Faerie by Eisha Marjara Read Free Book Online Page B

a detailed letter to the school, the unspeakable indiscretions of her private tutor, teacher, and mentor. When he was confronted with these allegations, he didn’t deny them and was prepared to face the consequences of his actions. He was told to leave the school.
    Thoughts of Marie tormented my dreams. We shape-shiftedand entered each other’s bodies. Not one, but two Mr Andrew Blacks savagely penetrated us. My subconscious mind went crazy trying to seal the gap between the man I fantasized about and the monster he was. How could I have been consumed by passion and yearning for this man? My world began to split from the one in which I was living, separated by an imperceptible seam.
    I tore out the soiled pages from my diary. Purified of all evidence of weakness and failure, lean with virgin pages and perfect white grids drawn with sleek blue lines, my calorie diary had been there all along. Faithful. Dependable. Unstoppable.

    I separated my bloated toes over the filmy window and saw the needle tremor at my inhalation of hope, then settle on the 140 mark. I hopped off the bathroom scale and stared at the instrument in disbelief. I readjusted it, turning the sensitive dial back and forth, zeroing the needle perfectly, then stepped back on and held my breath, as though a pound or two would magically vanish from sucking air into my lungs. Air is air. Flesh is flesh. One hundred and forty pounds of it.
    It was just weeks before graduation, and I had never been this heavy. I had never been so depressed. The logical solution? Lose weight. Get lighter. Feel better. Somewhere along the way, all other desires had fallen away. No longer was it important to be brainy or beautiful or fair. The pursuit of beauty was pedestrian, and having a fair complexion was as possible as growing a moustache; I could not make myself white any more than Icould become a boy. I formed a single-minded obsession with my weight and a desperate need to arrest time itself. Because in time, I would be a grownup woman.
    One hundred and forty was the heaviest I would allow myself to be. There would be less of me from here on. Less flesh. More time.

    I slipped the dress over my up-stretched arms in the Bonimart fitting room, but it stopped at my 36D chest, and the puffy satin sleeves hung there, flapping over my face. There was no zipper or hook to release me and let the dress fall as it was meant to; the designer made this for a flat-chested girl and not a fully endowed female.
    I faced the mirror. A pink blimp reflected back at me.
    Mother tapped on the door. “So? How is it? Let me see.”
    â€œNo!” I begged her. She came in anyway and scanned my figure. Her eyes brightened. “Lila, you look so beautiful. Like a fairy tale princess!”
    On graduation day in the school auditorium, the graduates lined up, giddy for their moment of stardom and eager for their rolled-up, ribbon-tied prize. As I approached the stage, I kept repeating, like a prayer, “I want this to mean something. I want this to mean something.” I had made the honour roll and had top marks in literature. For that I was proud. But pride was overshadowed by shame over the digits on the scale.
    In the crowd of parents, I spotted the round brown face of my mother among the wash of white. Dad was positioned on the aisle with his new camera. My legs and arms quivered and trembled like jelly, but I moved forward involuntarily, an actress in a drama who seemed to have been wrongly cast. What was I graduating from? Or to?
    We students were then ushered from the auditorium and out onto the lawn under the wide poplars and ancient oak trees. A lazy golden light cascaded over me as Dad positioned me for a picture. Click. My eyes blinked as the shutter did. Both the camera and I conspired to capture the truest expression of what that moment felt like: a very bad picture.
    At the prom, the “ladies” were cupcake-coloured in frilly frocks while the