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Perfect MAG
The eyeliner makes the dark circles less pronounced. The lip gloss hides the trembling. The ponytail conceals missing patches of hair. The Abercrombie sweater covers bruises. I might look at bit thinner, but everyone will ask about my new diet. My hair might not shine the way it used to, but the pink ribbon will distract curious eyes. One hour of preparation and I look like myself. One hour of preparation and no one will know. One hour out of 24. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it – wasting a twenty-fourth of my day on a lie. But then I see my wispy hair and baggy eyes, and I have to do it.
Checking my makeup one last time, I push my sleeves up, though not past my elbows. I slip on a cute pair of flats – heels are too dangerous with shaky legs – and grab my Hollister bag. Padding downstairs, I inhale the scent of waffles and syrup.
“Morning, Mom,” I call.
“Morning, baby,” she chirps. “Did you sleep well?”
“Better than I have been.”
She sighs, and her eyes look a hundred years old for a minute. “Any improvement is good,” she says half-heartedly.
“Of course.”
“I made waffles.” Her offering.
“Thanks, Mom. Smells delicious.” My offering.
I sit at the table and she hands me a plate. The thought of all that food turns my stomach, but I force a smile and thank my mother again. She busies herself at the sink and fills the silence with chatter. When she turns around, she takes in the waffles still on my plate, only missing a few bites. I smile apologetically.
“I’m not very hungry this morning.”
“You’ll need your strength for this afternoon.” She bites her lip. She doesn’t like to bring it up over breakfast. I eat another bite.
“I packed your lunch.”
“I’m 18, Mom. I can pack my own lunch. You have more important things to do.”
She reaches for the paper sack. “But now I know you’ll have something to eat. And you need to eat, okay? You have to keep your strength up.”
Sighing, I take the bag. I know this peanut butter and jelly sandwich won’t be eaten, not any more than the one yesterday or the day before. And even if I do eat it, I’ll just throw it up later. Anything consumed after 11 ends up in a plastic basin at 4:07. It’s just the way it works.
“Hon, have you thought about what I said the other day?” she asks.
I shrug noncommittally.
“Sweetheart, you can’t hide this forever. Eventually you’re going to miss school and people will start asking questions.”
“Mom, I have two months left of high school. I can make it ’til then. I’m class president and probably valedictorian. I was voted ‘Most popular,’ ‘Most fun to be around,’ ‘Best smile,’ and ‘Most likely to succeed.’ I’m the girl who’s got it all together. People don’t want to know that the girl who’s got it all together, doesn’t have it all together. People don’t want to know that girl is dying!”
“Honey, don’t say that. You’re not dying.”
“Yes, I am. I have cancer. You heard Dr. Morrison. I have maybe a year left. But that means I can graduate and then never see those people again. I’ll die and they’ll feel sorry for me, but at least I won’t have to endure their pity.”
“But …,” she tries to interrupt.
“Mom, listen to me. I don’t want to be the girl everyone looks at and whispers, ‘Look at her. Poor thing, she has cancer.’ I can’t handle that. I want to be normal. Just for these last two months.”
“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay. Just remember, it’s okay if you don’t have it all together. Sometimes things just fall apart and there’s nothing we can do.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I grab my bag and lunch and kiss her on the cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” my mom replies. This exchange, once taken for granted, is now a vital part of every morning, every afternoon, every night. Three little words, followed by four more, have come to mean more than an entire conversation. They bridge all gaps and disagreements, because we both know there is now a finite number left.
Keys in hand, I open the door and blink in the early morning sun. My silver car waits in the driveway and as I walk toward it, I check my reflection in the tinted window. Perfect.
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This article has 838 comments.
very well written..
at first i thought it was an eating disorder. . but the cancer at the end was unexpected for me. good job!
Hi, I don't have access to a flashdrive or anything so I'm going to comment with something I've written already so I can resave it tomorrow. I apologize for this, but it's somewhere I'll know where it is.
Thank you!
Barley Lee-gal
That what she is. She is the girl that the guys fall too hard for and end up getting hurt because she cannot return those feelings. She is one of those cursed girls, you know, the one many adore and few hate. With eyes that could capture anyones attention. The one whose smile could brighten anyones day. And yet, she cannot understand why they all stare at her. Is it her hair? Is it her clothes? Well, she does have an out-there sense of style. But tell me, what kind of girl could possibly be the center of attention so much? The girl who sleeps around? Not her. The girl who keeps the relationship for the so-call "chinks"? No, she could never be so selfish. Maybe, and this is just a guess, maybe she is the outcast. The one who keeps to herself and shut everyone away because she cannot stand to have anyone worry about her, even though she knows her silence causes them to worry. She believes the "Silence Will Set Her Free" meaning, if she remains quiet, no one will hurt her. Oh how wrong she is, so very, very wrong. She still wants to believe in fairy tales, and nothing will stop her from believing. "But," she thinks to herself as she passes to her sixth period class, "if the word "lie" is in the word "believe" then how can I trust anything?" She wonders, she anazlyzes, and she writes out her feelings. She wonders why the symbol of love is a rose, when a rose dies. Is that symbolizing nothing lasts forever? She wants, no, she yearns to trust differently. There are things that last forever, she just has yet to find them. It seems young realtionships will not last, for all her pasts are exactly that. The past. Something, something she has yet forgotten, and yet forgiven. Something she cannot do. They hurt her. They made her the way she is now. The lies, the hatred, the jealousy, the beating, the pushing, the touch, the kiss, the poison on his lips. It all made her much too afraid to get close to anyone anymore. "Are they all like that? Are they all so hateful towards an innocent girl?" she whispers quietly in second period of the next day as silent tears stream down her pretty face, making it red and puffy. No one pays attention to her, no one cares to look over at her and just smile. They are all too consumed in what happened with their own lives to bother with this one girl. Perhaps if she suddenly became invisible they would never notice? Perhaps if she just left a note on all her desks saying she would never return, maybe then would someone go uot searching for her? End of the day, she barely remembers it. Did she have homework? Oh well, she calls and asks. None tonight. She glances back at her calendar that is still stuck on September of 2009. She sighs. She tears in two, she lies awake, the moon lights up the room like day, another night she spends alone, without his touch of skin so cold.
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