Content Warning: This story contains depictions of and discusses the following sensitive topics: disordered eating, self harm.

14 Days to State Semifinals 

This is my fourth scale of the year. Sometimes I throw them out when I don’t like the number. It’s an odious waste of money but it makes me feel powerful, and my dad says power costs money. 

I step on the scale—185. This is a good number, one of my leanest. Especially once I factor in my height and age. I am 6’1”, 17 years old, 185 pounds, have a body fat percentage of 11%, can sprint to the forty-yard line in 4.5 seconds, and my vertical jump is 38 inches. These are good numbers; I am a good person. And most importantly, I play good football. 

“I don’t want what you’re cooking,” Emma, my younger sister says. 

“Why not? What I cook is delicious,” I bristle. 

“Oh, keep telling yourself that. It’s tasteless.” 

“Emma, your brother is on a strict diet. He’s disciplined and you should be showing support,” my dad says. 

“Whatever.” She leaves.

I make six ounces of chicken, one cup of steamed broccoli, and one cup of brown rice. I eat this most nights, sometimes salmon, but it’s more expensive. After dinner, I’ll eat one cup of cottage cheese which will be the final 28 grams of protein to reach my daily goal of 160 grams. When I eat, I forget I have a body. I am a machine, completing a simple mechanical process. Chew, Swallow, Chew, Swallow. It’s easier this way. 

“Stephen, how was practice today?” 

My dad and I only talk about football. I wonder what he talks to Emma about. Probably nothing. That’s what mom was for. 

“Coach says the team is looking ready, we just need to keep practicing.” 

“Yep,” he nods. “Just stay hungry.” 

“Hungry?”

He spoons the rice off my plate, his movements economical. “When you’re hungry, you’ll play to win. Play to kill.” 

12 Days to Semifinals 

Emma leaves me treats under the sink in our bathroom. Ziploc bags of Oreos, the kids size packets of Skittles, sometimes potato chips she’ll get from the vending machine at school. We don’t talk about this. But it makes me feel less alone. 

When I eat the treats, I pretend I’m a girl. It’s easier this way, I feel less guilty. But it’s also more enjoyable. I like the daydreams. 

My name is Olivia and I am naturally skinny. That’s my only bodily expectation, skinny, no muscle mass. But it’s simple to do, I just skip breakfast and lunch a couple of times a week, maybe Mondays and Wednesdays, and my weight stays down. 

As Olivia, I don’t count the macros of protein I eat every day. If anything, I avoid protein. Maybe I’m vegan. Maybe I’m anorexic. Sounds nice. 

Tonight, she left a Twix candy bar. I eat a bite, sitting on the cold tiles of our bathroom floor. I spend a lot of time here, so I’m the one who cleans the floors. There are a couple of Emma’s stray hairs laying in the corner and I move to throw them in the trash, but I stop, and leave them there. You do silly things when you are lonely. 

I want to hate the candy. I want to hate it so bad that I almost cry. I say almost, but I am crying, so I turn the lights off. Things that happen in the dark count less. Only the light remembers things. 

I ponder if I’m a good person, take one more bite, and wrap the rest of the bar up in toilet paper like it’s one of Emma’s period pads and put it in the trash. 

I wish I were Emma. If I were Emma, I’d eat the whole thing. I’d have periods and skip gym class once a month. I’d eat white rice and put all those high-fat sauces on my chicken to make it taste better. I wouldn’t finish it. I’d be delicate.
 

10 Days to Semifinals 

Michael has gained roughly six pounds of fat. I can see it on him in the locker room by the way the flesh beneath his armpits puffs out. He drinks Coca-Cola at lunch—I’ve seen him do this every day and each time it makes my stomach curdle so much that I can barely shovel down my own food. Not only are those things atrociously fattening, but to do it in public? Unforgivable. 

 “It adds up,” I tell him. “A can of coke has 39 grams of sugar. I mean, that’s something you can have at Christmas, after the season ends.” 

“Fuck off,” he says, and his shoulder hits my chest as he walks away. Someone in the locker room whistles. 

It would be fine if Michael played defensive. We practically hold open their jaws and shove down sugar to fatten them all up before games, ensuring they can take bigger hits with more blubber. But he’s a wide receiver like me. We’re lean and quick. We run as fast as we can and then, somehow, run faster. We run until someone’s fingers grasp our hips and shins, yanking us to the ground. 

I tell Coach Morris that I think Michael has gained six pounds. Coach has three grandkids, two boys and one girl, and I see them in the stands at games. He waves to them when we win. It’s the only time I see him smile. They’re cute kids. I feel bad for the boys. 

“How do you know?” he asks. 

“I can see it in his arms. And I’ve seen him eat so much sugar,” I say. 

Coach Morris shrugs. “Six pounds isn’t too bad. Let me know if you see him gain more.” 

Searing anger sweeps through my bones. A fury so intense I forget where I am. My vision, primarily already made up of murky shadows and garish light, fogs over and I see Michael’s fat face drinking that crimson coke. I see him begin to choke, white eyes bulging, I hold the can to his lips. I push so hard that the sharp edge of the can’s opening cuts his lips, blood spilling into the brown, bubbly liquid. 

“Got it,” I say and walk away. 

9 Days to Semifinals

Sometimes I give myself reading tests. They’re not hard to find online. I just look up, “high school reading test,” but I try to avoid the ACT ones. The stories in those are painfully boring, even to a person willfully giving themself a reading test. Plus, I already got my score—a 26—and I’m fine with it. If anything, recruiters have told me it’s above average for most football players. 

I do it because I want to make sure I haven’t gotten hit in the head too much. It can be a fine line if you don’t keep an eye on it. I’ve seen it with players every season. James Brown was one of our best running backs last year, so Morris always kept him in the game. He doesn’t believe in benching his best players, even on the easy games—A good football player will always play. James was fine one day, still able to answer questions in Spanish class albeit with a severe American accent (“Per-fec-to Sen-your-a”) and trod along with the group in Algebra 2, and then on the turn of the dime, one wrong tackle, he was a completely different person.

I think he knows it too—that he’s different now. I can see it in his eyes when he can’t answer even the simplest question in class. There’s a burning frustration that comes ablaze in his stare as he pulls at his hair, thinking hard. Anger. But not at himself, no, at something else. Someone else. Who did this to me?

Then it’ll fade and he’ll ask someone for a piece of gum, forgetting what he was mad about.  

Marie _________ by traveling to France and entering the Sorbonne.

A. opposed authority

B. displayed wisdom

C. showed obedience  

D. acted on anger 

I circle A and I know it’s the right answer. I can take another tackle. 

7 Days to Semifinals

“How was practice, Stephen?” Dad asks. 

“It was good,” I say. I spoon chicken into my mouth, my wet hair dripping onto my plate from the shower.  

“Coach Morris gave me a call today.”  

“Oh, really?”

I replay today’s practice in my head, searching for a moment I messed up to warrant a call home, but I was great today. If the ball was with me, it never touched the ground. I pretended it was the American flag, and I was a valiant soldier running through a battle ground in World War I or II (I switched between the two often). 

Dad leans over me at the table. His elbows bending as he grips the back of the chair next to me, knuckles white. He’s never hit me. But I think it’s just because he’s been holding it in. Statistically speaking, after seventeen years, whatever resolve he has is bound to break eventually. Somehow this is worse—the anticipation.  

“What did he say?” I ask, fear creeping embarrassingly into my voice. 

He breaks a smile. “Apparently, a bunch of top college recruiters will be at the semifinals game and they’ll be looking at you.” He slaps my back hard. “This is your moment, Kid.” 

“Oh,” I say. “Great.” 

“Well, you could look a little happier,” he laughs tightly and heads back to his room. 

I turn the lights off in the kitchen, hoping the dark can swallow this moment. But it lingers, shadows echoing. Maybe the dark does remember things. 

6 Days to Semifinals

I have dreams, perfect imaginings—a torn ACL, ripped Achilles tendon, split meniscus, and ruptured patellar tendon, to name a few. Most nights, I fall asleep picturing these lovely fantasies. Alluring braces I can’t take off unless I’m in the shower, charming physical therapy sessions three times a week after school, witty doctors who’d visit my bedside before putting me under for surgery. I dream of it all, but most of all, I dream of the hobbling and sitting. 

It would be so easy. The quick turn of a knee, falling forward and falling fast, the green turf hitting my nose. The game would stop, and Coach Morris would come running over, the trainers behind him. They’d take one look at my leg and know right away I’d never play again. Injuries like that are stunningly fatal and unmistakable. I’d be taken off the field either by the stretchers they have on hand, or I’d limp off on my good leg while gripping pairs of shoulders. And then the game would continue. But only for everyone else. 

Poor suckers. 

When I’ve had a bad day—Coach Morris woke up feeling merciless, Run Faster Boys, an overtime game in the rain or snow just to be lost in the end, fingers blue, my dad waiting for me at the kitchen table, the lights dim, replaying my worst game footage—I dream of dying. 

This sounds grim and if I told anyone, I’m sure I would end up in a mental hospital. But it brings me the most complete, unbreakable wave of peace to imagine myself six beautiful feet underground. 

A body at rest. 

5 Days to Semifinals

I trace my left kneecap in English class, bargaining. If I finish the season without an injury, I’ll be recruited to play in college. This sounds devastatingly grievous—four years—but I could always get injured during my first season and most schools have clauses that ensure student athletes’ scholarships last the entire four years irrespective of career-ending injuries. But of course, that requires me to get an injury. Sounds easy enough right now, I hardly leave the game, but depending on the coach, freshmen don’t get much consequential game time. I could get hurt during practice? Seems risky. 

But a scholarship allows me to go far—out of state. I could leave Missouri, and with the way recruiters already talk about me, I could probably get to the coast. A full ride to a California school would be hard to pass on, regardless of what I’ll be asked to put my body through. I’ve never seen an ocean. Seems like something someone should have shown me by now. 

Though, if I went far, Emma would be alone. No matter what she would be alone for two years, but there is a big difference between having a big brother two thousand miles away and two hours away. If I were going to stay close, I should just collect in-state tuition and get injured this season. Save myself now. 

It would be so easy—a quick turn of the knee. 

4 Days to Semifinals 

I want a slice of pizza, but the calories in it make me want to mourn, so I masturbate instead. I can’t finish; I’ve never been able to. But the sensation is enjoyable. Or at least I think it is. 

Olivia would be able to eat a whole pizza. She’d dip the slices in ranch and get those stupid cinnamon twists that Domino’s sells. She’d ask for half of the pizza to be cheese only and the other half to be pepperoni. She’d say please and thank you over the phone. 

The closest I come to orgasming is to this image. 

3 Days to Semifinals

Emma left me a note attached to tonight’s under the sink treat—a packet of Twinkies. The note is short, so I don’t mind reading it first. 

Stephen, 

It’s okay if you lose the semifinals game. 

Honestly, it might even be better that way. 

You seem stressed. Love you. 

Emma 

Fear freezes me, cold sweat everywhere. My legs stick to the tiles. You seem stressed. Was I that obvious? How much did she know? What was there even to know? Her note and, more so, my subsequent dread, both seemed to imply that she knew a secret of mine. But did I even have a secret?

I take a bite of the pillowy vanilla Twinkie, chewing methodically. I should take another reading test tonight. The cream filling is melting in my mouth immediately. Normally, I don’t like things that dissolve. The whole point of this stupid little ritual—swallowing only at the last second, not taking a sip of water—is so I can let the taste linger. To hold it for a little while longer—sweet and soft Olivia. But I am distracted anyway, and focus is key to this edible echoing. 

It’s okay if you lose the semifinals game. 

2 Days to Semifinals

I found a hammer. Now, “found” is a bit generous. I didn’t just stumble upon it spontaneously. I knew exactly where it was—bottom left kitchen drawer among the other forgotten tools. It wasn’t a big one and it was old. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen my dad use it. 

I took it to my room and rubbed its head. If it was a lamp, a genie would come out. I’m not sure why I thought of this, but the image of a purple wish-granting genie gripped me viciously and suddenly. Violent panic mixed with a twinge of delusional hope surged through me. I rubbed the hammer harder and waited. I repeated this again and again. Finally, I stopped. 

But maybe I was the genie; the wish was in my hands. 

I gently rested the hammer on my left knee, bargaining again. If I took the hammer to my knee, I’d have no plausible deniability. The story writes itself: deranged high school football player takes hammer to his knee alone in bedroom. 

But at least the story would end. 

1 Day to Semifinals

Breakfast – 44g protein 

• 4 large eggs – 24g protein 
• 1 cup of oatmeal with 1 scoop of protein powder mixed in – 20g protein 

Morning snack – 20g protein 

• 1 cup of greek yogurt – 18g protein 
• 1 tablespoon of peanut butter – 2g protein 

Lunch – 48g protein 

• 6-ounce grilled chicken breast – 40g protein
• 1 cup of brown rice – 5g protein 
• 1 cup of steamed broccoli – 3g protein 

Afternoon snack – 30g protein 

• Protein shake with 2 scoops of protein – 30g protein 
• 1 rice cake (for taste)

Dinner – 66g protein 

• 8-ounce chicken breast – 53g protein 
• 1 cup of quinoa – 8g protein 
• 1 cup of broccoli, carrots, and spinach mix – 5g protein 

Evening Snack – 28g protein 

• 1 cup of cottage cheese – 28g protein 

Total Protein: 236 grams 

Game Day

“Stephen, do you think you can go back in?” Coach Morris yells into my ear. It’s not that loud—the stands and band are a distance away, the announcer isn’t talking for a rare moment—but he’s scared, and people yell when they’re scared. “It’s up to you,” he yells again and puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. He’s trying to look indifferent, but his eyes are petrified. Bright white protruding eyes, his eye sockets barely hanging on to the thing. Sweat falling down his eyebrows almost like tears. 

Falling down hard and fast. 

“It’s up to you, really.” He keeps repeating this and I almost laugh. All this despair. He stands up from crouching next to where I sit on the bench, tired. He looks around frantically, watching our defense get pummeled. He flinches sharply and I think of the jagged back of that hammer. “Just say the word,” he yells to me. 

I’ve imagined this game, this decision, so many times, but all of the colors are different. I thought it all would be tinged in a dreary gray. Muddy turf, steel metal stands, heavy helmet, cloudy night, white lights. But everything is painfully vibrant, colors bleeding. The turf is as green as an emerald, Coach’s cheeks and my hands are stained cherry red, our jerseys, normally a forgettable navy, seem to have shifted tonight into a neon blue. It is all so alive. I whack my thigh and I feel it. 

I feel my body. 

I like bargaining. If I finish the last ounce of chicken, I can have an extra bite of whatever Emma leaves me later. If I tell the boys in the locker room that I’ll kill them if I see another one of them drinking a Coke, they’ll savagely shove me to the ground during practice. If I was a girl—if I was Olivia—I’d only eat buttered noodles and go to Starbucks every day. If I tell Dad I don’t want to play football anymore, he’ll beat me to the brink of death. Maybe all the way. If I don’t go back in, we’ll lose this game. 

If I go back in, my dreams might come true. 

“Stephen,” Coach yells. “What’s the call?” 

It would be so easy—a quick turn of the knee. 

I stand up.