I don’t write books to teach lessons. I write them to sort through the things that fascinate, scare, repulse, and thrill me. Many of these things rise up like terrible bubbles from my past. I know people are going to read What Girls Are Made Of and be unhappy with some of the choices that Nina makes. They are going to tsk and purse their lips, and words like “codependent” and “unlikeable” and “needy” will be attached to her. People will say she is made of bad choices. Parts of her are ugly and mean and gross. Things come out of her—actions and words and excretions—that offend and repulse.
Yes, I will agree. All these things are true. And yet, I love her. I love Nina. I love this book. I love the ugliness and vulnerabilities and fears and shames, all of it. I wrote this book because it rose up out of me. I wrote it for myself.
But, here. You can have it, too. There is enough to share. Eat your fill and consider—what are you made of? Also, remember—you don’t owe anyone a slice of your soul. Not your parents. Not your friends. Not your teachers or your lovers or your enemies.
And you don’t have to listen to anyone who tells you what girls are made of. Decide on your own what your heart is. Protect it. Enjoy it. Share it, if you want. You get this one body and this one hundred years. Love it, love it, please, love it.
Acknowledgments
What Girls Are Made Of was made, well, with the help of lots of women.
First and foremost, I’m deeply grateful for my editor Alix Reid, who trusted my vision and helped me crystalize it. Thank you, Alix.
Suzanne Wertman, CNM, generously answered lists of questions about reproductive health, and Kerri-Lynne Menard explained the procedures for volunteering at an animal shelter.
Kate Healy reminded me to visit the Ecstasy of Saint Teresa while in Rome, and Erin O’Shea told me about the Pear of Anguish.
My sisters Sasha and Mischa were, as always, my first readers, and their enthusiasm means more than they probably know.
Both Martha Brockenbrough and Carrie Mesrobian read early drafts of the book that became What Girls Are Made Of, and their insight and encouragement propelled me forward.
I’m indebted to the work of Brandy Colbert, Christa Desir, Sarah McCarry, Laura Ruby, and Erica Lorraine Scheidt, all novelists who examine the female teenage body in ways that inspired this book.
In addition to these wonderful women, I was aided by a number of good men, including Dean Anderson Ayers, who patiently answered my questions about the practicalities of putting a dog to sleep and what happens to the bodies afterward, Rubin Pfeffer, my steadfast agent, who always returns e-mails quickly and enthusiastically, and Andrew Karre.
Being a full-time writer is a privilege I don’t take lightly. Above all, I am indebted to my family, who supports me in all ways.
Now out in paperback!
Don’t miss Elana K. Arnold’s gripping young adult novel Infandous.
Sample chapter included.
One
Things don’t really turn out the way they do in fairy tales. I’m telling you that right up front, so you’re not disappointed later.
Part of the problem is that we’ve all been lied to by Disney. You probably know that he whitewashed the shit out of the gory, sexy originals—what, you think a flower’s a flower?— that he made them into movies that teach little girls all they need to know to be princesses: be patient, be modest, and above all, be beautiful. If you do these things, Disney promises, then Prince Charming is coming for you and everything is going to work out just fine.
I guess my mom figured things would go down for her like Walt said. She was as beautiful as any princess. The modeling contracts she’d had since she was fifteen attested to that, along with the way the world seemed to rearrange itself to suit her. I’ve seen the pictures; I would have found it hard to say no too if the teenage version of my mom asked me for something. Hell, I find myself compelled to do the bidding of her thirty-five-year-old incarnation more times than not. But back then—the summer of her absolute apex, the summer when she was seventeen—the world was my mom’s bitch.
Her hair, for one thing. I read somewhere that guys notice hair first—before they look at tits or legs or even faces. Hair’s the first thing that raises a guy’s “ardor.” My mom’s hair is spun copper. Goldish-reddish, wavy, and gorgeous. That, combined with the fact that her name is Rebecca Golding, combined with her modeling and her better-than-average surfing abilities and her willingness to say yes to pretty much any party, at any time, raised her pedestal to break-your-neck-if-you-fall heights.
By the way, who the fuck names her daughter Sephora? I’ll tell you who. My mother. Golden girl. Fallen angel. Knocked-up model. Unwed mother. She claims she gave me the name because it means “beautiful bird” and “independent,” but bullshit. I maintain that she named me after the makeup store. (And another thing . . . about her name: Rebecca. I’d bet my ass her parents didn’t know its meaning—“beautiful snare”— when they chose it. They probably just thought it was a nice Bible name.)
Anyway, the fairy tale didn’t really turn out the way Mom had hoped. The tourist-prince who spread her petals wasn’t quite ready for happily ever after, and so he left my mother to bloat and birth all on her own. Her psycho-religious parents disowned her too, kicking her out of the respectable Marina del Rey home where she’d grown up. So she moved down the road to Venice Beach, not far from the break where she’d met my father. When I arrived, it was just the two of us, Rebecca and Sephora, in the first of a string of shitty apartments.
And the rent? (Because shitty apartments aren’t free, even for princesses.) No, we’re not getting monthly guilt checks from the grandparents. (Though Venice Beach is a convenient place to stash family embarrassments.) Since the last of the bikini modeling jobs ended where the stretch marks began, our life has been decidedly month-to-month. But this is Venice Beach. The math works a little differently here.
***
Right now it’s close to midnight on the fifth of June. Yesterday was the last day of school, and that makes me officially a senior now, though the promotion doesn’t feel all that thrilling.
But summer is here at least, and I have a week before I have to report to my first day of summer school. Geometry bested me, and now it will return to mock me in the form of six weeks of forced math labor. I decide not to waste another moment of this week thinking about it.
I skate through the mostly sleepy streets of Venice, not the main drag or any of the canal streets, but just through the maze of shitty apartments, a part of town that most of my friends and I call home.