Ugly.
Ugly ugly ugly.
Not even Jack.
Not even the boy who got the closest, the farthest through my bitter shell. Not even the boy who stood in the doorway of my heart could bring himself to take that last step.
Something made him turn back. Something in me. Something wrong within me. And I’ll never know what it is, because I can never ask him. I don’t even see him often, anymore. I catch glimpses of his face in the hall but that’s all I permit myself to look at, and for mere seconds. Anything else is dangerous. Anything longer would mean a closet, and quiet, and tears, and more darkness, more holes I tear in myself so the darkness can crawl inside and live there like it always has.
My mirror makes me look a little taller. It also makes me look like I’m about to cry, and I really don’t need that again. I put a smile on instead and rummage through my closet. I pick a black skirt and long black socks. My fingers glance over the pink blouse, and I pull back like it’s lava.
The memories are the worst part.
Jack’s smile, his voice saying I was beautiful, the way he wrapped his arms around me in his bed, his breath on my neck. His smell, mint and honey. His rare, sonorous laughter. Our conversations, our fights, our kisses, the way his hand grabbed mine under the fountain water for the last time –
I swallow nausea and bury the blouse under a hoodie. I pull on a slinky red shirt instead, and brush out my hair.
He came so close.
But in the end, he ran away. Like they all do.
I pucker my lips, applying pink gloss. It’s my fault, really. I was stupid for thinking Jack was different from any other guy in the world. They want things that are easy. They want girls who are cute and fun and experienced. None of this angry, bitter, sarcastic, virginal nonsense. Who I used to be was just too much work for Jack – for anyone! I don’t blame him at all for turning tail. I certainly wouldn’t want to be faced with the daunting task of loving someone that difficult.
So I changed.
Correction: I’m changing. Change doesn’t happen overnight, except when it does, and I’m trying my hardest to make sure it looks like it does. I can’t stand the thought of being that bitter, stupid girl one more second. I want to be easy. I want to be happy and have fun.
“God,” I laugh through applying another coat of lip gloss. “She was so stupid.”
I check my eyeliner one last time, ignore the fact my foundation doesn’t cover my dark eye bags entirely, and make sure no tags are sticking out anywhere, especially not on my new radical tiger-print panties. I grab my phone, and stuff a twenty down my bra in case I need to take a cab home.
My phone vibrates, and before I take it out I pray it’s a text message from a certain icy someone.
But it’s Mom. Calling. I brace myself.
“Hey.What’s up?”
“Hi, sweetie. How are you?”
“I’m…” I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m a bruised skeleton with a bit of meat on her. “I’m fine. How are you doing? How’s work?”
“It’s just fine! I mean, it’s been slow, but I’ve been going every day. Dr. Torrand gave me these wonderful pills, and they’re doing just the trick. I’m sleeping like a baby again.”
Relief lets some knot twisted up deep inside me loose.
“That’s…that’s really great. I’m so glad.”
“What’s wrong, sweetie? You don’t sound too good yourself.”
“I’m just glad, that’s all. For a while there I thought –” I thought you hated me. “ – I thought you would get worse. But it’s good. Sleeping is good. Sleeping is the best thing, really.”
“It is. I’m about to do that right now, actually.”
“Did you eat dinner?” I ask.
“Lasagna,” She chuckles. “Although, it was nowhere as good as Jack’s. I do miss that boy. Whatever happened between you two?”
I gnaw the inside of my mouth, a little hurt to distract from the big hurt threatening to swallow me whole.
“He’s dating someone else,” I force out.
“Oh, that’s too bad. He was quite the catch, but there are always better fish in the sea, sweetie, and you only deserve the best. Sweet dreams you. Don’t stay up too late studying.”
“I won’t. I love you,” I say.
“Love you too.”
I ditch my car to walk instead – the night is too cool and pretty to be stuck in a tin box. Mom is actually wrong – I don’t deserve the best fish. I deserve whichever one will put up with my bullshit the longest. Fish that actually understand and accept and care for me won’t look twice at someone so f*cked up. Jack taught me that. He’s still going out with Hemorrhoid. Not that it’s any of my business. They look like a couple from a Gucci advertisement, and she clings on him too much for me to stare at them for very long.
I hope she’s happy.
I hope he’s happy with her, at least a little.
The Phi Omega house is a few blocks from campus. It’s a big blue multi-level house, old as dirt and probably full of history. And corpses. Hopefully both. I park, the music already booming across the toilet-paper strewn lawn. I knock, and a huge, dark-haired jock with green eyes smiles down at me.
“Isis! There’s my girl!”
“Kieran!” I squeal, and punch him in the gut in our customary greeting. He doubles over in mock-pain, and when he lifts his head I peck him on the cheek. “Where’s the booze?”
“Down the hall and to the left. Dancefloor’s boring without you. Get some girls grinding.”
I wink at him. “Will do.”
Girls and guys are already sloppy making-out on the couch, and the beer pong game is well into its seventh round. That’s how I know I’m really late.
“Isis!” Heather, a black-haired girl with the biggest lips ever, throws her arms around me the second I walk in the kitchen. She smells like tequila and reminds me of Kayla. “It’s about f*ckin’ time! I was gonna text you to get your butt over here but…but I forgot my lock code thiny!”
“It’s 5429, girl,” I remind her. “Where’s Tyler?”
Heather sniffs. “Tyler and I aren’t talking. He’s a douchebag.”
“But you are sleeping with him tonight,” I say.
“Duh,” She rolls her eyes. “You were right. He’s hells my type.”
After one particularly gross make-out session with Tyler at another frat house in which Tyler tried to suck my lips off my face, I knew exactly who to set him up with – the girl on campus with the legendary lips. They’d been going out ever since with the fervor and rough visual resemblance of two crocodiles eating each other’s faces. I like playing matchmaker almost as much as punching jerks in the face. Almost. It warms my heart to see two people happy – even if that happiness is based on torrid and repeated sexual encounters versus, you know, an actual relationship. But who am I to judge? I’ve never had an actual relationship. Or an actual sexual encounter. For all my making out with random guys, I haven’t let them get under my clothes. I’m desperate to forget, not an idiot. I want to get better at being fun, and experienced, not better at contracting STDs. And it’s worked, so far. Every kiss has helped me become more confident. Every sloppy, throwaway, mindless kiss has helped me forget the important kisses that’ve seared tattoos on my lips.