about eating all the time. Three meals a day is too many for me.â
âThat isnât normal,â Lavander says. âThose are not normal eating habits.â
âOh, like yours are normal,â I tell her. I cast a glance over her tiny little frame, her birdlike ankles and wrists. Lavander and I are the same height, but sheâs a full size smaller than I am and I am fairly light at the moment. Sheâs been losing too much weight lately, on the verge of trading trim for gaunt. âYou donât eat properly either,â I tell her.
I am hoping against hope that this discussion doesnât go any further because then weâll surely get into the topic of smoking, at which point Lavander will accuse me of doing what she does, smoking on the sly. There are many ex and secret smokers in my family, but Lavander and I are the only two who have smoked to keep our weight down. When she told me recently that the most effective diet she knew of involved a few bottles of water and a pack of cigarettes, I had to tell her that Iâd already discovered it many years ago. âThrow in a heartbreak,â I added, âand Bobâs your uncle. Skinny in no time.â Maya and Déja donât share this neurosis, although both of them, like every woman I have ever known, occasionally complain about their bodies. Not one of us is completely free of insecurity when it comes to the way we look and we will often make âsuggestionsâ as to how our sisters can improve their hair, clothing, or makeup (âYou know, you should probably wear something different. Those pants donât really do anything for youâ) as well as soliciting their opinions on the same topics.
But on the issue of weight, there is an unspoken agreementbetween all of us. When we argue with each other, there is a Maginot Line that may never be crossed. Every one of us is adept at cursing and have been known to call each other some choice names. But we never, ever use the F word. We have a silent understanding that, even in the heat of battle, the word fat must never be hurled. We can insult each otherâs intelligence, life choices, or emotional development, but never the amount of flesh we are carrying. In the array of insults, even the vilest of all possible slurs is trumped by fat . Fat is like a nuclear bombâthere is no turning back once it is dropped and the devastation would be irrevocable. Were I or any of my sisters ever to use this word, the ensuing rift would be unbridgeable. But too thin, now, thereâs a topic that just begs to be broached because somewhere in that indictment there is a twisted compliment, a slightly sick sense of accomplishment. And thatâs where I go with Lavander right now.
âYouâre starting to look too skinny,â I tell her. âYou should be careful.â
âHmm,â she says, inspecting the amount of give in her waist-band. âI donât think so.â
I wonder how much of Lavanderâs current weight loss and desire to remove as much body hair as possible has to do with Tony, who, by her own account, is obsessed with appearances. Although none of us can understand how, he seems to have convinced Lavander (or sheâs convinced herself) that he is some sort of Adonis and totally irresistible to women. I find him a bit closer to Narcissus, if weâre going for a Greek mythological counterpart, although I think this might give Tony a bit too much credit. At any rate, Lavanderâs general mood has been on a downswing since the two of them have been together. This, to put a point on it, is what really bothers me and everybody else about their relationship. And it is also something I canât talk to her about, not while sheâs got that familiar jittery, combative energy coming off her like little lightning bolts.
Déja reappears from Blazeâs room.
âHe said heâd come sit at the table with us tonight,â she says.