap. What did a bulimic have that she didn’t?

Fingers to trigger the gag reflex? Check. Courage? Forget that, she had desperation, which was better. Deep psychosis? Bummer. That one had her. She had no mental illness that she knew of, and no childhood traumas that she could dredge up to create one, either.

Frick.

No. That was unsatisfactory. She was a person, wasn’t she? She could do what she wanted. Including insanely asinine crap if she so desired. Marianne flicked off the TV and cable box and stuffed her ice cream spoon in between the cushions of the couch. She’d get that later. She checked the front window to make sure that her parents weren’t home yet and loitering on the driveway, then went into the bathroom and plucked her toothbrush out of the cup on the sink.

Wow. She was standing in her parents’ bathroom, devising her own plan to destruction.

Never mind that thought. She’d think about that tomorrow. She turned on the water and brushed her teeth. She always gagged