what can I say? It’s kinda true. But it’s not my fault that I don’t want to go out. I just don’t like crowds. I don’t like people. People are…well, they can be scary sometimes.
“But why couldn’t you tell me that before?” My voice cracks, just a little.
“I don’t know.” Marisol taps a finger under my chin so that I’ll look at her. “I wanted to wait until…”
“Until what?” I prompt her.
“I thought for sure that Danny would ask you to homecoming. I thought that if Danny asked you, well then you might really go. And we could do something fun for once.”
“Oh.” I’m spinning. My mind is processing like a hundred thoughts but one sticks out: she thinks we never do anything fun together. She’s bored of me.
“We could still go to the dance together,” she says.
“Oh.” There’s not much else to say.
“I just wanted us to belong for once.” Her voice wavers.
“Oh.”
“Is that all you can say?” She snaps.
“No,” I say rather quietly.
The truth is there is a lot more that I could say, like What’s wrong with you? When did you stop liking me, start lying to me? Where are you going? Where am I going? Are we going to stop being…
No, I can’t say that. I can’t even think that.
I study her carefully. I try to think of one moment in my life that she has ever let me down (not hurt my feelings, but actually let me down), and I can’t. So I suck it up. Marisol has the right to be happy, even if it gives me heartburn.
“I think it’s great,” I say finally.
“Really?” She gives my hand a gentle squeeze. I bite my lip to stop myself from saying, Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone.
“Yeah, I really do.”
“Good.” Marisol smiles, and her blue eyes twinkle in the sun. “I’m super-excited,” she says.
“Yeah, it’s great.” I nod my head and force a smile.
But I don’t think it’s great. In fact, I think the whole thing sucks.
THIRTEEN
what about me?
later that afternoon before i meet danny for our afternoon tutorial, I hide out in the girls’ restroom and stare at myself in the mirror. What does Marisol have that I don’t have? Why does Marisol get to have a boyfriend and I don’t? And when did I start caring about these sorts of things?
I try to remind myself that Ryan isn’t Marisol’s boyfriend, that all they’re doing is hanging out. Secretly hanging out. My mind gets stuck on the word secretly . And it’s somewhere along that point that I convince myself that Marisol has a boyfriend, and life as I know it is about to end.
I hate my life. I do.
Do I hate my life?
Well, not all the time, but there are certain moments, seconds of the day that I’m particularly pissed off at God for making my life the way that it is.
The restroom is quiet. I’m thankful for the silence. It’s not often during the day that you can actually hear yourself think. And I use this time to undertake one of the most pressing questions in my current life: what is there for anyone, maybe even Danny, to love about me?
I stare in the mirror and try to see myself through Danny’s eyes. The first thing I do is look into my eyes. Yes, my eyes look like they belong on an owl, but the color is pretty enough, they’re brown with flecks of green.
What about my nose? It’s long and narrow. My dad says that it is Romanesque. Anything that’s Romanesque can’t be good.
My lips are full, maybe too full, like fish lips.
Ugly.
I take my time walking downstairs while I continue to catalog my body.
In the stairwell, I think about my hips. They’re too wide. I’ll probably give birth to twins—that is, of course, if I ever have sex.
I also observe my breasts. Very small, but I think that’s preferable to the watermelons that Pamela Anderson is toting around. Breasts definitely shouldn’t be bigger than your head.
The first floor is empty. I don’t even hear the echo of a conversation. I stop in front of a full-length window display and stare at my reflection
“But why couldn’t you tell me that before?” My voice cracks, just a little.
“I don’t know.” Marisol taps a finger under my chin so that I’ll look at her. “I wanted to wait until…”
“Until what?” I prompt her.
“I thought for sure that Danny would ask you to homecoming. I thought that if Danny asked you, well then you might really go. And we could do something fun for once.”
“Oh.” I’m spinning. My mind is processing like a hundred thoughts but one sticks out: she thinks we never do anything fun together. She’s bored of me.
“We could still go to the dance together,” she says.
“Oh.” There’s not much else to say.
“I just wanted us to belong for once.” Her voice wavers.
“Oh.”
“Is that all you can say?” She snaps.
“No,” I say rather quietly.
The truth is there is a lot more that I could say, like What’s wrong with you? When did you stop liking me, start lying to me? Where are you going? Where am I going? Are we going to stop being…
No, I can’t say that. I can’t even think that.
I study her carefully. I try to think of one moment in my life that she has ever let me down (not hurt my feelings, but actually let me down), and I can’t. So I suck it up. Marisol has the right to be happy, even if it gives me heartburn.
“I think it’s great,” I say finally.
“Really?” She gives my hand a gentle squeeze. I bite my lip to stop myself from saying, Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone.
“Yeah, I really do.”
“Good.” Marisol smiles, and her blue eyes twinkle in the sun. “I’m super-excited,” she says.
“Yeah, it’s great.” I nod my head and force a smile.
But I don’t think it’s great. In fact, I think the whole thing sucks.
THIRTEEN
what about me?
later that afternoon before i meet danny for our afternoon tutorial, I hide out in the girls’ restroom and stare at myself in the mirror. What does Marisol have that I don’t have? Why does Marisol get to have a boyfriend and I don’t? And when did I start caring about these sorts of things?
I try to remind myself that Ryan isn’t Marisol’s boyfriend, that all they’re doing is hanging out. Secretly hanging out. My mind gets stuck on the word secretly . And it’s somewhere along that point that I convince myself that Marisol has a boyfriend, and life as I know it is about to end.
I hate my life. I do.
Do I hate my life?
Well, not all the time, but there are certain moments, seconds of the day that I’m particularly pissed off at God for making my life the way that it is.
The restroom is quiet. I’m thankful for the silence. It’s not often during the day that you can actually hear yourself think. And I use this time to undertake one of the most pressing questions in my current life: what is there for anyone, maybe even Danny, to love about me?
I stare in the mirror and try to see myself through Danny’s eyes. The first thing I do is look into my eyes. Yes, my eyes look like they belong on an owl, but the color is pretty enough, they’re brown with flecks of green.
What about my nose? It’s long and narrow. My dad says that it is Romanesque. Anything that’s Romanesque can’t be good.
My lips are full, maybe too full, like fish lips.
Ugly.
I take my time walking downstairs while I continue to catalog my body.
In the stairwell, I think about my hips. They’re too wide. I’ll probably give birth to twins—that is, of course, if I ever have sex.
I also observe my breasts. Very small, but I think that’s preferable to the watermelons that Pamela Anderson is toting around. Breasts definitely shouldn’t be bigger than your head.
The first floor is empty. I don’t even hear the echo of a conversation. I stop in front of a full-length window display and stare at my reflection
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