My heart drops, Mom’s footsteps reverberating down the hall as she nears the storage closet.

I’m snarfing down a handful of gold-wrapped chocolates, my tongue savoring the taste. It’s been days since I’ve properly eaten, especially since I’ve promised myself one meal a week.

I needed my body in pristine shape for the upcoming cheer week.

“Vivienne?” Mom’s voice is muffled by the space between us.

The door squeaks open.

She’s holding a laundry basket in one hand, her phone in the other pressed against her ear. Her doe-like eyes widen at the sight of what’s in my other hand.

A pill.

I was nearly ready to swallow it and head to the bathroom where I’d lean hulkingky over the toilet seat at vomit the contents of what I’d just eaten out.

“Mom, it’s not what it looks like—“ I whisper, painicked.

“Dear God . . .” She drops the basket, snatching the pill from me. I cower away in shame, tears of guilt dragging themselves down my cheeks.

With the speed of light, Mom marches downstairs, covering her free hand over her mouth and shaking her head misreably. “Ron!” She calls out to my father.

_No, no, no, no, no, no—_

__

I sob, small quakes overtaking my body. Silently, I pray that I’ve been locked in some kind of dream, and I’d awake to a sun-soaked morning in peace.

“Vivienne!” Mom roars. “Get your ass down _now_!”

_Please, no—_

_“Vivienne!” _

__

I whimper, taking small steps down the stairs. A pathway to my nightmare.

The instant I step into the living room, invited by my parent’s infuriated expressions, I’m met with the cool slap of Mom’s palm against my cheek, sending me staggering the other way.

“Do you realize what others may say about our family if they find out about this?” She holds up the pill to the light of the dim chandelier. “The backlash we’d get? Your father is an influential man around here. This could tarnish his reputation.”

I nod quiveringly.

Some ridiculously hopeful nook inside my heart believed that if my parents ever found out about my secret, they’d still cherish and care for me. My mother would make me warm cup of cocoa and sit down beside me, stroking my hair as we talked.

That I never wanted to join cheer. That I wanted a life where the image of my body was unimportant to me. That I could walk out in the broad light of day and finally wear something tighter than my array of oversized hoodies.

But she didn’t.

And just like that, my parents are gone upstairs, and the night suddenly feels colder as I curl up onto the couch in a fetal position, and begin to cry.