Chapter Text
January 3rd, Larissa had arrived before most. She had woken before dawn, eager to leave the oppressive nature of home behind, where her mother’s voice had become the metronome of her days. Always judging, always telling her she could be smaller.
When she dragged her suitcase through the dormitory door, her first thought was not unpacking or even greeting the other girls nearby. It was the bathroom at the end of the hall. She dropped her case against her bed and fled before anyone could catch her.
She’d moved it to the bathroom before holidays, keeping it in the corner stall nobody used. That way, with Morticia and Gomez spending so much time in their dorm, they wouldn’t take it from her.
The bathroom tiles were freezing under her socks. She shut the door behind her and stepped onto the scale. The needle twitched, then stopped.
143.2.
Her stomach plummeted.
It wasn’t enough.
Before the break, she’d been 145.6. She had thought about that number every single day since leaving Nevermore. She had eaten less at home, sometimes barely at all, her mother praising her for her “restraint.” The few pounds she lost should have been enough. But staring down at the dial now, she felt only the familiar stab of failure.
A part of her wanted to step off and back on again, as if the scale might have miscalculated. But she knew it wouldn’t change. Nothing changed fast enough.
By the time she returned to the dormitory, she had forced her face back into neutrality. No one would know. She wouldn’t let them. Not until she got what she wanted.
That was when the knock came.
She opened the door and found Gomez standing there, his hair damp with melted snow, his scarf still wrapped around his neck. His cheeks were flushed pink, whether from the cold or nerves she couldn’t tell. He lifted a hand for a small, shy wave.
“Hi,” he said.
Larissa stepped aside quickly, ushering him in before the hallway draft could enter. She grabbed one of the thick blankets near the radiator, still holding the heat, and draped it over his shoulders.
He laughed under his breath. “Thanks.”
She only nodded and sat down beside him on the bed. The mattress dipped under their combined weight, the blanket falling across both of their laps.
For a long while, neither spoke. Larissa could feel the nearness of him, the edge of his arm brushing hers when he shifted. She knew other girls would have been ecstatic at that, would have felt their heart race or their hands twitch.
But her chest was steady. Always steady with him.
She could see him clearly, even in the dim light of the desk lamp: handsome, with eyes that made it seem like he was always thinking three things at once. He was clever. Funny. Awkwardly sweet. Respectful in a way most boys their age hadn’t figured out yet. Anyone could fall in love with him. Plenty probably had.
But her heart never caught on him.
She didn’t know why. She could recognize his appeal. Perfect. And still, her pulse never beat rapidly for him. She suspected that he harboured something for her. He had since the beginning. But she had never cared for him in that way.
And maybe it was because of Morticia.
Morticia, who Gomez clearly adored too. Larissa had long suspected he carried something for her—how could he not? Anyone with eyes could see Morticia was beautiful.
Larissa tugged the blanket tighter, not daring to say any of that aloud.
She and Gomez sat together as more students moved in down the hall, their voices only faintly heard. Outside, the snow kept falling. Probably why Morticia was absent, the roads surely too slippery to rush. And inside, it was quiet enough to hear his breathing, quiet enough that her own thoughts hurt her head.
—
The door swung open, the handle clattering against the wall, and finally Morticia entered. Her luggage dragged behind her, and her coat, spattered with wet flakes of snow, was the first casualty, tossed carelessly onto the nearest bed.
“Finally!” she shouted, her voice louder than anything Larissa had heard in weeks. She ran forward, not even bothering to remove her boots.
Before Gomez could even stand, Morticia was already on him. She threw her arms around his shoulders with such force that the blanket slipped off of both their laps, her cheek pressed hard against his. “Oh, how dreadful the holidays were without you!” she said, half-laughing into his ear.
Gomez froze. His arms moved uncertainly, then wrapped around her back, the tips of his ears turning pink.
Then she turned her eyes on Larissa.
“Up,” she said, tugging at Larissa’s hand before the taller girl had the chance to stand willingly. Larissa stumbled to her feet, Morticia already circling around her.
“Spin,” she ordered. And Larissa, mortified but powerless to deny her, turned in a slow circle.
Satisfied, Morticia wrapped her in a hug so tight Larissa felt her ribs shift. She smelled like mint, and her hair was still damp from the snow.
“You’ve been a good girl,” Morticia murmured against her ear, her voice lower now. “I can tell. You kept eating. I’m proud of you.”
Larissa squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing down the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. She didn’t correct her. Morticia didn’t need to know how many dinners she had pushed around her plate, how many breakfasts she had skipped when her mother gave her permission. Whatever weight Larissa had lost, it had not been through any kind of “goodness.” But she let Morticia believe it. She only held her tighter, wishing she could deserve the praise.
When Morticia finally let her go, she turned back toward Gomez. “And you—thank you for your letter.”
Gomez stiffened, his mouth opening and closing once before any sound came out. “Oh. Uh—no problem,” he muttered.
Larissa blinked. Letter?
Her eyes alternated between them. Gomez noticed her confusion immediately. His smile fell, then returned, almost nervous.
“I, uh—I wrote you one too, Larissa,” he admitted, looking down at his palms. “But I didn’t know your address before we all left. So…it never got sent.”
Larissa froze, caught somewhere between surprise and guilt, though she wasn’t sure why.
Morticia interrupted the awkwardness, laughing at them. “The two of you—honestly.” She sat herself on the end of Larissa’s bed. “Next time, I’ll insist you exchange addresses properly. I refuse to have my gentlemen and ladies pining in silence.”
Larissa shook her head, trying to keep the corner of her mouth from shifting, but she could feel it anyway—a smile breaking through.
—
By January 9th, the snow finally melted into puddles rather than big piles of annoyance. Sweaters sufficed, and no longer were the students buried in scarves and coats.
Nevermore, in all its eccentric tradition, had orchestrated a massive outdoor gathering. The courtyard had been transformed into a festival, with long wooden tables across the lawn, strange little games set up between them, and the occasional shriek from some horrid contraption meant to amuse them.
Morticia and Gomez explored, pulled in by the chaos and the sound of someone injuring themselves. They joined a circle of first-years tossing beanbags at painted targets, Gomez nearly doubling over when Morticia, quite intentionally, threw her bag backward and hit a boy who had once accidentally bumped into her.
Larissa, however, stayed away. The games meant nothing to her. What drew her in was the freedom of the day. No schedule dictating meals, no dining hall. Out here she could walk as she pleased, keep her body moving, burn off the panic that food often brought. But after a while her legs ached, so she settled at one of the picnic tables, her long fingers fidgeting together in her lap.
A brunette girl, older, at least a few years, with hair tied back in a ribbon, hesitated at the edge of the table. She looked oddly unsure of herself, shifting her weight before she called out.
“Hey, blonde girl.”
Larissa’s head snapped up. She was not used to strangers calling her anything at all, let alone something that wasn’t directed at her height.
The girl moved closer, twisting her fingers around her sleeve. “Sorry—I just…I like your hair. You’re really talented to get it so neat. The—curls, I mean. Old fashioned.”
No one outside of Morticia or Gomez had ever said something like that to her. Compliments weren’t things she was used to hearing.
“Thank you,” she replied softly, with a small, astonished smile.
The senior girl returned it shyly, then excused herself with a little nod, moving back into the crowd as quickly as she had appeared.
Larissa sat there, stunned. She felt…happy. It was absurd, such a small thing, a few words that probably meant nothing to the other girl, but it warmed her heart all the same.
And then Morticia reappeared.
Her brow was already furrowed as she watched the girl move away, her pace picking up. “Who was that?” she asked, once at Larissa’s side. “Did she bother you?”
Larissa shook her head. “No, she—”
“If that bitch said something mean, I swear—” Morticia’s voice grew colder.
Larissa reached out, her hand grasping Morticia’s arm gently. “Morticia. She didn’t bother me. She just…” She took a deep breath, pushing her smile down for just a moment. “She complimented me.”
Morticia’s eyes moved toward the girl brushing past through the crowd, then back to Larissa. She straightened slightly, brushing her hair back over her shoulder. “Oh? And what did she say?”
The joy drained a little from Larissa’s smile, replaced by unease. “Only that she liked my hair.”
Morticia studied her a moment longer, then exhaled and sat down beside her on the bench. She sat closer than necessary, their shoulders nearly touching. Her fingers picked at the wood grain of the table.
“Well,” she muttered, almost to herself. “I like your hair more.”
Larissa stayed silent, unsure what to say, watching Morticia’s long pale fingers scratch lightly at the table.
“I think…” Morticia continued, quieter still. “I think you’re more than pretty, Larissa. Only complimenting your hair—it’s hardly fair. It’s an understatement.”
Larissa’s confusion shifted, instead letting out a laugh. She turned toward Morticia, her pale blue eyes widening. “Are you jealous?”
Morticia’s head whipped around. “Jealous?” she repeated. “Of course not. I simply care about what my friends are told. That’s all.”
But the way she twisted away, the slight pinkness to her cheeks, showed far more than she realized.
Gomez came jogging toward them, his black scarf loose around his neck, his hands balancing three dripping ice cream cones. Dark chocolate was already down one wrist. He nearly stumbled in the slush before he reached the picnic table.
“Ha! And not a single casualty,” he said, licking the chocolate smear from his hand.
Morticia didn’t even give him the satisfaction of basking. She took the cookie dough cone before he’d finished lowering it. She didn’t need to ask which was hers; she simply knew.
“Yours,” Gomez said, offering the pink one to Larissa. “Strawberry. Thought you might like it.”
Larissa stared at it. The scoop was round, perfect, a delicious shade of baby pink. Her fingers hovered a second before she accepted it, careful not to let hers brush Gomez’s. “Thank you,” she murmured.
She glanced up at the white sky, at her breath fogging in the air. “Isn’t it a little ridiculous to eat ice cream when it’s this cold?”
“It’s never ridiculous to eat ice cream,” Morticia said, her tongue flicking the top of her cone. Then she tilted her head toward Larissa, her dark eyes narrowing. “Don’t just hold it. Lick it.”
Gomez shifted uncomfortably, sitting himself beside Morticia, his own dark chocolate cone held tightly. “She doesn’t have to if she doesn’t want to,” he muttered. He glanced quickly at Larissa, as though trying to reassure her in secret.
But Larissa had already leaned forward, pressing the tip of her tongue against the coldness. It was rich, almost too much. She’d eaten regular meals that day—she had to, there were no excuses with all the walking and the eyes around her—but sweets were different. Sweets were indulgence.
She shifted slightly away from Morticia on the bench, not far enough to be obvious, just enough that the warmth of Morticia’s arm wasn’t brushing hers anymore. She licked again, her eyes concentrated on the distance.
The senior girl from earlier was across the field now, laughing with two friends. Larissa could see her smile even from where she sat, could imagine how effortless her life must be. She looked like someone who had never once stood on a scale and hated the number. Someone whose mother had never pinched her waist in disapproval or withheld dinner as punishment. Someone who could eat an ice cream cone without hating herself.
A gentle tap at her shoulder startled her out of the spiral. Morticia, her nails lightly brushing through Larissa’s sweater.
“I’m fine,” Larissa said quickly, shrugging her off. “See? I’m eating.” She held up the cone as proof, which had indeed been licked.
Morticia turned back toward Gomez, who was chattering on about some competition happening on the far field. Larissa let out a quiet breath, trying to ignore the ache in her stomach.
She looked around instead—at the girls in their sweaters. Their boyfriends tugging them close, even lifting them right off the ground. The girls were small enough to be tossed like dolls.
Larissa stared down at her own frame—her broad shoulders stretching out her sweater, her hips pressing uncomfortably against the bench, her arms too long to pull against herself. Fourteen now and already 5’8. Taller than most of the boys. Taller than Gomez by an entire head.
The cone was melting faster now. She didn’t notice until it collapsed completely, slipping from her hand to the frozen ground. It landed in a splat, strawberry staining the snow, the cone sticking straight up.
Morticia’s head snapped around instantly. “What happened?”
Larissa stared at the pink mess at her boots. She couldn’t exactly tell Morticia that she hated the way her own body felt, that every taste of sugar turned sour in her chest, that the sight of those laughing, tiny girls made her want to scream. That’s what had fucking happened, but saying it outright wouldn’t be smart.
Instead she muttered, “The weather’s getting to me. I just…I need to warm up.”
She then brushed her sticky hand against the table and stood quickly before either of them could question further. Her legs felt clumsy, too long, too heavy, too much.