“What? I don’t know!” I say. We’re not supposed to weigh ourselves more than once a week. Some girls have scales hidden under their beds. I close my eyes at my annual checkups. Our health and wellness coach praised me for that, but it’s not like I’m even tempted to look: Early on I just got tired of crying about numbers that don’t have anything to do with how I feel about my body.

“Oh, is that what they’re teaching you for a hundred thousand dollars a year?” my mother is saying. I don’t remind her I’m on scholarship. “That you can just let yourself go and everything will be fine and dandy, and—”

“Mom!” I say. “Mom, why are you saying this?”

“Clive broke up with me!” It’s a wail.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. A bolt of sadness for her. But I also think, Well, I guess I can go home this summer if I need to. Ugh. But also, I’m not going home. I am going to Milan. We have a plan. I jolt up at her next sentence.

“He said he’s not attracted to me anymore.” There are tears welling up behind her voice.

“What?” My voice is echoing against the white subway tiles.

“It’s because I’m too fat,” she says sadly. “I’ve been on a diet for months, but he kept poking my stomach—”

She is bones already, god, and my stomach clenches at the idea that she’s still trying to lose imaginary weight because of what some asshole thinks, and he’s poking at her body.

“Look, Mom, you don’t need to diet, and you especially don’t need to diet for some—” but she interrupts me.

“It doesn’t matter anyway, because I’m never going to get as skinny as some little yoga instructor at his gym, so I guess I just—”

Taylor knocks gently at the door, calls my name. I cover the phone, then whisper, “I’ll be out in a second.”

“Are you there, Addie? Are you listening to me?”

“Of course I am, Mom. What do you mean, yoga instructor?” She’s on to the next idea, though, and I close my eyes, lean my forehead against the cool ceramic of the sink.

“I’ve been telling you your whole life how beautiful you are, no matter what size you are,” she says.

“I know, Mom,” I say softly.

“But it’s just not healthy to be fat.”

“I’m a dancer,” I protest, sitting up. “I’m healthy. I am fat and healthy.”

“It’s so bad for your knees,” she adds.

“My knees are fine,” I say, but she’s still not listening to anything I say, not really.

“You’re so beautiful, baby. But you have to be the size you are for a reason.”

Oh my god, Mom.

“What have you been eating?” she continues.