She runs toward the monkey bars, grinning from ear to ear as she sprints, her heels kicking up sawdust behind her. Her amber eyes glow with the innocent enjoyment of just being free, of feeling the wind in her hair and the breeze on her face.
She runs alone, but she doesn't care because right now she is wonderful and her family is fabulous and the world is perfect.
The furthest things from her mind are those pesky addition worksheets she never finished, and that visit to Principal O'Hanlon's office, when she pulled that girl's hair, working the luscious strawberry-blonde locks through her fingers so she could watch them bounce back.
Her small fingers pull her body up on top of the monkey bars, and she sits there, happily surveying the playground, watching as her classmates duck under rubber ladders and climb up slides and swing so high they could touch the stars.
She doesn't care that her plaid skirt is riding up to reveal her plain cotton underwear, or that her navy blue tights are bagging around her ankles. She doesn't care that the hem of her polyester-blend top is untucking, or that her big white hairbow is sliding down toward the ground.
She sits, chin resting on her bare knees, the queen of the world, all because, on this beautiful spring day, she's above everything, watching from the top of the monkey bars.
"You're precious," a mother tells her daughter as she hugs her goodbye before the first day of fifth grade.
"Beautiful, darling," another mother pronounces. "Just gorgeous."
Massie's own mother has already left, leaving her stranded in this sea of people.
Since her parents aren't here, she has to stand tall, has to keep her head up, has to be strong, has to be strong, has to be strongstrongstrong. She repeats the word in her mind, strongstrongstrong, until suddenly it's not a word anymore, just a collection of syllables that somehow represent the difference between standing on her own and getting trampled by the rest of the world, which really doesn't seem so perfect anymore.
(*/\*)
Every day, Massie dutifully climbs into the family limo (she's still not tall enough to just step inside) and sits in silence as Isaac drives her to school.
She wears the same uniform, but now it's immaculate. Her skirt falls to just above her knees, the plaid cloth smooth and free of wrinkles. Her white blouse is clean with not one stain. Her chestnut locks are pin-straight. On her feet are slick black flats.
Today she wears giant silver hoop earrings.
The next day she starts applying makeup: lip gloss, mascara, eye shadow.
The day after that she gets a mani-pedi and a spray tan.
And the day after that she can officially say that she doesn't care whether or not her parents greet her in the morning, whether or not they pick her up from school, whether or not they're there as she eats her dinner, whether or not they tuck her into bed.
By herself, she can be strong.
Once again, she can be perfect.
She's in seventh grade when the bullying starts.
She's not bullied, she'd never stand for that, she's the bully.
Day after day, she struts into the gleaming halls of Octavian Country Day School, her amber eyes narrowed, her hair swinging around her shoulders. Surrounded by her posse, (those girls who she doesn't really know by name, just by Greek letters) she can pretend to herself that she has a family.
"Outta my way, freak," she snaps at a girl with no breasts and oily hair. "Fuck off, LBR." She whips past those people who are happy, content with themselves and their lives.
When she gets home, she cries.
In ninth grade, her mother dies of cancer. She goes to the funeral, but she doesn't cry, doesn't even care, because it's not like she ever thought of that woman (Kendra Block, a foreign name) as her mother, just a lady who once in a while ate a salad with her and spent all her time at charity events.
"She helped others," strangers say, trying to console the teen as she stands motionless.
What about me? she wants to scream. What about me?
(*/\*)
Her father tries to help by giving her unlimited credit cards. She buys clothes and makeup and hair accessories. She bribes her friends to stick with her. She flaunts her Visa and MasterCard, urging the teachers not to punish her.
From the outside, she's perfect.
On the inside, she's a girl with problems, a girl who needs help.
She shows up at school with a glossy smirk, her Louis Vuitton pocketbook full of crisp dollar bills, her True Religion jeans hugging her thin thighs, her Christian Dior blouse showcasing her B-Cups. She's adorned with Michael Kors sunglasses and Hermes shoes and Chanel jewelry.
She's wearing a shell, a hard plastic coat that keeps anyone from noticing that she's suffering, because rich girls like her, rich girls who get everything they want, don't suffer.
She cracks on graduation day.
She stands in her navy-blue gown, perfect and so alone.
Abandoned by everyone who cared (did they really?), ditched by her friends (but they never were, were they?).
Wearing the latest trends, done up in the most expensive makeup.
But she's just the same girl who stood by herself on the first day of fifth grade.
Please pretty please R&R!