Hardy Detective Agency featuring Hardy Boys Fan Fiction

Joe Hardy was learning, quickly, how to coach himself more intensely than any gym teacher ever had. It began in the morning: sitting up and fighting the dizziness, rubbing his eyes until they cleared. Then the mental checks: how many calories consumed yesterday indicated how many could be consumed today. Then, slowly moving to the bathroom, locking Frank’s side, taking one or two of the diet pills he’d begun consuming, and drinking water until he felt sick. After that he usually felt strong enough to dress and greet everyone in the kitchen. If it was a day he allowed himself breakfast, he’d have an apple; if not, there was the matter of being inconspicuous, and if caught lying—no time grab something at school not hungry will have a big lunch take something to go I already ate—to make up an excuse.

And he was shocked by how easily they came, how good he was at avoiding his brother’s gaze, at smiling his way around his mother and Aunt, at telling his father he’d eaten before he’d gotten home, he’d eaten at school and, when cornered, playing the don’t you trust me? card on any of them. Which wasn’t to say he liked it; he didn’t, not because he was afraid of losing there trust, which he was, or because he was afraid of being caught, which he also was, but because he was terrified that he had this ability, that the voice that nagged him in his head to count the calories, to walk the extra block, to drink more and more water, to risk heart problems with pills—that voice was beginning to control him. Joe knew this. He knew Frank was right when he’d come to his room that day after Mr. Pizza, knew and in a desperate attempt to break away from whatever was possessing him had followed his brother to his room afterward, trying awkwardly to tell him what was going on in his head. But something stopped him, and it wasn’t words in his head: it was fear.

The fear was growing. While before he had actively chosen to avoid foods considered “unhealthy,” he now found his pulse actually quicken at the sight of them, because it was in those moments that his own hunger was ever-apparent, that his stomach threatened to overwhelm the voice and his will and his control and eat for him. Suddenly nothing felt safe: he was constantly counting, recounting, convincing himself he’d had too much, he didn’t need five-hundred a day, or four hundred, or three hundred, one hundred was enough, the math worked out, his body would run just fine on that. He began a routine: five-hundred Monday, four-hundred Tuesday, three-hundred Wednesday, two-hundred Thursday, one hundred Friday, and as little as possible on weekends; they were more difficult because his parents could see him at all three meals, and it was important that they not see. Frank had mentioned his concern and they’d asked him about it, but he’d smiled and assured them he was fine everything was fine see he was eating Frank was ridiculous you know how he is right, I’m fine.

And some days he did feel good—light and hyper and almost high, a mix of the caffeine in the pills and his body beginning to go into its reserves to find energy, since Joe refused to give it any.

He had dropped not one now, but two categories in wrestling. Coach Finley had pulled him aside, put him on the scale, pulled out charts, lectured him on becoming unhealthy. Joe nodded and let his eyes wander down the row of numbers, wondering what his next goal would be, how far he could push himself and, at the same time, knowing it was wrong, that he couldn’t possibly lose ten more, that someone would feed him, even if by force.

Frank is certainly trying, Joe thought, bending over the sink in the bathroom. He’d become dizzy during last period and gone to the bathroom to splash water on his face and try to calm down. His brother was constantly urging him to come out—it had been over a month since the night at Mr. Pizza—or at least to talk to him, constantly policing his food intake, checking with their friends to see if he ate, checking with their parents, checking with Joe, watching his brother when he thought Joe’s eyes were elsewhere. And Joe appreciated it, was touched, and part of him wanted Frank to be forceful, wished he’d be more so, while the voice that controlled what went in resisted all the more and that more loudly.

I’ll stop soon anyway, Joe thought, drying his hands on a paper towel as the final bell rang. Just five more pounds, max, and it’ll be done and I’ll go back to normal. Five more pounds and I’ll be one of the lower weights in the category, just so I have a safety net, that’s all, so I can gain some back and not worry. Frank will stop worrying then, he’ll see, I’m fine.

The younger Hardy went and gathered his books, apologized to his teacher, and made his way downstairs to his locker, pausing when the lock swayed, blurred: Joe could not remember the combination.

Breathe Hardy. It’ll pass in a sec. It’s a good thing, it’s cleaning you out, your body that is, it’s helping you. The world’s in focus again, see?

Joe swallowed, steadied himself, went back to the lock, got the door opened and was instantly bombarded by books, papers, and clothes—and his bottle of diet pills, which dropped onto the floor, popped open, and spilled at his feet.

“Damnit,” Joe muttered, hastily falling to his knees and shoving the white contents back in before—

“Hey. Everything okay?”

Frank. Joe jumped and looked up at his brother, irritated by his sudden appearance.

“Fine. What are you doing, hovering over my shoulder?”

His older brother seemed taken aback. “I thought, since you weren’t feeling well last night that today you might want a ride ho—“ he stopped when realized Joe was holding pills and an empty bottle in his hand. “What are you doing? What are those?”

Joe shook his head. “Nothing. It’s nothing…” but his older brother was too quick.

“Dexatrim?” Frank asked as he snatched the bottle from Joe’s hands. “What the hell are you doing with this?”

“Holding it for someone,” Joe said quickly.

“Holding it? For who?”

“None of your damn business!” Joe shouted, ripping the bottle away from Frank’s fingers and shoving it into his pocket. “Would you get off my back? All you do is nag me!”

But Frank didn’t move, or even flinch at his brother’s outburst. He seemed frozen in place in the hall.

“Joe,” he said softly, touching his brother’s arm. “Have you been taking these?”

“None of your business,” the younger Hardy shot, shaking off his brother’s arm.

“Joe, I’m serious. Those can be dangerous. They mess up your heart…”

“Didn’t I just tell you to leave me alone?”

Frank set his jaw, anger rising in his normally gentle brown eyes.

“I’m going to talk to your coach.”

“No you’re not…”

“Yeah, I am. This has gone too far. For God’s sake, Joe, what are you so worried about? Look at you, you’re thin. I mean, you’re thinner than me, and you were always the stocky one…”

“Just say it Frank. The fat one.”

“No. You were muscular. Now you’re just…thin…”

“You want me to go on being the fat brother,” Joe snapped, suddenly furious.

“Don’t be ridiculous…”

“No, that’s exactly what you want, and what Mom and Dad want, and what Chet and Tony and everyone wants! Well, sorry, but you can all go to hell. I’m not doing it anymore.”

“Joe, do you hear yourself? You’re not making any sense…”

“No, Frank, for the first time I’m making perfect sense, and the rest of you are just being bastards about it!” Joe slammed his locker, ignoring the stares he was getting, ignoring the murmuring as he stormed away.

“Don’t walk away from me!” the elder Hardy shouted, easily catching up to his brother and seizing his arm. “Listen to me. Stop focusing on your weight for one second think. I’m not going to stand by and watch you ruin your health, Joe. You eat nothing. You don’t have to gain weight, if you don’t want to, but you’ve got to stop losing. Not because I want you to be fat, because you’ve never been fat, but because I want you to be healthy. Okay?”

Joe just glared at him and pulled away. “No,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“No. Get away. Leave me alone.”

And with that he was gone.

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Disclaimer

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The Hardy Boys Fan Fiction authors of the Hardy Detective Agency have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.