I’m not enough of a pussy to let anyone get me down, though. Not Mom, not Blair, and for shit sure not fucking Dustin. And not Jane.
Even with all my makeup wiped off, I no longer hate the girl in the mirror and the way she looks. I’m seventeen; I’ve grown into myself. My lips are fuller, my face is justbetter—sure, the nose job Mom made me get in seventh grade helped—but I’ve also just matured. I’m not the pathetic little thing I used to be. My body’s developed now: I have curves, and I’m taller. And I go to the best hairstylist in town.
But even with all this, nobody in town can see past who I once was, the ugly duckling. The freak.
No matter what I do, I’ll never look like Blair, with herheart-shaped face, model bone structure, perfect figure. Or Jane, who, despite her buckteeth, is pretty, though I hate to even admit it.
The only timeI’vefelt pretty is when I went to Dad’s family’s place in Stockholm. I was fifteen, and my parents sent me over there for the summer.
I was in heaven. I was accepted. They don’t have the same bullshit beauty standards over there in Europe that they have over here. My cousins took me skinny-dipping in the lakes, clubbing at the underage spots in the city. Boys actually wanted to dance with me, actually hit on me. Made out with me. I got felt up in the bathroom at one of those clubs by a tall blond boy named Sven, who was hotter than any boy in Longview.
And because they’re not so uptight over there, my big clan of cousins and aunts and uncles thought my darker side was funny.
To a point.
Until I got sent home.
I had developed a severe crush on a distant cousin, another tall blond named Thor. He came and spent weekends at my aunt and uncle’s massive house, and I was always flirting with him. And I thought he was flirting back, because he was always nice to me. I thought he liked me, too.
One night, when we went skinny-dipping, all of us, he was dog-paddling in the water right in front of me, like a foot away. I thought he wanted to kiss me, so I leaned in, but he looked confused, shook his head, then swam away.
I was enraged.
And then I had an idea. I knew he had a peanut allergy.
Could die from it.
So, the next weekend, I ground some up into powder and mixed it into my trail mix. Begged him to go hiking with me. To show me a new trail.
Once we were about a mile into the forest, I sat down on a rock and pulled out the trail mix. Offered him some.
He ate a fistful.
Happiness spread through me.
Not one minute later, he was gasping for air. Pointing at his backpack, motioning for me to unzip it, locate his EpiPen.
I just glared at him.
His hands started flailing around wildly, his face pleading with me to help.
I bit my bottom lip, careful not to smile.
And didn’t budge.
I glanced at my Swatch.
One minute had passed.
His face was now red as a Christmas sweater.
His choking sounds were getting louder, but we were all alone, the noises muffled in the grand forest.
Two minutes.
I gave him another nasty stare.
Then I unzipped his backpack. Found his EpiPen and slapped it in his shaky hand.
