seen, it’s heard, so it matters and it’s true. Nothing that happens in the dark actually happens – a tree falling in the forest has to be observed, shared, dissected, backlashed against, and then accepted again, or else it was never a tree, not at all. So hide your broken hearts and smile for the camera phones – we are the new monsters, and the whole world is our stage now.”
I turned off the speech as quickly as I could. That was enough Saviour for today.
After Dakota Fanning let me off work I stopped by Publix to get some stuff for dinner. I wanted to make lasagna from scratch and didn’t exactly know what you were supposed to put in it, which sounds dumb but oh well, and so I grabbed a cart and got out this cooking app I used for recipes and stuff. On the way into the bowels of the store I passed a rack full of magazines about famous people, and these people had a lot of problems. Even more than my boss, actually.
“JEN FIRED FROM NEW MOVIE: PARTYING TO BLAME FOR PREMATURE AGING?” one read. “JULIA GOES UNDER THE KNIFE AGAIN: ‘I’VE NEVER LOOKED BETTER!’” another proclaimed. “KATE’S FAMILY WORRIED: TOO THIN, TOO FAST?” a third screamed. “INSIDE EMMA’S NEW DIET: GET THIN FAST!” another read, confusingly. How wrong had I been in my assumption that people were either fat or skinny, ugly or pretty? In the “before” picture of the girl losing all the weight, she looked like a beauty queen and weighed probably 115 pounds. In the “after,” she was borderline anorexic. Figures. Our culture forced perfection on you and then told you you weren’t perfect enough once you attained it. Nice fad diet and plastic surgery, but still fugly! Try harder next time, fatty!
Out of instinct I reached into my bag for my mirror to make sure my scar was still nicely concealed under the ever-present layer of makeup I’d caked over it that morning.
Ten minutes later I was looking for cheap tomato sauce while thinking about what outfit to wear next time I saw Cooper, if I’d even see him again at all. I had this purple dress I looked kind of good in, but then again it showed a rather large surgery scar, and I knew I’d feel self-conscious in it. Or maybe I could just play it cool and wear jeans and a cardigan. Or maybe I could stop being such a callous fucking bitch and stop trying to date someone while I was dying. Whatever. As I browsed, a mother and daughter passed by, and the little girl, who looked about three, pointed over at me from her cart.
“Mama, what’s wrong with that girl’s face?” she asked as her mom pushed her. “It’s broken.”
I turned as red as the sauce in my hand as I tried to look away, but I made eye contact with the mom just as her eyes popped out of her head.
“Ana Elizabeth Flores, how dare you say-”
Once the mom realized I had noticed, she paused, arranged her pretty features into a desperately apologetic and embarrassed smile, said a quick “sorry,” and then pulled her daughter away, muttering under her breath at her until they were out of sight.
“Wow, sorry,” someone else said, and I jumped and saw a lanky guy standing behind me. The Publix clerk loading boxes of off-brand seasoning onto the shelves had seen the whole thing. “Babies,” he said, shaking his head. “They just don’t know any better.”
“Yeah, um...yeah.”
I tossed the sauce back onto the shelf and darted away, mortified that he had heard.
Mortified that my makeup hadn’t worked.
Mortified that I lived in my scarred broken skin.
Mortified that I was me.
Mortified that I was mortified.
Just mortified in general, basically.
I had the house to myself that night since Chase had gone to a sleepover after dinner and my mom was at a “coffee meeting with a friend,” which I’d quietly suspected was actually a date from this Christian singles website she was obsessed with, although I didn’t say anything. It was gross outside, a light, windy rain falling in sheets
I turned off the speech as quickly as I could. That was enough Saviour for today.
After Dakota Fanning let me off work I stopped by Publix to get some stuff for dinner. I wanted to make lasagna from scratch and didn’t exactly know what you were supposed to put in it, which sounds dumb but oh well, and so I grabbed a cart and got out this cooking app I used for recipes and stuff. On the way into the bowels of the store I passed a rack full of magazines about famous people, and these people had a lot of problems. Even more than my boss, actually.
“JEN FIRED FROM NEW MOVIE: PARTYING TO BLAME FOR PREMATURE AGING?” one read. “JULIA GOES UNDER THE KNIFE AGAIN: ‘I’VE NEVER LOOKED BETTER!’” another proclaimed. “KATE’S FAMILY WORRIED: TOO THIN, TOO FAST?” a third screamed. “INSIDE EMMA’S NEW DIET: GET THIN FAST!” another read, confusingly. How wrong had I been in my assumption that people were either fat or skinny, ugly or pretty? In the “before” picture of the girl losing all the weight, she looked like a beauty queen and weighed probably 115 pounds. In the “after,” she was borderline anorexic. Figures. Our culture forced perfection on you and then told you you weren’t perfect enough once you attained it. Nice fad diet and plastic surgery, but still fugly! Try harder next time, fatty!
Out of instinct I reached into my bag for my mirror to make sure my scar was still nicely concealed under the ever-present layer of makeup I’d caked over it that morning.
Ten minutes later I was looking for cheap tomato sauce while thinking about what outfit to wear next time I saw Cooper, if I’d even see him again at all. I had this purple dress I looked kind of good in, but then again it showed a rather large surgery scar, and I knew I’d feel self-conscious in it. Or maybe I could just play it cool and wear jeans and a cardigan. Or maybe I could stop being such a callous fucking bitch and stop trying to date someone while I was dying. Whatever. As I browsed, a mother and daughter passed by, and the little girl, who looked about three, pointed over at me from her cart.
“Mama, what’s wrong with that girl’s face?” she asked as her mom pushed her. “It’s broken.”
I turned as red as the sauce in my hand as I tried to look away, but I made eye contact with the mom just as her eyes popped out of her head.
“Ana Elizabeth Flores, how dare you say-”
Once the mom realized I had noticed, she paused, arranged her pretty features into a desperately apologetic and embarrassed smile, said a quick “sorry,” and then pulled her daughter away, muttering under her breath at her until they were out of sight.
“Wow, sorry,” someone else said, and I jumped and saw a lanky guy standing behind me. The Publix clerk loading boxes of off-brand seasoning onto the shelves had seen the whole thing. “Babies,” he said, shaking his head. “They just don’t know any better.”
“Yeah, um...yeah.”
I tossed the sauce back onto the shelf and darted away, mortified that he had heard.
Mortified that my makeup hadn’t worked.
Mortified that I lived in my scarred broken skin.
Mortified that I was me.
Mortified that I was mortified.
Just mortified in general, basically.
I had the house to myself that night since Chase had gone to a sleepover after dinner and my mom was at a “coffee meeting with a friend,” which I’d quietly suspected was actually a date from this Christian singles website she was obsessed with, although I didn’t say anything. It was gross outside, a light, windy rain falling in sheets
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