Nice Girls(6)

Without her, the house grew quieter. We went to church less and less. We barely spoke beyond the usual. Our lives had orbited around my mother—the warmth she’d brought—but without her, we drifted apart.

The one thing that connected us now was my schooling. I was good at it, and I only seemed to get better with each passing year. All the high marks and accolades and glowing report cards piled up. Dad was proud of me.

But now I couldn’t even finish my degree. I’d lost it completely.

All I had was grief. It permeated me, filling me up like air. I’d already lost my mother. Now I’d lost my school, my friends, and the life that I’d built.

Instead, I was stuck back home with Dad in an empty house, groveling for a job that I didn’t want. Wondering if I had any more to lose.

“I’m still listening,” said the priest. I opened my eyes. Behind the curtain, his shadow was scratching its nose.

“I’m thinking, sorry,” I stammered. “It’s been a while.”

I closed my eyes again, my stomach suddenly gurgling. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The sound was unpleasant, but the sensation afterward was nice—the airiness in my belly. I could feel small again.

Back at Cornell I had been small. In college, I learned how to walk more, eat less. I skipped meals and snacked just enough to function. I preferred salads in the dining hall, and I subsisted on water and coffee. Calories were wasted on booze, not pizza. I learned to embrace my hunger. It kept me sharp, awake, and focused. It kept me thin, and it kept me pretty.

Not beautiful or gorgeous or hot, but pretty. It was a petite word compared to the others, not fiery or elegant or definite. But for so many people, it was enough. To be pretty was enough.

Clothing stores were kinder to you. Strangers opened the door for you. A teaching assistant raised a grade for you, provided that you were a bit flirty. And there was no better feeling than to catch the eyes of a handsome man and to see that brief flicker of lust there for you. That was all worth it.

The world was less forgiving of its fat, ugly women. I knew that from firsthand experience. At best, people ignored you. At worst, they insulted you. Your existence was barely tolerated. By virtue of your looks, you had nothing to offer. It didn’t matter if you were smart, thoughtful, or funny—no one listened. No one cared.

I learned that the hard way through high school—quiet, fat Mary who kept her head down in her textbooks and dreaded the mandatory gym class. In college, I changed myself for the better. I had no intention of losing that.

Until Carly came along.

“I’ve been angry, Father,” I said softly. “Not your regular kind of anger. But a deeper one.”

I pictured Carly’s long red hair that seemed to shine under the shitty dorm lights. It looked so soft that I wanted to run my fingers through it. Then I would yank it out until I’d ripped it off her skull.

I would never forget her smug expression and the way my life had crumbled right after. Carly had the next four years ahead of her at school—her future ahead of her—while I had been kicked home. All my hard work flushed down the drain.

Carly hadn’t fought her way to be there. She hadn’t gambled on loans to pay for tuition. She hadn’t molded herself into someone better. No, Carly knew very little about struggle. She had no fear that she would lose it all in an instant.

Because she knew that if she failed, the world would save her, again and again and again.

I wanted vengeance, not forgiveness.

“I didn’t act for the best, Father,” I said. “I did something that I shouldn’t have. It was my own fault.”

But I didn’t believe that—I was telling him what he wanted to hear.

The things I wanted to say, he wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t know how crucial it was to be pretty—he would say I was being vain. He would tell me to forgive Carly, that forgiveness was a strength, that my grief was temporary, and that everything happened for a reason.

God is there in the end, he would say, his eyes glazing over. Pray the rosary three times as penance.

A trite penance for a trite sin.

But my sins were messy, and I wasn’t sure that I wanted forgiveness. Maybe it would’ve been easier if I’d killed someone. Maybe then I would’ve sought true penance.

But in the confession room, I only felt heavy.

“And I’m sorry for being that way,” I said softly.

Through the curtain, the priest nodded.

“Nothing else to add?”

“Nothing,” I whispered.





4




The next morning, Dad slammed my door open. I woke up startled from the noise.

“You’ll feel better if you work,” he said, handing me the job applications. “Sallie Mae is waiting.”

I was dazed as he left the room. Throughout my life, Dad had often griped about “freeloaders”—and now he thought I was becoming one.

But he was right. My student loans were due. I owed over twenty-five thousand dollars, interest not included. And since I had never gotten my degree, none of that money had paid for shit. I was in debt for nothing.

I buried my head in my hands.

An hour later, I finished scribbling through the applications. The idea of working in town, running into people—none of that appealed to me. But I needed the money more. I put on jeans and a sweater and hit the road.