Free The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty by Amanda Filipacchi

probably. But I’ll work on it until I croak, if that’s what it takes.”
    “Why don’t you just give up?” Penelope says.
    “Because then life might not seem worth living.”
    “See, that’s the project you should be working on—making life worth living for reasons other than Strad,” Jack says.
    “I can’t. I need love.” Lily starts playing scales very rapidly, testing the piano. She stops, says, “Sounds good.”
    We’re all standing around the musical instrument, our scowling expressions reflected back at us.
    BEFORE BED, I call Lily at home to get a better sense of how she’s doing and ask if she’s had any more trouble with things like her hands becoming reflective.
    “Yes. Yesterday I was in the pits of depression and then the hand thing happened again a couple of times while I was playing the piano. I stopped it each time from spreading, but I was so tempted not to.”
    “It spreads?”
    “Yes. Up my wrists and arms.”
    “How do you stop it?”
    “I will it to stop. I refuse to let it overtake me—out of fear, I guess. Even though it feels good. I mean, it feels good because it feels like nothing, which is good compared to how I feel, which is terrible. Death is the ultimate painkiller. When I will it to stop, it recedes, and the pain comes flooding back.”
    “I’m glad,” I say quietly. “That you make it stop. And since yesterday, it hasn’t happened again?”
    “No. So far it’s only happened when I hit bottom. But today I’m okay. Buying the mirrored piano cheered me up a bit.”
    On Friday is the meeting of the Excess Weight Disorders Support Group, which I promised my mother I’d attend and have been dreading.
    When I arrive I see there are about twenty people in the group, all overweight or obese, mostly women. And there is a leader, fitting the same description.
    The meeting begins. A woman shares her story. A few people make comments. Another woman shares. More comments. I wait for an opening to tell them the truth about myself. I’m nervous.
    For a long time, I see no opportunity until finally a woman says, “Ever since my first child was born I’ve been struggling with my weight. I gained a lot and then lost some and then gained back more than I lost, and then lost some again, but whenever I lose any weight, I gain back all of it and more.”
    Another woman jumps in with: “I’m a total yo-yo dieter, too! I take the weight off in the summer and fill my closet with skinny clothes, and then I put all the weight back on in the winter.”
    Heart pounding, I say, “Same here. I take the weight off at night and hang it in my closet and put it back on in the morning.”
    No one seems to hear me.
    Someone else says, “I guess I have a really slow metabolism. I gain weight so easily. And it gets worse as I get older. Anything I eat goes directly from my lips to my hips.”
    “I totally know what you mean,” I say. “For me it’s even more direct. It bypasses the lips altogether.”
    A couple of chuckles and puzzled looks, but the group doesn’t pause, keeps on talking. I’m not sure my mom would be satisfied with my efforts.
    I finally see my opportunity when a woman says, “I mean, I know I’m thin on the inside.”
    “Me too! See?” I spring up and flash the assembly. Everyone stares inside my fat jacket, gaping at my thin torso and shoulders.
    “What are you doing? Why did you come here?” the leader asks, not looking happy.
    “My therapist says I have a serious weight issue, like the rest of you, and that just because my way of getting fat is unusual doesn’t mean the source of the problem isn’t very typical.”
    “You don’t belong here,” another woman says.
    “But I’m fat.”
    “Yours is removable.”
    “So is yours. It just takes longer.”
    “You’re a thin person.”
    “So are you, on the inside. Like me.”
    “I assume you don’t even have an eating disorder, right?”
    “No, but I’ve got a weight disorder,” I insist. “I engage