We didn't get in to Avelard, despite Cheryl's promises of Danny's cousin. The bouncers folded their arms, put on their best menacing stare and said, "Where's your ID?" and refused to believe Cheryl when she recited a birth date three years before the real one. They weren't convinced by Danny's fake driving licence either.

"It's her fault," Danny hissed as we left the place, not quietly enough for me not to catch it. "If she didn't look so—" Cheryl kicked him at that point, though not as hard as I would have liked—an A&E type injury, or something that left him unable to reproduce.

I said goodbye to them three streets before I needed to. There's getting home safely and there's being in company you hate. What was the end of that sentence if she didn't look so... young?

More likely, fat and ugly. We've all heard the stories about Abelard. They turn a blind eye to the sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds in there so long as they are pretty.

I count the bins as I pass. One, two, three, promising myself I'll throw the carton of sweets in the next one, but my feet take me home too quickly, and the bag is still clutched in my hand.

Mum's up. I try to sneak past the living room door and I'm half-way up the stairs when the TV sound stops. Out she comes.

"How was your date?"

"Okay. I'm dog tired though. Do you mind if I go to bed?"

I ignore the hurt grimace. God, what planet is she on? Didn't they send her the memo, the one that says "Teenage girls don't talk to their mothers. Ever. Expect sulks, secrecy and a lot of swearing."

I dive onto my bed and upend the carton. Sweetie heaven. Even Mali-minx couldn't stop herself. Shall I ask to make sure? Log on quickly and tell the girls the truth? Hey, y'all. I've got enough calories in front of me to take me into next week, no, the end of the month, and I want to eat them very much. I thought I didn't need the Annies anymore. At last, I'd found a way to say no, and keep saying no, to food. I'd only go there to boast—Annies I've skipped breakfast and lunch every day this week.

So I did. Sweets don't count as a meal, do they?

The first one's in my mouth before I realise, belly fighting my mind. And then more, the fudge first—big, thick chunks of it sticking to my tongue and cheeks. Next, cola bottles, the sugar-coated ones you're meant to chew. I don't give them that much time, one, two bites at most and down they go, the lump of them sticking a second or so in my throat. I bite the heads off the white mice and cram three or four of them into my mouth, next jelly beans, bite in half, chew, swallow...

All too soon, they're gone and the whole mass of it reaches my belly at once, forming a hard uncomfortable lump. The sugar sickens me; leaving a nasty metallic taste in my mouth, and oh...

I only just make it in time to the bathroom. Up it all comes, barely digested and the colours and shapes still visible. The sight of it makes me heave again, this time bringing up bile and the violence of it so scary I shake all over.

"Savvy, Savvy!"

I flush the loo and run the taps, scrubbing my hands with and nails with liquid sanitiser that seeps into any tiny cut it can find and stings like hell.

"What?" When I swing the door open, she stands there, the Great British Baker, all suffocating concern and too much nosiness.

"Are you okay, I thought I heard..." Her hand goes to her mouth. "Have you been drinking? Jan said he was a nice, responsible boy!"

"Food poisoning," I mutter and push past her. "Dodgy burger."

Anger changes back to suffocating concern once more. "You poor thing. Shall I get you some water and a hot water bottle?"

How's that going to help? When I was a little kid, that's what she used to do. We were all on our own then, no Tony and no Ben. When I got ill, she'd tuck me up in bed at nana's house with a beaker of water and a hot water bottle, kiss my forehead and promise she'd be back as soon as her shift ended.

Sod it. "Yes please."

Five minutes later, she pushes open my door five and finds me in bed, pyjamas on and all sweetie evidence cleared away. I take the water and the hot water bottle even though it's a stiflingly hot night.

Mum leans on the door. "You would tell me if there was anything wrong, wouldn't you?"

I nod. As if.

"Are the exams too much for you? Is it Cheryl? Are you girls not as close as you were? Is everything alright at school?"

A stream of questions that I answer with a nod or shake of my head, then a plea that I'm exhausted, and I need to sleep. I switch the light off to enforce it.

But she's across the room, feet silent and fast, and that long-ago kiss meant for five-year-olds lands on my forehead once more.

"Night, Savvy. Sleep well," and she tiptoes out, closing the door quietly behind her. I wait till she goes into her own room before I slide the lap top out from under my bed and fire it up.

I've two accounts to update. First, Teenwriters, where I see the latest chapter of my story has more than 10,000 likes and a ton of comments I'm going to save to read tomorrow.

Second, I seek out the Annies, triumphant. They turn their noses up at bulimics, so I can't boast about being sick, but I can tell them I haven't eaten for eons.

The shaking has stopped, and a glow spreads, starting in my flat, empty belly and moving along my arms and legs. I've done it; I've finally done it—gone and made myself sick after stuffing myself.

It's the secret, isn't it? What every girl dreams of. You eat the food AND get to stay slim.

Yes, yes, yes.

Savvyslim: A brilliant week for me, Annies! Managed to skip breakfast and lunch without anyone noticing. Done it now for seven days in a row. What's your record?

Mali-minx: Eighteen. Top THAT.

FatGirlThin: Yo, bitches. Do u still live with mommy & daddy? Move away. No-wun notices. No-wun cares.