tiny girl. “It’s perfect,” I tell. “You made me
look...beautiful, Conway.”
“You don’t need
me to make you look beautiful. Or anything, for that matter,” she smiles, “But
it’s fun to mess around, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I grin.
“Now,” Conway
says, all business once more. “Let’s teach you how to dress, yeah?”
Our game of
dress-up goes on late into the night. Conway is much smaller than I am, so we
have to be a little creative with our styling. Slouchy sweaters, vintage tees,
and some of my own clothes are strewn around the room by the end of our
session.
The favorite
look we come up with is a pair of boyfriend jeans I’ve had forever and a
charcoal scoop neck top. The top is Conway’s, and fits me nice and snugly. I
don’t think I’ve worn anything so tight out in public before, but there’s a
first time for everything. Since I started developing as a young woman, I’ve been
taught to hide my body away. But I’m tired of buying into that modesty myth. My
body is nothing to be ashamed of.
Conway starts to
fade, and falls asleep a little past two in the morning. I follow her off to
dream world for a spell, but wake up just a few hours later. I smile through
the window at the lightening sky.
We’re entering
into the last weeks of fall, now. The trees are letting go of their colorful
leaves at long last, and winter will be here in no time. A little churn of
anxiety wrenches my stomach when I imagine being cooped up here with Paul and
Nancy, but I’m sure that the other kids will make up for it.
Since I’ve been
here, our foster parents seem to leave us alone for the most part...except when
they’re in a shouting mood. And I, for one, have no complaints about that. As
far as I can tell, they’ve forgotten that I’m here at all.
I roll out of
bed and toss my new favorite outfit back on. All the makeup that Conway applied
to my face is still pretty much intact, and I decide to leave it for the time
being. I like catching glimpses of myself in the mirror, surprising myself with
this newfound look.
Quietly as ever,
I tiptoe down the stairs to the first floor. Blue light illuminates the living
room, and I spot Paul and Nancy slumped against each other on the threadbare
sofa. This is their daily ritual. In a couple of hours, they’ll wake up
hungover as hell and stumble back upstairs for some sleep.
They both work
pretty irregular hours, my foster parents. Nancy cleans other people’s houses,
though god knows she never seems to make time for her own. Paul does something
with cars, though he’s pretty vague about it. He either sells them or fixes
them...or maybe he washes them, beats me. I pad past them into the kitchen and
turn on the overhead light.
These are the
most peaceful hours of the day, for me. I switch on the coffee machine and brew
myself a cup of dark espresso roast. I’ve taken to hoarding my own beans so I
don’t have to drink whatever instant bullshit Paul and Nancy are so fond of. As
the coffee brews, I sit down at the oilcloth-covered table and open to a fresh
page of my journal.
I keep the book
on me at all times, and never write about my literal life. When I write, it’s
about the places I travel in my own imagination, the things I’m dying to see
and experience. I help myself to a glorious cup of coffee and spend the morning
putting my thoughts down onto paper. I feel the edges of something a lot like
happiness in this grimy pit of a home. I guess miracles do happen, once in a while.
The glaring
digital clock above the stove creeps toward six in the morning, and I close my
journal with a sigh. Time to start whipping up some provisions for the troops.
Trace, Garrick, and Conway should be rolling out of bed sometime soon for
school.
I grab a
dilapidated frying pan and start to melt some butter—it seems like a scrambled
eggs kind of morning to me. I crack open a couple of shells and tend to my
friend’s breakfast, sending the toaster into overdrive
look...beautiful, Conway.”
“You don’t need
me to make you look beautiful. Or anything, for that matter,” she smiles, “But
it’s fun to mess around, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I grin.
“Now,” Conway
says, all business once more. “Let’s teach you how to dress, yeah?”
Our game of
dress-up goes on late into the night. Conway is much smaller than I am, so we
have to be a little creative with our styling. Slouchy sweaters, vintage tees,
and some of my own clothes are strewn around the room by the end of our
session.
The favorite
look we come up with is a pair of boyfriend jeans I’ve had forever and a
charcoal scoop neck top. The top is Conway’s, and fits me nice and snugly. I
don’t think I’ve worn anything so tight out in public before, but there’s a
first time for everything. Since I started developing as a young woman, I’ve been
taught to hide my body away. But I’m tired of buying into that modesty myth. My
body is nothing to be ashamed of.
Conway starts to
fade, and falls asleep a little past two in the morning. I follow her off to
dream world for a spell, but wake up just a few hours later. I smile through
the window at the lightening sky.
We’re entering
into the last weeks of fall, now. The trees are letting go of their colorful
leaves at long last, and winter will be here in no time. A little churn of
anxiety wrenches my stomach when I imagine being cooped up here with Paul and
Nancy, but I’m sure that the other kids will make up for it.
Since I’ve been
here, our foster parents seem to leave us alone for the most part...except when
they’re in a shouting mood. And I, for one, have no complaints about that. As
far as I can tell, they’ve forgotten that I’m here at all.
I roll out of
bed and toss my new favorite outfit back on. All the makeup that Conway applied
to my face is still pretty much intact, and I decide to leave it for the time
being. I like catching glimpses of myself in the mirror, surprising myself with
this newfound look.
Quietly as ever,
I tiptoe down the stairs to the first floor. Blue light illuminates the living
room, and I spot Paul and Nancy slumped against each other on the threadbare
sofa. This is their daily ritual. In a couple of hours, they’ll wake up
hungover as hell and stumble back upstairs for some sleep.
They both work
pretty irregular hours, my foster parents. Nancy cleans other people’s houses,
though god knows she never seems to make time for her own. Paul does something
with cars, though he’s pretty vague about it. He either sells them or fixes
them...or maybe he washes them, beats me. I pad past them into the kitchen and
turn on the overhead light.
These are the
most peaceful hours of the day, for me. I switch on the coffee machine and brew
myself a cup of dark espresso roast. I’ve taken to hoarding my own beans so I
don’t have to drink whatever instant bullshit Paul and Nancy are so fond of. As
the coffee brews, I sit down at the oilcloth-covered table and open to a fresh
page of my journal.
I keep the book
on me at all times, and never write about my literal life. When I write, it’s
about the places I travel in my own imagination, the things I’m dying to see
and experience. I help myself to a glorious cup of coffee and spend the morning
putting my thoughts down onto paper. I feel the edges of something a lot like
happiness in this grimy pit of a home. I guess miracles do happen, once in a while.
The glaring
digital clock above the stove creeps toward six in the morning, and I close my
journal with a sigh. Time to start whipping up some provisions for the troops.
Trace, Garrick, and Conway should be rolling out of bed sometime soon for
school.
I grab a
dilapidated frying pan and start to melt some butter—it seems like a scrambled
eggs kind of morning to me. I crack open a couple of shells and tend to my
friend’s breakfast, sending the toaster into overdrive
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