I woke up at 6:00 the next morning to begin my routine. My morning ritual
was a delicate, step-by-step process of beatification. I'm not a morning
person, and I never have been, but for some reason I see it as a duty to
wake up at the crack of dawn and perfect myself for the world.
I got out of bed and stretched a bit; I heard Amy's monstrous snores from her room down the hall. I sat down at my vanity and turned on the obnoxiously bright lights around the mirror. I twisted my mass of blonde hair into a bun and brushed the little wispies away from my face. My skin was, at this point, untouched by cosmetics. To see myself in the morning, deflated and unpainted, was the most definite sign that I was alone. I would never let anyone see my like that; I considered such a thing to be a weakness.
I started to cover my skin with foundation, so that no one would have to see the tiredness that laced my face. I defined my eyes with dark liner, accented my cheeks with blush. I painted my lips with soft pink gloss, and laughed inwardly at how Nic was always eyeing my lips. It was remarkable how simple a thing like lip gloss and perfecting the right pout could so easily mesmerize a boy. Lastly, I added shimmery blue powder lightly to my eyelids. This was my favorite part. There was something about eyeshadow... it was like fairy dust. It made the skin around my eyes look like rich silk.
Next was hair. It was a tedious process, trying to roll my extremely long hair into individual ringlets, but I'd been doing it everyday since the seventh grad. It didn't phase me. Perhaps the only useful thing my mother ever taught me was the proper way to curl hair. That's a heavy irony to deal with: the one person who I count on the least is the person who taught me my most powerful tool in life, beauty.
At 7:00, I was glossed over and looking beautiful for the day. I stood in front of my full-length mirror as I undressed. I paused for a moment to look at myself. I had been fortunate enough to acquire my woman-ish curves early on. Could I be any more flawless? I had often heard people call me conceited behind my back (and occasionally to my face.) They were right, I believe, but I had good reason. One of the things I prided myself on was perfection. I had the equipment, and I knew how to use it.
Girls are beautiful creatures, I thought to myself as I studied my own reflection. They have curves, and eyes, and the softest of skin. One thing that absolutely made me sick to see was a girl who didn't know the full potential of her beauty. If girls like that only knew the secrets I knew, they would understand the strength that is found in beauty. I can't pity them too much, though. After all, what's the fun in being beautiful if there aren't any ugly people to walk all over? Never show them weakness, only show them beauty. That was my most important rule.
I put on my cheerleading outfit, tied a sparkly blue ribbon in my hair, and added an extra coat of lip gloss for good measure. It was Friday, game day, a day when I shone as I walked through the hallways. I checked myself over once more, to make sure I was perfect, before grabbing my backpack and heading outside.
Amy gave a loud and unpleasant snore as I passed her room. It would have been nice if she had ever bothered to get out of bed before noon, so that she could give me a ride to school. However, that was far too much to ask of my free-loading cousin. Why bother getting up early if you don't have a job? I suppose riding the bus wasn't too terrible, though, for it was yet another opportunity to socialize.
* * * *
It was lunch. I sat in Ethan's lap on a bench in the courtyard, laughing with my friends as always. Jordan and part of his clique had wandered over to us, so I was careful to be just as charming as I could. Much to my annoyance, Ethan began indiscretely kissing my neck. It would have been fine if there were only Freshman around, but such was not the case. I certainly didn't want to look like a giddy little whore in front of Juniors; it was important for me to be mature in front of these people. I kicked him quietly in the shins, hoping he'd take the hint.
Then I remembered that Ethan was not the brightest crayon in the box, and that taking even the most obvious of hints was not his strong point. He continued to peck at my neck. I plastered a smile on my face and tried to ignore it as I thought to myself, If he gives me a hickie on game day I'll beat him to a pulp. I giggled and made friendly chatter with the Juniors before they finally moved on to socialize with someone else.
Ethan had already made his way to my shoulders by the time they had left. I turned to him and hissed under my breath, "Are you out of your mind, Ethan? If I have to cheer in front of the whole school tonight with hideous sucking-marks all over my neck..."
But Ethan wasn't listening. He was staring at my hand, which had apparently caught his eye. His brow was curled in confusion as he examined it. "What is this?" he asked with innocent curiosity.
I froze. My hand... I'd forgotten to wash my hand. Complete and utter fear filled me to the brim. How could I have been so stupid? The edge of the lacy heart and bits of Lizzie's name still lingered in faded blue ink across my hand.
I snatched it away quickly. Ethan stared at me, dumbfounded. I choked on my own words. He hadn't been able to make sense of the half-faded message, but the fact that he had come so close to seeing what I had written sent chills down my back. What would he have thought? What would people have said if they'd seen "LIZZIE" emblazoned across my hand, surrounded by an enormous heart of lace? The thought made me sick to my stomach.
I broke away from Ethan's embrace. I kept staring at the ground as I ran; I didn't want to make eye contact with anyone. I darted towards the bathroom and clutched my hand tightly to my chest. My secret. My deepest, darkest secret was written all over my hand. I threw open the bathroom door, and thanked god there was no one else in there. I clutched the sides of the sink. I was shaking.
I turned on the water and let it pour down the drain for a moment. I was furious with myself. I had the sudden urge to splash water over my face, to get a hold of myself, but I couldn't do that. There was no way I would risk washing off my make-up. Instead I had to shake it off myself. I held back tears, and took a deep breath.
I scrubbed my hand until it was raw red, and there was no longer the slightest hint of blue.
I got out of bed and stretched a bit; I heard Amy's monstrous snores from her room down the hall. I sat down at my vanity and turned on the obnoxiously bright lights around the mirror. I twisted my mass of blonde hair into a bun and brushed the little wispies away from my face. My skin was, at this point, untouched by cosmetics. To see myself in the morning, deflated and unpainted, was the most definite sign that I was alone. I would never let anyone see my like that; I considered such a thing to be a weakness.
I started to cover my skin with foundation, so that no one would have to see the tiredness that laced my face. I defined my eyes with dark liner, accented my cheeks with blush. I painted my lips with soft pink gloss, and laughed inwardly at how Nic was always eyeing my lips. It was remarkable how simple a thing like lip gloss and perfecting the right pout could so easily mesmerize a boy. Lastly, I added shimmery blue powder lightly to my eyelids. This was my favorite part. There was something about eyeshadow... it was like fairy dust. It made the skin around my eyes look like rich silk.
Next was hair. It was a tedious process, trying to roll my extremely long hair into individual ringlets, but I'd been doing it everyday since the seventh grad. It didn't phase me. Perhaps the only useful thing my mother ever taught me was the proper way to curl hair. That's a heavy irony to deal with: the one person who I count on the least is the person who taught me my most powerful tool in life, beauty.
At 7:00, I was glossed over and looking beautiful for the day. I stood in front of my full-length mirror as I undressed. I paused for a moment to look at myself. I had been fortunate enough to acquire my woman-ish curves early on. Could I be any more flawless? I had often heard people call me conceited behind my back (and occasionally to my face.) They were right, I believe, but I had good reason. One of the things I prided myself on was perfection. I had the equipment, and I knew how to use it.
Girls are beautiful creatures, I thought to myself as I studied my own reflection. They have curves, and eyes, and the softest of skin. One thing that absolutely made me sick to see was a girl who didn't know the full potential of her beauty. If girls like that only knew the secrets I knew, they would understand the strength that is found in beauty. I can't pity them too much, though. After all, what's the fun in being beautiful if there aren't any ugly people to walk all over? Never show them weakness, only show them beauty. That was my most important rule.
I put on my cheerleading outfit, tied a sparkly blue ribbon in my hair, and added an extra coat of lip gloss for good measure. It was Friday, game day, a day when I shone as I walked through the hallways. I checked myself over once more, to make sure I was perfect, before grabbing my backpack and heading outside.
Amy gave a loud and unpleasant snore as I passed her room. It would have been nice if she had ever bothered to get out of bed before noon, so that she could give me a ride to school. However, that was far too much to ask of my free-loading cousin. Why bother getting up early if you don't have a job? I suppose riding the bus wasn't too terrible, though, for it was yet another opportunity to socialize.
* * * *
It was lunch. I sat in Ethan's lap on a bench in the courtyard, laughing with my friends as always. Jordan and part of his clique had wandered over to us, so I was careful to be just as charming as I could. Much to my annoyance, Ethan began indiscretely kissing my neck. It would have been fine if there were only Freshman around, but such was not the case. I certainly didn't want to look like a giddy little whore in front of Juniors; it was important for me to be mature in front of these people. I kicked him quietly in the shins, hoping he'd take the hint.
Then I remembered that Ethan was not the brightest crayon in the box, and that taking even the most obvious of hints was not his strong point. He continued to peck at my neck. I plastered a smile on my face and tried to ignore it as I thought to myself, If he gives me a hickie on game day I'll beat him to a pulp. I giggled and made friendly chatter with the Juniors before they finally moved on to socialize with someone else.
Ethan had already made his way to my shoulders by the time they had left. I turned to him and hissed under my breath, "Are you out of your mind, Ethan? If I have to cheer in front of the whole school tonight with hideous sucking-marks all over my neck..."
But Ethan wasn't listening. He was staring at my hand, which had apparently caught his eye. His brow was curled in confusion as he examined it. "What is this?" he asked with innocent curiosity.
I froze. My hand... I'd forgotten to wash my hand. Complete and utter fear filled me to the brim. How could I have been so stupid? The edge of the lacy heart and bits of Lizzie's name still lingered in faded blue ink across my hand.
I snatched it away quickly. Ethan stared at me, dumbfounded. I choked on my own words. He hadn't been able to make sense of the half-faded message, but the fact that he had come so close to seeing what I had written sent chills down my back. What would he have thought? What would people have said if they'd seen "LIZZIE" emblazoned across my hand, surrounded by an enormous heart of lace? The thought made me sick to my stomach.
I broke away from Ethan's embrace. I kept staring at the ground as I ran; I didn't want to make eye contact with anyone. I darted towards the bathroom and clutched my hand tightly to my chest. My secret. My deepest, darkest secret was written all over my hand. I threw open the bathroom door, and thanked god there was no one else in there. I clutched the sides of the sink. I was shaking.
I turned on the water and let it pour down the drain for a moment. I was furious with myself. I had the sudden urge to splash water over my face, to get a hold of myself, but I couldn't do that. There was no way I would risk washing off my make-up. Instead I had to shake it off myself. I held back tears, and took a deep breath.
I scrubbed my hand until it was raw red, and there was no longer the slightest hint of blue.