Miss Me Not by Tiffany King Page A

errant thoughts away, I began to dress for the day. The fact that I had to go to morning classes hampered my wardrobe choices. I eyed my closet critically, pushing the endless array of black t-shirt cluttered hangers to the side, hoping that the perfect outfit would suddenly appear. As a rule, I never wore dresses or skirts, preferring jeans and baggy t-shirts that I could hide behind. Finally, behind a few coats that had never seen the light of day because they were too heavy for our mild winters, I unearthed a long-forgotten dress. My grandma on my dad's side of the family had sent me the dress for Christmas last year. I'd been shocked when the package arrived. My grandparents had been sending me ten dollars for every occasion for as long as I could remember. I'd only seen them a couple of times my entire life since they lived more than halfway across the country in Arizona. They were in their late forties when they had my dad and hated to travel. My mom disliked spending time with them, claiming that their atheist views were not the influence she wanted me around, so visits were sparse to say the least. If they weren't so old, I felt I could relate to them. I envied their normal lives where church didn't consume their every waking moment. Normal. Was anyone really ever normal? Probably not. Life was a sham. Smoke and mirrors hid the dysfunctional lives all of us lived.
    I pulled the shift-style dress out and held it up against my slender frame. It would be loose, but at least it would be presentable. Slipping it on over my head, I smoothed it down, liking that it wasn't formfitting. I was far from flat chested, so loose went a long way on taking the focus off my chest. There was a time when I used them as my greatest assets to get what I wanted. At that time, my wardrobe consisted of tight low-cut tank tops and scooped neck shirts. My cleavage was legendary by the time I started seventh grade, and I loved the attention it used to draw. Now I hid it in shame.
    Stepping in front of my mirror that was attached to the back of my bedroom door, I studied my reflection critically. The dress didn't look all that bad. It was tan, not black, but I guess I could deal with that for the day. My skin looked paler than normal, and I grimaced looking at it. I may as well be a ghost. That would work well for me. I dragged a brush through my long locks until all the snarls from sleeping were completely gone. Once my hair was tamed the best it was going to get, I added eyeliner and mascara to my eyes, making them stand out against my translucent complexion. A touch of gloss to my lips brought out their natural rosy color better than any cosmetic I could have ordered. Finally, I slipped my favorite beaded bracelets onto my right wrist, which were the only accessories I would wear. I looked in the mirror one last time to find a stranger staring back at me. It had been years since I'd put any kind of effort into my appearance. I knew I looked good, even without anyone telling me. Maybe even beautiful. I had to fight the urge to rip the dress off and scrub my face clean. Beauty was not a gift. Donna said beauty was evil and a powerful tool the devil liked to utilize. Past experience showed me she was right. It was a sin.
    ***
    "Morning," Donna greeted me, not looking up from the newspaper she was perusing while sipping her morning coffee.
    "Morning," I said, grabbing my own version of morning caffeine out of the fridge. I watched Donna for several moments as she turned the pages of her newspaper, looking for the arts and entertainment section. I fidgeted in my seat slightly, wondering how to broach the subject, deciding the best approach was to do it fast, like pulling off a Band-Aid.
    "Donna," I said tentatively. The word felt foreign on my tongue. I'd lost track of how long it had been since I initiated a conversation. It seemed odd to address her by her given name. Like calling a stranger your "best friend" or a guy you'd never met your