They’re pretty, I guess, but they’re not for me. I mean, I really ought to wear them, especially considering how excited Mom was when she presented them to me. “They’re simply precious!” She’d cooed, flashing her whitened teeth in a grin that reached from one perfectly shaped ear to the other. Even in the muddy kind of light that filtered through my bedroom window, she still looked flawless: The neat makeup done with a practiced hand, enough to enhance without making her look cakey. Tiny pores, tanned skin, eyes that managed to glint no matter how dark it was. My mother, the Barbie doll. “And,” She’d continued, pushing them into my face so fervently they nearly went up my nostrils. “they’re a great color on you!”
I wanted to tell her that, no, they’re a great color on you. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not yet. Deep breath in, deep breath in, flash a plastic smile she gratefully mistook for genuine. Just one more Thursday. I told myself. That’s all you need to last. One more Thursday. That’s not even that long, only a few more days. One more Thursday, and you're done.
But then again, I’ve been saying that for forty-six Thursdays.
I really shouldn’t be angry with Mom. I know she only says they’d look good on me because she desperately wants them to. I know that she wishes I could look like her and Lila, have the same sleek, salt and pepper hair, the slender nose, the flashing green eyes just like they do. Sometimes I wish I did look like them, but not often. Usually I’m pretty clear on how I feel about these sorts of things, but Thursdays are when my feelings get jumble. I start out proud, exuberant, uninhibited. Then when he misses our call time, I start to think, hey, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, looking like Mom and Lila. Then when I crawl into bed at night and pull my pillow close, unfulfilled, I quietly hope I’ll get into a car crash so I’ll have to get plastic surgery and end up looking like them.
To be honest, Mom probably only wants me to look more like her just so I’ll look less like Dad. The thing is, most of the time, I like looking like Dad. We do look alike, but I think he pulls it off better. Apparently abnormally small noses, huge, pale eyes, thin lips, pasty skin, and limp, somehow sepia-colored hair just look better on men. But still, I like looking “unique”. That’s how he always described me. At least, that’s what he said the last time I spoke to him, anyway. Forty-six Thursdays ago.
Forty seven? No, no, definitely forty-six. Two more days, though, and it’ll be forty-seven.
I don’t think Mom knows it’s been forty-six Thursdays, but she does know its been quite a while. Part of me believes- no, part of me knows that she’s relieved. Lila is, too, though she’s better at hiding it. But even if they’re glad, I’m not. Not glad. What an understatement. But I think my not-gladness is making Mom feel guilty, which is probably why the presents have started pouring in these past few weeks. I should be excited by all this- what fourteen year old girl isn’t excited by accessories and shoes and fancy technology?- but it really just makes me feel guilty because I know that she’s trying, even if it isn’t helping at all.
So, reluctantly, I slide them on and slip out the back door before Mom or Lila have a chance to notice or comment. As I walk, I think about taking them off. I think about throwing them in the mud and crushing them underfoot, grinding them with my heel until they’re nothing but fine powder adding a little sparkle to the dirt. I think about running away and never looking back. How good would it feel to just get away from it all? Forget Mom, forget Lila, forget all their efforts and failures and guilt. Just run and run and run. Run to Dad. I could find him, I’m sure I could.
But I can’t do it. Not yet.
I’ll save it for Thursday.