Eat Your Heart Out, page 1
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
First published in the United States of America by Razorbill,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2021
Copyright © 2021 by Kelly deVos
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Ebook ISBN 9780593204832
Cover illustration © 2021 by Ursula Decay
Cover design by Samira Iravani
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
pid_prh_5.7.1_c0_r0
To my grandmother, Vivian,
who told the best bedtime stories
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
Focus
Vivian Ellenshaw
Allison Dumonde
Steve Miller
Paul Fannon
Allison Dumonde
Vivian Ellenshaw
Steve Miller
Vivian Ellenshaw
Paul Fannon
Allison Dumonde
Paul Fannon
Steve Miller
Rachel Benedict
Sheldon Smentkowski
Allison Dumonde
Paul Fannon
Vivian Ellenshaw
Rachel Benedict
Sheldon Smentkowski
Allison Dumonde
Steve Miller
Vivian Ellenshaw
Allison Dumonde
Paul Fannon
Sheldon Smentkowski
Rachel Benedict
Steve Miller
Vivian Ellenshaw
Action
Paul Fannon
Sheldon Smentkowski
Rachel Benedict
Vivian Ellenshaw
Paul Fannon
Sheldon Smentkowski
Rachel Benedict
Vivian Ellenshaw
Steve Miller
Sheldon Smentkowski
Paul Fannon
Rachel Benedict
Vivian Ellenshaw
Steve Miller
Sheldon Smentkowski
Rachel Benedict
Paul Fannon
Cut
Vivian Ellenshaw
Acknowledgments
About the Author
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The following pages contain satire! This book is set at a terrible fat camp run by the world’s worst scientists, whose behavior and schemes are more extreme versions of what we see in today’s diet culture. By villainizing these ideas and the industry as a whole, and by having these courageous, kickbutt campers blow up the system on their own terms, I hope you’ll see how damaging fatphobia is to everyone. Because when you create a culture where people can be dehumanized for trivial reasons like body size, everyone’s human dignity is in jeopardy. I intend for this read to be inclusive and affirming, and hope you read with care if these topics are ones close to your heart.
Happy reading!
Kelly deVos
What role are you auditioning for today?
Action Girl (aka Final Girl or the Resourceful Heroine)
Odds of survival: 100%
Action Girl is who we all want to be. That fearless butt-kicker. Who we all imagine ourselves to be. We need our Clarice Starlings, Ellen Ripleys, Donna Chamberses, and Laurie Strodes. Action Girl will survive. She has to.
The Basket Case
Odds of survival: 0%
The girl who cries too much or screams too much or feels too much or falls apart too much. The cheerleader. The social media star. Sometimes the main character’s best friend. Secretly, the audience is wondering, “Will this chick die already?” The group is typically better off without her.
The Courageous Captain
Odds of survival: 0%
He’s the guy who can somehow get everyone to cooperate. He leads everyone to safety. But everything comes at a price. The Captain always goes down with the ship.
The Jock
Odds of survival: 50–75%
This one could go either way. Jocks can be major dicks. If The Jock makes too many boob jokes, expect him to get his head ripped off. The Jock with a Heart of Gold has a decent shot. He’s easy to like and to root for. He might make it.
The Jerk
Odds of survival: 10%
Everyone loves seeing jerks get what they deserve. The Jerk will only survive if he undergoes a huge character transformation. Or if he’s portrayed by a big-time A-list actor.
The Nerd
Odds of survival: 50%
Let’s face it, Nerds have essential abilities. They hack computers and read maps and pick locks. Every team needs a Nerd. But Nerds might bite it if they’re no longer needed. Or if they’re especially likeable and their death would tug at the heartstrings.
The Outcast
Odds of survival: unknown
The dark horse. The unpredictable loner. The bookish weirdo. The kid no one knows or understands. Outcasts keep their skills hidden. Their power is that you don’t know what they know. They might have the skills to survive.
In the next few hours, one of three things will happen.
1—We’ll be rescued (unlikely).
2—We’ll freeze to death (maybe).
3—We’ll be eaten by thin and athletic zombies (odds: excellent).
* * *
• • •
I guess it’s possible that there will be some kind of a miracle. But if a divine intervention was forthcoming, you’d think it would have happened already. All but five of us are either dead or down below in the mindless, flesh-eating horde.
Oh yeah, and the pregnant girl’s about to give birth. So, there’s that.
I’m not even sure I deserve to live.
Allie is dead.
Because of me.
How did I get here? How did we end up trapped on the roof of Dr. Frankenstein’s creepy laboratory at Camp Featherlite for Overweight Teens during the worst snowstorm that Flagstaff, Arizona, has seen in a hundred years?
I keep thinking about my mom and those four little words.
“Sweetheart, I’m getting married.”
FOCUS
VIVIAN ELLENSHAW
My worst nightmare lurked on the welcome mat.
Coach Hanes just would not leave, and that was the first clue that something was changing.
Going wrong.
My mom was busy. That was the defining characteristic of her personality. She was busy inspecting franchises of Pied Piper Pizza. Busy writing reports. Busy telling Maria, our housekeeper, that the roast was too salty or that the linen napkins needed to be pressed. Busy posting vacation pics on social media to make sure everyone thought her life was perfect.
So when Mom lingered near the red door with Coach, her hand hovering above the crystal knob, giggling, touching her face with her other hand, it was more than gross.
It was a problem.
I tried to tell Mom that there’s something weird about a guy who wants to work at an all-girls Catholic high school. But she wouldn’t hear it. Somebody has to work there. It’s a job, and somebody has to do it, she said with one of her Mom looks. A frown and an arched eyebrow and lips pressed flat that, all working together, said, I know everything, and you know nothing.
“The van’s here,” my mom calls from downstairs.
What I knew was that Coach Hanes hated fat people in general and hated me specifically. After I was elected captain of the soccer team, he held a secret meeting without me and tried to get the other girls to choose someone “who better represents the school’s athletic ideals.” Too bad for him that our team is very, very cool.
They took another vote and stuck with me.
And that was seriously the right choice, because, despite what Coach might think, I rule St. Mary’s. My soccer team fundraisers keep the protein bars and Gatorade freely flowing and make sure we usually get an air-conditioned bus to the matches—a huge advantage when you live in Phoenix and it’s so hot out that you feel like you’re running on the surface of the sun. Blue mathlete ribbons cover an entire wall in my room. I hate to brag, but let’s just say that it’s not a party until I show up. More than that, my body size is none of his business.
Of course, they got married. C
I told people I didn’t care that Coach made snide comments about my weight and that my mom did nothing to stop it.
But it bothered me.
The whole thing bothered me a lot.
Maria knocks softly on my door, and a second later, the old Polish woman pokes her gray-haired head into my room. She’s carrying my favorite red hoodie. “The van’s here,” she says. She places the sweatshirt on top of the duffel bag nearest to the door.
“Okay,” I say.
She gives me a grim smile. “Maybe it will be nice. They say it might snow.”
“Maybe.”
She frowns, sighs, and her shoulders slump. “She could’ve had her pick of a million men. She only has one child.”
I fake a smile. “It’s fine.”
The last six months have not been fine.
Maria takes the bag shaped like a giant watermelon slice, and I carry the one covered with unicorns. Together, we march down the stairs.
She stops in front of Mom’s collection of artfully arranged vases with her arms held out for a hug. I feel like the Jolly Green Giant’s illegitimate daughter towering over the tiny old woman. Her arms can’t reach all the way around my back.
“Maybe it will be nice,” she says again.
Looking as composed as an Instagram post, Mom waits in the satin upholstered armchair near the door. She snaps her copy of World Traveler magazine shut and rises, her velvet robe barely touching the marble tile floor.
“Of course it will be nice,” she says with a huge, cheerful smile. “I mean, it should be, for what we’re paying. Did you check the brochure? It’s a resort. They’ve got a private lake. An indoor swimming pool. Guided nature walks. Yoga. A vegan dietician. All the movie stars send their kids. The governor sent his own daughter last spring, and she . . .”
Sigh.
Thanks to Coach, I’ll be spending my winter break at the world’s fanciest fat camp.
How are fat camps still even a thing? Don’t they belong in a museum with inflatable dart boards, Flowbees, and Thighmasters?
I open the door, and the cool winter morning air hits my face. I mean, I guess it’s morning. It’s before six and barely light outside.
Mom keeps talking. “We’re lucky the camp had a few cancellations due to the weather. Thankfully I was able to get all the paperwork done in time. And this session they’re testing a brand-new weight-loss bar. Just think. You could . . .”
I step outside, and the heavy red door swings closed.
It immediately reopens. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
I make my way down the grand walk without turning back to her. “Nope. Maria did all my laundry and got me all packed.”
“You know what I mean.”
I hear the light pitter of designer slippers behind me. “Uh, hello. Where’s my hug?”
Pushing my arms into my hoodie, I say, “My ride’s here.”
As I approach the white van with the CAMP FEATHERLITE logo splashed on its side, a guy about my age emerges from the driver’s door. He jerks his chin in my direction, takes my bags, and moves toward the back of the van. I hold on to my red hoodie.
Mom steps in front of me before I can grab the door handle. “I know you think you don’t want to go. But Brad’s an expert. He’s done a ton of research about health and weight issues and self-esteem. You’ll be a lot healthier and much happier—”
Someone should research what having Coach antagonize you every morning at breakfast does to your self-esteem.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Coach knows that I come to practice every morning and do the drills the same as every other girl, and I passed my physical with flying colors. I’m happy the way I am. If you really cared about me, you would be happy, too.”
The beefcake guy returns and ducks around Mom to open the door himself.
Mom scowls. “For God’s sake, Vee. Could you please stop calling him Coach? His name is Brad.” She glances toward the house. “Wait a sec. He was coming out to say goodbye.”
“The van’s here,” I say in the same singsong voice she used.
I climb inside the open door and basically fall into a seat in the first row.
Mom sighs. “Someday you’ll understand that I only want what’s best.”
I reach out to close the door. “For you and Coach. Have a nice life,” I tell her as it slams shut.
The guy in the front seat seems to have a pretty good read on things. I catch a glimpse of his blue eyes in the rearview, and it’s like he kind of gets it. Also, he smells like Irish Spring soap. He puts the van in gear and steps on the gas.
I stare straight ahead and don’t look at Mom as we leave our house behind.
The scene is over.
For a second, I’m relieved. It’s quiet in the van, and I’ve got some time. To compose myself. To tell myself that I’ll enjoy spending my break with a bunch of perfect strangers whose big bodies are also a big inconvenience to their parents.
By the time we get to the next stop, I’ll be that cool girl again. The smart one. The funny one. The one who always has a comeback. Not this pathetic, sniffling loser.
In another hour, maybe I will have convinced myself that the whole thing was my idea. Like I decided that I’d rather run my ass off on a treadmill than have cocoa with Coach.
Except I’m not alone in here.
A high-pitched sneeze comes from the back of the van.
I recognize it instantly, but I turn around anyway.
Of course.
It had to be.
In the back seat. Pressed all the way up against the frosted-over window.
Wrapped in a thick black scarf.
Allison DuMonde.
ALLISON DUMONDE
The driver steers away from Vee’s perfect house on her perfect street.
I glance over my shoulder to see Mrs. Ellenshaw, in her velvet bathrobe and Ferragamo slippers, nod in her curt, all-business way. Mrs. E is the same as always. Perfect. Like she’d been to the hairdresser before she had her morning latte. Maria hovers in the doorway, clutching the collar of her work shirt, watching the whole scene with disdain. The thought of Maria’s homemade Pączki doughnuts makes my mouth water.
It has been a long time since I was inside 21 Pembroke. I know I’m trash, okay? What I did was trash. I tried to apologize. I tried to admit that I’d messed up. It wasn’t enough for Vee. There wasn’t a way to make her understand. So six months of the silent treatment.
And here we are.
Even though I knew it was coming, I’ve been dreading this moment for weeks.
Miss Pariah and Miss Popular trapped in a van together.
Vee is in the seat in front of me, and she’s the same as always. With her shiny brown hair bouncing up and down. With her designer bags and strawberry lip gloss. Sure, her mom is loaded and Vee will totally fit in with the bougie kids at a place like Camp Featherlite. But we’d been best friends since . . . well . . . since birth. There is no way Vee wanted to get in this van. She is at war with fatphobia. She’s wearing a sweatshirt with a knitted dancing cheeseburger, for God’s sake.
I take a deep breath and pat the camera I have taped to my belly.
This is the last chance I’m gonna get.
Vivian glances back at me and gives me that look. The way people look at you when they know you’re a total fake. She probably didn’t put ten seconds of thought into what she threw on this morning, but it’s exactly right. It’s the careless kind of look that only rich people can ever pull off. They have everything and don’t know what anything costs.
Me? Well. I’ve been going through thrift stores for weeks. Sewing up small holes in my seams using my trusty sewing kit. Meticulously packing. Repacking. I even sketched out my outfits in my journal. Pathetic.
