He attacked me on my most personal level.
He opened the one injury I never wanted to think about again, the one I came here to escape.
“He kissed me!” I announce loudly to Kayla. “It was disgusting! All tongue and no skill.”
Kayla’s eyes widen. My words echo back at me over the music in snippets of different people’s voices. Kiss. New girl. Jack Hunter. Ice Prince kissed New Girl. While it spreads, I pull Kayla by the hand and bring her into the kitchen. She’s shaking. I put my hands on her shoulders and look her in the eyes.
“You – You and him –” she starts.
“Didn’t do anything,” I murmur. “I swear to you. I just said that to make him look bad.”
Her eyes brighten momentarily, then dim, and somehow that makes me more sad than it makes me angry. She still likes him, even after he called her pathetic in front of a bunch of people. I feel so bad for her. I used to be her and that’s why I feel so damn bad for her.
“I can’t believe you actually punched him!” Kayla says. “You’re crazy!”
“You’re crazy for liking a guy like that,” I sigh. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you to stay away from feral dogs?”
“He’s not a dog!” She protests. “He’s never hit on me!”
“Because he’s gay.”
“He has mature college girlfriends! A new one, like, every week!”
“Because he’s ordering them from Russia. Or Saturn. Whichever one has more girls who are depressingly desperate for money.”
Kayla wobbles, and I help her sit on the polished wood floor against the kitchen counter. There’s a large cupboard. She feels it against her back and drunkenly opens it and crawls inside, closing the doors behind her. I become extremely patient and understanding for an entire ten seconds, then knock. A mutter reverberates from inside.
“Go away.”
“C’mon. I’m not sorry. He deserved it, okay?”
“I’ve liked him since fourth grade!” Kayla mourns. “That was the first time I’ve ever talked to him! And you…you came in and ruined it! It’s over! My life is over!”
“It was a life well spent.” I nod.
“I’m not actually going to die!” She flings the cupboard doors open to wail at me.
“Oh but you are! In about seventy years. But for now you are very much alive and very much wasted, so I think I’ll drive you home.”
“No! I can drive myself!” She gets out of the cupboard and promptly slips on a cheeto. I catch her and pull her up, and together we make it through the front door.
“You can drive yourself into a cliff, yes.”
“I might as well!” Kayla moans. “Jack hates me now!”
“Oh pish posh. I’m sure he’ll remember you fondly as the four hundred and thirty sixth girl he made cry.”
Kayla bursts into tears, and I half-drag, half-pull her across the lawn and into my tiny VW beetle. It’s light green and rusted, with a broken headlight and soda cans littering the floor, but it does its job of letting everyone know I’m poor and that’s really all I ask from a car.
“Isis!”
A voice calls to me. Kayla tries to bolt, but she’s so drunk she just wobbles in place a bit and burps. I help her onto the seat and shut the door, turning to face the voice. Avery Brighton makes her way over to me, red curls bouncing and green eyes bright. She’s a picturesque Irish doll, with porcelain skin, slender proportions, and a perfect spate of freckles across her button nose. It’s like God airbrushed the crap out of her, ran out of paint for everyone else, looked down at all the babies he was chucking to Earth and went ‘hahah whoops but check this one out it’s a masterpiece’.
“Are you kidnapping Kayla?” Avery asks, smiling a china doll smile.
“Theoretically, I am totally not the sort of person to do that, but also theoretically if I knew how to kidnap people from looking it up on Google when I was really bored over Christmas break last year, then theoretically there’d be a lot more duct tape and chloroform involved. In theory.”
“Yes, well, that’s very interesting but I’m going to ask you to give her back. I need her here.”
“She sort of seems out of it? And also she’s really bummed because of some things I don’t know if you saw or not that happened?”
“I saw. It was interesting. Probably the most interesting thing that’s happened all year besides Erika’s suicide attempt,” Avery muses. She looks me up and down, as if seeing me in a new light, and then points at me. “But that doesn’t excuse Kayla from certain duties she needs to perform tonight.”
“That’s sort of weird? Like, it’s a really vague and threatening thing to say about someone? Also I don’t think you own her and she needs to lie down and chill so I’m taking her home?”
I inch around the car to the driver’s side as Avery’s face grows darker and more perfectly deadly vampire-esque.
“Why are you talking in questions?” She asks.
“Why are you? Talking in questions?” I crane my neck over the hood and maintain eye contact. She’s like a bear. A really big, really rich bear. I can’t look away or she’ll charge and use my insides to line her Louis Vuitton purse.
“If you leave now, I’m not inviting you to another party again.”
“Okay? That’s kind of good because I don’t think I want to associate with people who say suicide attempts are interesting? And who make pooping juice and pretend it’s punch? That is almost as bad as playing the Black Eyed Peas on loop?”
I quickly jump in, start the car, and pull out. Avery watches with a detached yet irritated twitch in her brow. I roll down the window as I pull up close to her.
“You’re sort of popular so I guess I should thank you for inviting me? Also for threatening me? Like wow, that was a really bad party but a really good threatening? I give you two stars for effort? I’m babbling?” I pause. “Stay in school?”
“You go to my school, idiot.”
She did it. She called me the i word. The most popular girl in school just called me the i word. I either have to kill myself, go back to Florida, or drive away really fast and not give a damn. I jam on the gas and swerve around a lion statue as I tear down her driveway, except I don’t swerve fast enough and one of the lion’s testicles goes flying in a fine haze of concrete. I leave behind a bunch of new enemies and a one-balled lion and I’m taking home a maybe-friend who thinks I ruined her crush and even if that sucks it’s still better than what I came in with, which was just three years, nine weeks, and fifty-one days of bad memories.
-2-
3 Years
9 Weeks
6 Days
I drop a considerably more sober Kayla off at her modest house on a quiet cul-de-sac. She stares blearily at me, her makeup tear-smeared, and mutters softly.
“Thanks.”
“Man, I’m sorry,” I sigh. “I really am, Kayla.”
She shrugs. “It’s whatever. I’ll see you on Monday.”
It’s not whatever. People just say that when the situation is too hard to put into words. If she still considers me a corporeal item worthy of being visually registered on Monday, I’ll be happy as hell.
As I drive home, the dark road winding around cow pastures and corn fields, the imprint of Jack’s icy blue eyes and his infuriating words echo in my head. ‘Because it happened to you, didn’t it?’
I grip the steering wheel hard. He has no idea what happened to me.
‘I don’t go out with ugly girls.’
A new voice echoes. Nameless – the guy I used to like. Love? Like. I don’t know anymore. All I know is he hurt me. I call him Nameless in my head. His real name still causes me physical pain. I breathe evenly, in and out, trying to dull the ache in my chest. I’m over it. I really am over it. After three years, nine weeks, and fifty-one days I am oodles over it.
I pull into the driveway of home and turn off my car. I sit in the darkness, pushing out all the bad memories and pulling in some new ones. I made a sort-of friend.
Mom’s happier here. I haven’t seen Nameless in over two months. That’s good. Those are good new things to fill up the holes in the walls of my mind left behind by the decaying bad things. The good new things are flimsy, but they’ll keep the cold wind out for now.
I flash myself a smile in my rearview mirror. Being anything but happy is dangerous around Mom, lately. So I have to fake it hard, or at least fake it long enough to make it up to my room.
Our house is a one-story, with white doors and walls and blue trim. A rusted wind chime clinks faintly over the patio, and the garden is nothing more than a few patches of scraggly yellow grass. A broken barbeque slumps dejectedly in the corner by the leaking hose, and a dozen or so wilting maybe-red-maybe-poop-colored roses struggle to push up from the dying bush that separates our front yard from the street. It’s ugly in the day, but at night, with light shining through the curtains, pretending it isn’t a dump a lot easier. It’s the only decent place Mom could afford, but it’s a far cry from the little seaside cottage I grew up in in Florida.
“I’m home!” I push the screen door open. Our cat, Hellspawn aka Coco aka Get-out-of-the-fridge-you-idiot, minces delicately over to me and rubs on my ankles as I put my keys in the dish and take off my coat. Mom follows, her bathrobe pulled tightly around her and her face eager. She’s beautiful, in an aged-painting way, with gray streaks in her hair and soft smile lines. Her dark eyes are clear.
“Did you have fun? How many boys did you make out with?” She asks.
“Seventy. At least.”
“How many shots did you take?”
“Fourteen. I let go of the wheel halfway home and Jesus drove me the rest of the way.”
She laughs and strokes my head. “I’m glad you had fun.”
We both know I don’t drink or kiss boys, so it’s more of a morbid inside joke than anything. She shuffles into the kitchen, where her newspaper and some tea wait. Hellspawn jumps on the chair opposite of where Mom sits and politely starts licking his balls.
“Did you take your meds?” I ask. Mom sighs.
“Yes. Of course. You don’t have to worry after me - I’m a grown woman. I can take care of myself.
I look at the kitchen counter. It’s stacked high with crusted pots and pans. The floor is filthy, and she hasn’t opened the curtains all day - I can tell. But that isn’t her fault. Some days are better than others. It’s the asshole who beat her black and blue who’s really to blame. If Dad were here, he’d be able to do something more for her – make her smile, at least. But he’s not. He’s moved on with his new family. I’m here, though. But all I can do is wash dishes and try not to make her worry. So I do that with everything I’ve got.
I roll up my hoodie sleeves and turn on the hot water, squeezing soap into a pan.
“I’ll wash the windows tomorrow after school, okay? They’re super dirty – whoever lived here last must’ve liked fog machines.”
Mom smiles faintly, but it’s not a real smile. “Thank you. I have work tomorrow, but I’ll be back before dark.”
Mom’s an art restorer – the kind who takes old paintings and historic vases and fixes them up for museums. But after the hospital, she’s been having a tough time finding – and keeping – work. She works at the local tourist-trap train museum for now.
“I’ll make dinner tomorrow, if you want,” I offer.
“Nonsense. I’ll get pizza.”
“Alright.” I grin and agree. She’ll forget. It’s not her fault – she’ll just get absorbed in her work or the darkness of the past and forget to feed herself, let alone me. I take chicken out of the freezer to defrost it when her back’s turned.
“I’m a little tired,” She says, sweeping over to kiss the top of my head. She smells like lavender and sadness – and that smells like ripped tissue paper and sun-dried salt.
“Okay. Sleep well.” I squeeze her hand and she squeezes mine before slowly ascending the stairs. She moves so timidly, still, like around every corner there’s someone waiting to hurt her. Tonight should be an okay night, if she was honest about taking her meds.
She shouldn’t have to take meds at all.
I wince and scrub the pots harder. I channel my rage and put enough elbow grease into cleaning the kitchen to lubricate a small car – the counters shine, the floors are smooth, and the sink is more spotless than a Disney Channel star’s criminal record. I strip my clothes off and hop in the shower, rinsing away the last remnants of booze, cigarette smoke, and glitter from the party. My knuckles are red and raw, the top layer of skin shaved off. Ah, well – a few injuries are to be expected when you punch an iceberg like Jack Hunter.
I come out smelling less like adolescent angst and more like almond shampoo not tested on animals. I bandage my knuckles and inspect the damage on my soul from tonight in the mirror. Mom’s curly brown hair and Dad’s warm cinnamon eyes stare back at me. They look a little goldish red in the middle. Dad used to say they were like little shards of ruby and topaz, but people with brown eyes search for the tiniest bit of color to make their hue unique. I call them cinnamon proudly, but the fancy-dressed DMV lady refused to put ‘cinnamon’ on my license and so here I am, fighting for brown-eyed equality still today. They have not heard the last of me - I will rise from the ashes and tango with pink-nailed, hoop-earring DMV oppression yet again.
It’s still strange to see my thinner face in the mirror. I used to have fat cheeks with massive packets of pudge slapped on my chin and eyelids. My neck had rolls. Even my earlobes were fat. I went to fat camp every summer but that never worked because I’d hide in the incinerator to escape sports time – a risky but ultimately effective tactic. I preferred becoming bacon to embarrassing myself by showing off my bouncing fat rolls and wheezy lack of stamina. I took up an entire bus seat by myself. I have to remind myself constantly I don’t take up that much room, anymore.
If I was rich like my old best friend Gina, I would’ve gotten lipo for my sixteenth birthday along with a BMW or something. You could’ve probably powered a BMW for a few months with oil made from the fat I lost, but alas. I wore layers of clothes and watched my calories carefully and ran every morning and every night, so there was just gradual muscle and no surgically-removed bags of fat to convert to something useful. I remember hating every second of my diet and exercise, but now it’s a foggy, painful memory, the opposite of the clear, sharp memory that kicked my butt into gear in the first place.
“I don’t go out with ugly girls.”
Ugly.
I touch my face, my reflection moving with me in the damp mirror.
Ugly.
Ugly ugly ugly ugly. Purple streaks didn’t make me prettier. Losing weight didn’t make me prettier. My face is the same as ever – a little thinner, yeah, but still the same. My nose is flat and my chin is too wide. The usual bit of eyeliner I wear every day is half washed off, making me look pale and exhausted. Nameless’ voice haunts me even as I dry my hair and pull on the boxer shorts and comfy t-shirt that serve as my pajamas.
My stretch marks - ugly.
My zits - ugly.
The way my thighs jiggle - ugly.
I’m an ugly girl. And I’ve come to terms with that. It’s who I am. Right now I’m New Girl at East Summit High, but soon the glamor will fade and they’ll give me another nickname, and it’ll be Ugly Girl. It should be, anyway. That would be the most logical, accurate thing to call me. Nameless was cruel for saying it, but he was right. He pointed the truth out to me, and for that I’m sardonically grateful, the same way an artist is grateful someone pointed out his left hand is a little shakier, a little less masterful. It helped me know my weaknesses better, and therefore my strengths.
Love isn’t one of my strengths. Dating definitely isn’t one of them, either. I like to think being genuinely nice is one of my strengths though, you know, minus punching guys who deserve it. So I’ll be nice. I’ll keep myself away from everybody else. No one wants ugly. Even if they did, it wouldn’t be good for them. I’m loud and angry
and sarcastic. No one wants that. Nameless taught me that, too. He taught me to spare everybody from myself. That’s true kindness.
I sigh and flop into bed. Ms. Muffin, my faded but somehow still sinfully soft panda bear plushie, waits for me. I hug her and bury my face in her Made-in-China chest.
“Ms. Muffin, I fucked up.”
Her beady black eyes seem to say ‘Yes, I know, sweetie. It’s what you do. But I don’t love you any less for it’.
I manage to get four hours of sleep or so before the lights in my room snap on all at once. I sit up quickly, rubbing my eyes to clear them. It’s still dark outside. Mom stands in the doorway, shaking like a leaf beneath her robe. I throw off my blankets and stride over to her.
“Again?” I ask. She nods, eyes glassy and locked onto some faraway point. I put my arm around her shoulder and lead her back into her bedroom.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers as she crawls into bed. I pull the covers over her and smile.
“It’s fine. I’ll go get the air mattress and sleep in here with you.”
When I come back from the attic with the mattress, she’s gone.
“Mom? Mom!”
The window is open. I launch myself over to it and peer over the edge. Please, no. Please, don’t let her be –
“I’m here.”
Her voice is tiny and distant-sounding. I follow it to the space beneath her bed, where she’s laying, her knees pulled up to her chest.
“Mom, what are you –”
“It’s safer here,” she says. “Can you come under?”
“You’d be more comfortable on the bed –”
“No!” She shrieks, pressing her hands over her ears. “No, no, I can’t! You can’t make me!”
“Okay, okay,” I soothe her, and press myself flat. I inch over the dusty carpet, the box spring pressing into my ribs, and grab her hand. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ll stay under here with you.”