Twenty-Four

He’s so fast.

I keep trying to catch up to him.

By the time I do, I can barely see his house.

“Come on,” he yells,

“catch me!”

He’s deep within the swampy cattail forest encompassing the drainage area behind his house.

We’ve played here a dozen times.

Even though we aren’t supposed to.

He continues tromping through our makeshift wonderland, giggling whenever I come close to actually grasping him.

And then it’s silent.

It takes me a few minutes, but I finally find him.

His face is colorless.

He’s crying.

“What’s wrong?”

He looks up at me.

Then I look to his feet.

They’re enclosed in the thickest muck I’ve ever seen.

And I understand why he’s crying.

There’s no way he can get out.

“What are you staring at,” he yells,

“go find my mom!”

I panic.

I turn and run faster than I’ve ran before.

But I have no intention of finding his mom.

Doesn’t he know what parents do in these situations?

He would be better off stuck than found out by his mom.

I promptly run home, into my room, and dive under the covers, shivering in terror.

I hope he’s okay.

I avoid his end of the street.

Thankfully, he’s a year younger than me and doesn’t start school until next year.

So I don’t have to face him at the bus stop.

A couple days later, I’m walking by his house, and his mom comes out.

I look away, walking faster and faster.

“That’s right!

You should be moving fast.

And you should be ashamed of yourself. What kind of friend are you?

Don’t you ever come back!

My son doesn’t want to see you again.

I don’t either.”

She slams the door.

I don’t blame her.

 I am a terrible friend.

I’m unable to reconcile the amount of pain I've caused his heart.

I cry on and off for the rest of the day, until I have no tears left to give.

Until my heart is as shattered as his.

Twenty-One

“Didn’t you wear that yesterday?”

I don’t want to, but I nod.

I hoped no one would notice.

“We don’t have a lot of money right now, and I couldn’t do laundry last night,” I told her.

“Oh,” she snooted, then walked away.

What I told her was only partly true.

We don’t have a lot of money right now.

But we never have a lot of money.

I only have two pairs of pants, and both of them are stretchy.

And I only have four shirts.

Mom claims we don’t have money, but I know my dad sends money to her.

We do have plenty of liquor.

Every night, we drive to the liquor store to pick up a big new bottle of Jose Gold tequila.

She thinks I’m too young to notice, too young to wonder why she always has liquor, but I barely have clothes.

After school, Mom picks me up.

We drive to the liquor store.

She runs in, picks up her elixir, and is out in less than five minutes.

“Mom, do you think I can get another pair of pants and maybe another shirt sometime soon?”

She sighs, “Oh baby, I wish I could, but we can’t afford that right now.”

I turn away, a tear sliding down my face.

This is the third time this week I’ve had to wear these pants.

Kids are starting to whisper and stare.

All I want is to not be noticed.

Eight

“Ew!

You smell!”

My eyes widen.

Are they talking about me?

“Sit down, kids.

We need to be getting to school,” the bus driver snipped.

I sit down in the seat directly behind the driver.

The whole ride to school, kids keep saying mean things to me.

So I keep staring at the ground.

When we finally get to school, I jump to rush off the bus.

“Can you stay a moment?

I’d like to talk to you,” the bus driver asks.

After the rest of the kids exit, some making faces or holding their noses as they pass, the driver looks at me gently and inquires, “When was the last time you took a bath?”

I look down.

“I don’t remember,” I tell her.

She looks at me with the saddest eyes.

Am I supposed to be taking them?

Mommy has never told me I needed to.

Sometimes I just get in because I’m cold.

After staring a few moments, she lets out a long sigh.

“Honey, it’s important to stay clean.

It will keep you healthy.

And it will keep all those nasty kids from poking fun at you.”

I nod at her, barely meeting her eyes.

Placing her hand on my shoulder, “Sweetie, I’m not mad at you.

But if you ask your mom to get you some soap and shampoo, I think you would feel better.”

“Can I go now?”

I leave before she even has a chance to say anything.

All day, all I think about is how much I wish I could get sick so I don’t have to ride the bus home.

And why mommy didn’t tell me I needed to take baths.

She’s the reason those kids are so mean.

The end of the day finally arrives.

I take a deep breath as I approach the bus.

I climb on and rush to the back.

I don’t talk to anyone.

Fifty-Six

“You can stay if you want.”

I can taste my hesitation.

It’s not that I don’t want to stay.

But what kind of monster am I if I do?

“Okay,” I say, clicking off my ignition.

It’s not like I’m automatically going to have sex with him just because I gave him a ride home.

I’m only a little drunk.

I follow him into his house.

He leads me to his room.

After grabbing some shorts and a t-shirt, he goes to the bathroom to change.

That’s a good sign, right?

I take off my boots and tights, leaving my dress in place.

When he’s back, I’ve already slipped into his bed.

He joins me.

I snuggle into him.

Because, that’s the point, isn’t it?

He begins rubbing my thigh.

And that’s when I know I’ve lost.

Afterwards, I doze off for a bit.

When I wake up, I’m sober enough to realize how shitty of a decision I just made.

Isn’t it like cardinal sin number one to sleep with a close friend’s ex?

I silently groan and roll back into him.

What’s done is done.

I may as well try to rest.

We wake up early.

He has somewhere to be.

And I need to be anywhere but here.

I’m not worried about coming home with him again.

Not that I wouldn’t want to.

But I don’t think he can find me.

He doesn’t even know my name.

Seventeen

“Hey!

You look great.

What have you been doing?”

Well, I’m not eating.

And I haven’t really been in almost three weeks.

No one knows.

I know it’s wrong.

I know it’s dysfunctional.

But I don’t care anymore.

“Oh, just not eating so much junk.

You know, the normal,” I lie.

I’m sick of all the extra weight hanging on my body.

Nothing works to make it go away.

Except not eating.

“Well, keep it up girl.

It’s working for you.”

Sigh.

Can’t she see how hideous I am?

That I’m about to cry because what she sees is so far off from what I see?

“Thanks,” I respond with a forced smile.

She walks away, and I continue my interval training for the day.

It’s getting harder to train.

I can tell I’ve lost muscle, and I feel like I’m on the verge of passing out halfway through my set.

I see how sick this is.

I know if I told anyone, they’d look at me like I was ludicrous.

They’d suggest I get help.

They’d try to convince me I was beautiful just the way I am.

But I haven’t told anyone.

Because I’m not ready to be helped.

And I’m not convinced I really am beautiful, just the way I am.

How can I be this messed up and still retain beauty?