Author's Note: Two-parter. Prequel to a new story of mine which should be posted tomorrow.

For a while, Marissa seemed to be gaining weight. Marissa, who had shot up like a bean stalk almost five and a half inches from September to October. Marissa was growing into her new, almost gangly body and limbs.

"You look great," Summer told her, and she meant it. Before, Marissa had looked—well, Summer hated to say it, but—anorexic. And that? Was not a sight to behold.

Marissa nodded and turned her head, the soft angles she'd gotten over the weekend framing her rounder face. Summer didn't see the pained look Marissa acquired with her supposedly encouraging words.

Ellie, a transfer student from Chicago, became Marissa's newest friend. Summer felt her hurt grow as they ate lunch, just the two of them, as they headed into the bathroom afterwards, undoubtedly ready to apply makeup—since when had Marissa worn so much makeup, anyways?—and gossip about boys and teachers.

Summer had never felt so alone. Ellie was sick that Monday, and Summer dutifully sat with Marissa, sneering gleefully at the other girls who had waited patiently to sit with Marissa and were ousted once again. She'd waited for her turn with Marissa, because Marissa was her best friend.

Summer was starting to believe the 'was' part, as in 'has-been', no longer.

She observed Marissa's filled out figure, watched her eat a hamburger with fries drowned in ketchup. Summer listened to Marissa gab about the latest development in the soap opera known as Her Boyfriend Luke.

At that point Marissa excused herself to the bathroom, rather abruptly in Summer's opinion. There were four minutes until lunch ended, so Summer gathered up the remains of her lunch, and Marissa's as well.

Summer walked to the bathroom, grinning sweetly at Holly Fisher—a girl who constantly called Marissa's house, dressed like her, and basically tried to be her. Nothing to worry about—there'd been others like her before.

Summer called out Marissa's name. When Marissa didn't answer, Summer bent down and peered under the stalls, checking for Marissa's shoes. The stall furthermost from the door was the only one being occupied.

Marissa was kneeling on the floor. Summer couldn't see much else but she was concerned. She lightly rapped her knuckles on the closed door.

"Marissa, are you okay?"

Marissa didn't answer. Summer pushed her body carefully into the door and—not surprisingly, due to the lack of maintenance at Harbor—it swung inwards.

"Marissa, what's going on?"

There was a revolting substance in the toilet that had the look and consistency of oatmeal, only reddened and darkened substantially.

Sensing that Marissa was finished, Summer leaned over her and held down the germ-infected handle. A loud whirring resonated throughout the bathroom, and the water began to empty.

Summer watched, as did Marissa, as the thick liquid swirled down and out of the toilet bowl and into the pipes, away from wherever it was they were.

"Marissa?" Still, silence.

Sighing, Summer sat down on the cold tiled floor, Marissa's back to her.

She rested her head against the back of Marissa's shoulder and felt Marissa shudder involuntarily. A quiet sob from Marissa suppressed any—all—of the words Summer wanted to speak.

That was the day Summer learned not to ask questions.