the world. Wow, staring at the sun with a bunch of strangers. For that I have to give up my job at Let’s Make Up? A lot of other kids wanted that job.
“Aren’t you not supposed to look at the sun?” I ask, hunched down in my seat. “Didn’t I learn that in kindergarten?”
“We’ll have special glasses,” Dad replies. “The lens filters out the amount of sun that hits your eye. Don’t worry.”
Right, like THAT’S my biggest worry!
When we get home I go straight to my room, lock the door, and throw myself on the bed. Staring up at the poster of Orlando Bloom on the ceiling, I wonder how I’m going to get through this. I’m not the spend-time-on-my-own kinda girl. It’s like that old saying about a tree falling in the woods. If no one hears it, does it still make a sound? If I’m so beautiful but no one sees me, am I still beautiful?
Mom knocks on my door and when I don’t answer, she says, “I’m leaving some empty boxes outside your door. Anything you think you can part with can go in them. The garage sale is on Saturday, and the rest we’ll donate. Be generous. We won’t have room for storage up there.”
“I can’t part with anything!” I yell.
“I’m sure that’s not true,” she calls back. “All your magazines are a fire hazard, and they’ll have to go.”
All my
Vogues
and
Vanity Fairs
? All my
Entertainment Weeklys
? “They’re only a fire hazard if someone lights them on fire!” I squeeze my eyes shut tight against the tears.
Mom ignores my very logical argument and says, “Any item of clothing you haven’t worn in two years goes in there since you’ll have outgrown them.”
I’m already the tallest girl in the eighth grade. Chances are I’m not growing much more. It took years of saving my allowance and birthday money to build up my wardrobe, and all the belts and shoes and bags and jewelry to go with them. “I better keep everything,” I argue. “You know, for Melanie.”
Silence from the other side of the door. We both know Melanie would never wear my clothes. It wouldn’t kill the kid to wear something other than old jeans and t-shirts once and a while.
After another hour of feeling hideously sorry for myself, I bring the boxes into my room. Melanie has already filled one up and placed it outside her door. I’m sure no one expects me to donate anything since they’re always saying how materialistic I am. Well I’ll prove them wrong! I pull down everything from my shelves, the trophies from summer camp that everyone wins even if you’re the worst athlete there, the dried-out arts and crafts projects, my old collection of four-leaf clovers, trophies and dusty candles and seashells and broken toys. I toss them all into the biggest box and push it into the hall without a second glance. I don’t know why I’ve kept that stuff so long anyway. None of it says anything about who I am today.
It takes two hours, but I manage to cut out all the pictures from my magazine collection that I want to keep. Clearly I’ll have plenty of time to tape them into my Book once we get to Purgatory, which is how I’ve begun to think of the campground. We learned in English class that Purgatory is the place where souls go to wait before being sent on to their final destination. That’s like me. My life is being put on hold for three whole years. It’s so unfair.
I continue tearing through my room, pulling clothes out of drawers and off hangers. Who knew I had so many shoes? But when I’m done going through all my clothes, I’m still left with not being able to part with most of it. I start to go through my CD collection and then realize all of them are loaded on my iPod. I pile them neatly in a box and slide it next to the other one outside my door. Melanie still only has the one box. Granted, she had a lot less stuff than me to begin with, but whose fault is that? Not mine.
I don’t say a word at dinner. Dad had picked up pizza, which is apparently something else that
“Aren’t you not supposed to look at the sun?” I ask, hunched down in my seat. “Didn’t I learn that in kindergarten?”
“We’ll have special glasses,” Dad replies. “The lens filters out the amount of sun that hits your eye. Don’t worry.”
Right, like THAT’S my biggest worry!
When we get home I go straight to my room, lock the door, and throw myself on the bed. Staring up at the poster of Orlando Bloom on the ceiling, I wonder how I’m going to get through this. I’m not the spend-time-on-my-own kinda girl. It’s like that old saying about a tree falling in the woods. If no one hears it, does it still make a sound? If I’m so beautiful but no one sees me, am I still beautiful?
Mom knocks on my door and when I don’t answer, she says, “I’m leaving some empty boxes outside your door. Anything you think you can part with can go in them. The garage sale is on Saturday, and the rest we’ll donate. Be generous. We won’t have room for storage up there.”
“I can’t part with anything!” I yell.
“I’m sure that’s not true,” she calls back. “All your magazines are a fire hazard, and they’ll have to go.”
All my
Vogues
and
Vanity Fairs
? All my
Entertainment Weeklys
? “They’re only a fire hazard if someone lights them on fire!” I squeeze my eyes shut tight against the tears.
Mom ignores my very logical argument and says, “Any item of clothing you haven’t worn in two years goes in there since you’ll have outgrown them.”
I’m already the tallest girl in the eighth grade. Chances are I’m not growing much more. It took years of saving my allowance and birthday money to build up my wardrobe, and all the belts and shoes and bags and jewelry to go with them. “I better keep everything,” I argue. “You know, for Melanie.”
Silence from the other side of the door. We both know Melanie would never wear my clothes. It wouldn’t kill the kid to wear something other than old jeans and t-shirts once and a while.
After another hour of feeling hideously sorry for myself, I bring the boxes into my room. Melanie has already filled one up and placed it outside her door. I’m sure no one expects me to donate anything since they’re always saying how materialistic I am. Well I’ll prove them wrong! I pull down everything from my shelves, the trophies from summer camp that everyone wins even if you’re the worst athlete there, the dried-out arts and crafts projects, my old collection of four-leaf clovers, trophies and dusty candles and seashells and broken toys. I toss them all into the biggest box and push it into the hall without a second glance. I don’t know why I’ve kept that stuff so long anyway. None of it says anything about who I am today.
It takes two hours, but I manage to cut out all the pictures from my magazine collection that I want to keep. Clearly I’ll have plenty of time to tape them into my Book once we get to Purgatory, which is how I’ve begun to think of the campground. We learned in English class that Purgatory is the place where souls go to wait before being sent on to their final destination. That’s like me. My life is being put on hold for three whole years. It’s so unfair.
I continue tearing through my room, pulling clothes out of drawers and off hangers. Who knew I had so many shoes? But when I’m done going through all my clothes, I’m still left with not being able to part with most of it. I start to go through my CD collection and then realize all of them are loaded on my iPod. I pile them neatly in a box and slide it next to the other one outside my door. Melanie still only has the one box. Granted, she had a lot less stuff than me to begin with, but whose fault is that? Not mine.
I don’t say a word at dinner. Dad had picked up pizza, which is apparently something else that
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