She holds out her other arm, and I grab on. "We're close," she says. "The door's right up here."

I don't say anything as we make our way down the narrow hallway. My toe is trying to rip its way out of the sock, my stomach rumbles, and I have to pee.

"My car is back here."

I don't ask where "back here" is. I don't say thank-you for getting me out of there. I am mute. I give Cara a nod. The mooing ruined everything.

She pushes open a door, and I think we're still underground. There's a set of dirty concrete steps in front of us. A waft of trash hits my nose.

"We'll go slow," Cara says. "I can't believe you took all those pills. It could've been so much worse up there onstage. You sang pretty great for being trashed."

The door clicks closed behind us when we're on the steps.

"That door's never locked, you know. That's what Sydney told me," Cara babbles. "She said she and Chase snuck underneath the stage last weekend after Melissa's party and made out on the balcony prop from last year's Romeo and Juliet."

I am incapable of responding.

I hear crickets. We must be outside. We make it to the top step, and I look around. Big, dark green trash Dumpsters are to my right and left. I know where we are nowa"we're behind the school next to the cafeteria. No one ever parks here because it smells like s.h.i.t.

Cara asks me to let go of her so she can text someone. She looks over at me with a huge smile. "Just got us invited to the after-party at Sydney's."

She thinks I'm capable of going to a party right now? I stare at her with wide eyes as we both get into the car.

"What? Come on, it'll be the perfect place for you to un-embarra.s.s yourself. You know, save face. You did throw a freaking traffic cone across the stage, Dell. People are going to talk. Why not face it head-on? Besides, you sang great. Everyone loved your performance. I'll bet you'll get lots of compliments. Compliments are good, right? But first we'll have to fix your makeup. It's, like, all over your face." She starts the car and drives.

Cara, my only friend in the world, doesn't see me, know me, or understand me. This rips my heart apart, and my sadness smooshes the pieces into an unidentifiable mound. I'm spent. "I want to go home."

"Whatever, Dell."

She doesn't even argue with me.

The rest of the drive home is silent.

My head is a jumble of phrases and words: fat f.u.c.k, darkness, don't tell Taryn, like I'm in a music video, fat b.i.t.c.h, do it, stay still, zombie makeup, Vicodin, you wish, you fat f.u.c.k . . .

"We're here," Cara says, putting the car in park. "What are you going to do, go up there and sulk in your room?"

I shrug. Now would've been the perfect time to tell the old Caraa"my best frienda"the truth about Brandon, what he did to me and how he lied about it. But that friend is no more. This new Cara has moved on to bigger and better things. The truth wouldn't matter to her anyhow.

Using one finger, she fiddles with the keys dangling from the ignition. She sighs, filling the car with her irritation. "I don't know what to say."

"Me neither."

She abandons the keys and drums her fingers on the steering wheel. "Do you need help getting up the steps?"

I can tell I'm holding her up. "I can do it," I say with absolute finality.

"I don't know, Dell. I guess things'll be better in the morning." Cara smiles. "They usually are."

I can't return the smile. My mouth won't form that shape. Besides, with my smeared makeup, I know I look like a horror-movie murderer right now.

"I'll text you from the party, okay?"

I don't know how to tell Cara that I don't want texts from the party, so I continue staring out the windshield. All of a sudden she kicks off her shoes and grabs them. "My freaking feet are killing me. These high heels are mini torture devices." She reaches over and squeezes my forearm. "You sounded amazing, Dell. Seriously amazing. Just remember that part."

I stare at her handa"the one that's squeezing my arm. Her purple glitter nail polish matches her dress. I don't even own a bottle of nail polish. Or anything purple, for that matter. I suck at being a girl.

I suck at being a person.

I suck.

I maneuver myself out of the car.

Cara shouts through her open window, "Let's go to the movies tomorrow!" As she drives away, my phone buzzes in my pocket. It's a text from Cara: Just go to bed. Tomorrow = new day.

I shove my phone in my pocket. I'm not ready to go upstairs yet. I wanna sit out here in the velvety night. There are so many stars out tonight. I want to float among them, alone, weightless.

Floating.

I cringe as a shooting pain jets from my toe up my calf. How the h.e.l.l am I going to make it up more stairs? "Carefully, stupid," I answer myself out loud.

My phone buzzes again when I'm on the third step. I can't stop now or I'll never make it to the top. My bladder reminds me that it's full and still wants to be emptied, p.r.o.nto. I squeeze my crotch with one hand and grasp the banister with the other.

On the seventh step, my bladder waits no more, and I pee my pants. Right there on the steps. Once I start peeing I can't stop. "Oh, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t!" My jeans are warm and wet.

I look down and see that the carpeting on the stairs is still dry. I pat my hips. "Good job," I tell my jeans. I'll bet a size-two girl wouldn't have had enough fabric to soak up her pee.

I still have three more steps to go. When I lift my leg, I groan. Apparently when pee soaks into size twenty-four jeans it doesn't stay warm for long.

My hand is on the doork.n.o.b when I hear the television. I close my eyes and shake my head. I failed to consider that my mother would still be awake. I look at my watch. It's only ten forty. She never misses the eleven o'clock news. Holy effing h.e.l.l. How am I going to hobble into the apartment, covered in pee, with black makeup smudged all over my face, without her seeing me? The sofa faces the d.a.m.n door.

I decide to just walk in, head lowered, and limp down the hallway to the bathroom as fast as I can. I'll lock the door and jump in the shower before the questions come. I'll pretend I can't hear Mom knocking.

Before the ten million things that could go wrong with this plan start taunting me, I unlock the door and do it.

I make it, and I'm locked in the bathroom, panting as if I ran home from school. I put my ear to the door. I don't hear anything but the TV. Maybe Mom will wait till I'm out of here. Maybe the sleep G.o.ds have given me a gift and she's snoring on the sofa.

I look in the mirror. "Fuhha"" I can't even finish the curse. It looks like I've smeared my face with tar and dirt and blood. Everything's smudged. The rainbow eye shadow. The maroon lips.

Ugly. Smeared. Hideous.

I lean in so my nose is touching the mirror.

I want to see me.

My knees give way a little. The light is gone. My eyes are dark.

I see no one.

Gasping for Air.

I DON'T KNOW IF I'VE EVER SEEN ANYTHING SO ugly in my life. My hair is matted on one side and a sweaty strand is stuck to my neck like a brown snake.

With trembling hands, I get undressed. I pile my pee-soaked underwear and jeans in the corner and lay my phone on the counter. I carefully strip off one sock and then the other. My toe is navy blue and black. The clear tape has rolled up on the side and my toe has swelled out around it.

Hot water. That's what I want. Hot water. I want to wash everything off me. The pee. The shame. The humiliation. The hatred. I climb over the side of the tub, using both hands to keep steady. The hot water runs down my body, and I put my head back so it hits my face. Black streams of water roll down my b.o.o.bs as the mascara washes away. It's not hot enough. I reach back and twist down the cold k.n.o.b. Steam fills the room, and I breathe in deeply.

Still not hot enough.

I turn off the cold water completely. I want my skin to bubble and peel off. I want my blood to go down the drain. I want to be a pile of sparkly clean bones, white and pure. No organs or tendons. No squishy brain. No broken heart. Just bones. Scrubbed of weakness.

After a few minutes of standing trancelike under the water, I snap out of it. I grab the bar of soap and lather every inch of me in my best effort to feel clean, to wash all the pain away. But bubbles and hot water don't have that power.

When I can't see my hand in front of my face, I figure it's time to get out of the shower. The fan has never worked since we moved in. Meggie always says it's like a cloud after I shower. She'd flip out and clap her little hands if she saw how thick the "cloud" is right now.

I can't believe my mother didn't even turn off the television, say h.e.l.lo, or check on me. I wish I could spend the night in the bathroom so I wouldn't have to face her. But I hardly fit in the tub standing.

I get dry and use the towel to wipe off the mirror. I lean in and inspect my face. I still have eyeliner underneath my eyes. "Wow, what is that stuff made of?" After multiple swipes with a tissue my face is finally makeup-free.

Ugly with makeup. Ugly without makeup.

I gather my clothes into a ball underneath my arm and grab my phone. I clutch my towel and open the door quietly. I look down the hall. Mom doesn't appear.

I make it to my room, and my phone buzzes in my hand. I've got another text from Cara. I'll read it later. I put my phone on my nightstand, drop my dirty clothes into the hamper, and grab my pajamas and underwear from my drawer. After I'm dressed for bed, I watch Meggie asleep in her crib. My stomach reminds me that I'm starving. I know it's late and I should start my diet again. I should climb into bed. But my stomach would growl all night and wakea"

Screw it.

I make my sandwiches in a dark kitchen. I'm too afraid to turn on the light. I try to eat like a ninja, straining to hear if I've woken up my mother after each bite. Each time the sandwich makes entry into my mouth, I repeat I just can't believe it in my head. I remain shocked by Sydney's confusing behavior. She was the one who taped the cow picture to my locker. But it was also Sydney who told the counselor she was worried about me. I don't even know Sydney.

Cara should've gone to the counselor, paralyzed with concern for her best friend, Dell. It should've been Cara.

Maybe Cara and I never really appreciated each other. I should've told her how I feel, really opened up to her.

I listen to the fridge hum. A s.h.i.tty thought cuts through the droning: I don't know how to talk about things that really matter. Maybe that's why I'm a size twenty-four. I am full of problems. Stuffed like the trash cans after last lunch. Each fat roll is swollen with unresolved issues I should've let go . . . or talked about. I keep it all inside, every bit of ita"the confusion of my parents' divorce, the resulting broken heart, the disappointment of my father, my mother, my best friend. The rape.

I don't know how to talk about my life with anyone. Self-doubt and hatred, two obnoxious a.s.sholes, are the loudest voices in my head. They're aggressive, bossing me around, intimidating me into silence.

As I swallow my last mouthful, I feel unsatisfied. I eye up the crumbs on my plate. Tears suddenly well up and roll down my cheeks. My eyes dart around the room as I swallow a sob. I rake my hand through my wet hair.

Food can't even satisfy me anymore. It disappears in the quicksand of pain.

I peek into the living room, expecting to see my sleeping mother. She's not on the sofa. I lean in farther and strain to see if she fell off of the sofa or something. Where the h.e.l.l is she? The bathroom? No, I would've seen her walk by.

I go over and turn off the TV. I limp back into the kitchen and turn on the light. That's when I see the note taped to the cabinet.

I signed up for outpatient rehab. Starts Monday.

aMom Outpatient rehab? I stare at the words and read them a few times. My eighth-grade health teacher said that admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. Or something like that. Maybe my old mother will re-emerge from her drug-induced stupor. The mother who listened and smiled and tucked me into bed with kisses. I bet Meggie will prefer clean mommy to drugged-up mommy. Meggie deserves better, so if signing up for outpatient rehab will allow clean mommy to come home, then bring it on.

I grab two ice-cream bars on my way past the freezer. Each bite I take as I make my way down the hallway is followed by a cringea"my toe is still killing me. A huge chunk of chocolate coating nearly falls to the floor, but my mouth saves the day. I'm enjoying the rich chocolate melting and gliding over my tongue when I see that my mother's door is closed. I try and remember if her door was closed when I walked past earlier. She was probably in her room the whole time. I can't believe she just went to bed without making sure I was home safe.

I sit on the edge of my bed and eat the second bar. Outpatient rehab. Huh. I think that's where the drug addicts only visit for treatment. They don't live there. I forgot about that kind of rehab. I wonder if it'll work. Would she stay up to say good night to me like before? If my mom gets clean, will my father break off his engagement to Donna and come back?

I get myself into bed so I can elevate my toe. Even with three pillows stuffed behind my back I'm not comfortable. I reach over and put another pillow under my foot. That's a little better. But I'm not tired. I picture Brandon standing out in the audience, clapping. If he'd been closer I would've shoved him to the ground. I never did anything mean to him, yet he sought me out and lured me upstairs at Melissa's party like a pig to slaughter. He deserves the finger I gave him.

I'm probably going to be suspended for that bonus show I put on for everyone, which is good in a way, because I won't have to see any of those people for a few more days. My mom will most likely cry into her hands and tell me what a disappointment I've become. Then she'll complain that I wore a T-shirt and jeans onstage. I can't wait.

I grab my phone to read Cara's text that came in while I was gracefully peeing my pants.

I'll put the pix my dad took up on FB later.

Pictures? Of me? I don't want to see pictures of me. I know I'll look enormous. The bright lights shining on my made-up face. Another text comes in.

I KNOW u r awake. This party is killer. Go online. Pix r up.

Cara will text me all night until I look at the d.a.m.n pictures. I sit up and rearrange the pillows. At one point my foot dangles off the side of the bed and blood surges into my toe. I think the pain pills are still working because it wasn't that bad. I lift my leg and gently elevate my foot again.

I tap the icon on my phone and read through my wall. Every post is a compliment on my singing. I read each one two or three times, but it all seems pointless. I scroll down and find the SHS Talent Show photos Cara posted.

The first photo is Cara in all of her perfect purpleness at the piano. Her dress looks pretty. Her hair looks pretty. She looks pretty. The eleven comments below the photo reflect my thinking exactlya"they gush with hearts and exclamation points and smiley faces.

The next photo is Cara standing in front of the piano. She's beaming, blinding the audience with her smile. More admiration below. Fourteen comments. I want to add one of my own. I type out: You kicked a.s.s, girlfriend! But I hit the backs.p.a.ce and erase it. Girlfriend? Who even says that? Plus, the exclamation point was too much. Too cheerful. I type out: You nailed it.

Erase.

Too blah.

I move on to the next photo. It's me. My hands are wrapped around the microphone stand, and I'm belting it out. My makeup actually doesn't look too bad; Cara was right. I squint and study the photo. Her father zoomed in, so my socks and slides aren't in the picture. Thank G.o.d. But my body is in the picture all right.

s.h.i.t. I am gigantic. I click back to Cara's smiling photo and then back to me. I am easily twice her size. Maybe more. She probably weighs a hundred and ten pounds after a big meal. A few more clicks back and forth between the photos, and I zoom in on mine. That's when I notice the tag.

WHALE.

Someone tagged me as WHALE. I stare at the word. Each capital letter punches me in the face. W-H-A-L-E.

I click to the next picture. Me again. It's an even tighter shot of my torso and head. With a trembling hand, I click to see if this one is tagged.

WHALE.

The next one is of me smiling. Oh, I'm soaking in the applause, I can see it in my charcoal-lined eyes.

WHALE.