Tag: stories

Mavis, part 2

INT, MARK’S CAR: Herbie Hancock’s “Sleep Like a Child” is playing on Mark’s Spotify playlist in the car and Mavis looks out the window as they keep driving. They pull up to Mark’s house. Mavis gets out of the car. Joyce and the kids are waiting outside. Soft country music plays as Joyce hugs Mavis, who cries.

INT, DINNER TABLE: Mark is cleaning and washing the dishes and Mavis is sitting at the table, eating the leftover beef stew that Mark cooked for dinner.

MAVIS: Why didn’t you ever become a chef?

She licks her fingers and continues to dig in. This is some darn good beef stew. She takes a bite out of the lemon meringue pie that Lily, Joyce and Mark’s 12-year-old daughter, made.

MAVIS: My gosh, Joyce is a BAKER!

Mark chuckles.

MARK: Lily made that actually.

Mavis puts down her fork and gives Mark a surprised look.

MARK: But Joyce helped her.

Mavis shrugs and continues to take massive bites out of the pie, alternating between the pie and the beef stew. As Mark washes the dishes, Ella Fitzgerald croons softly on his Spotify playlist. Mavis takes a sip of her Budweiser beer.

MAVIS: So, um, how’s family life been?

MARK: Oh, you know. It’s been going. Taking the kids to school, helping Lily and Max with their homework. Joyce and I are going to visit her grandparents in South Korea next week, so that should be nice.

MAVIS: Oh, wow.

MARK: Yeah, um…hey, I know you don’t want to answer this, but have you gone to talk with someone yet?

Mavis stops eating, then gets up and starts washing the dishes, ignoring Mark’s question. He wants to know if she has sought professional help for her PTSD after the abuse (her uncle sexually assaulted her as a child.)

MARK: Mavis…

MAVIS: Mark, you’ve been up all day. I can wash the dishes. It’s the least I can do.

MARK: Mavis….

MAVIS: Mark, I’ve got this.

Mark grabs her arm and Mavis recoils. Once again, she is back to being that scared 14-year-old kid again, seeing Uncle Robert restraining her with his arm as she fought to get away from him. Mark realizes what he did.

MARK: Mavis, I am so sorry.

Mavis grabs her coat and proceeds to leave.

MAVIS: Thank you, Mark, but I don’t deserve–

MARK: MAVIS!

MAVIS: Quiet! You’ll wake the kids.

Mark looks around in distress, then says in a quiet voice.

MARK: You can stay. I won’t touch you anymore.

Mavis steps away from the door.

MARK: There’s room down here if you want to sleep. I will keep the door locked.

Mavis nods, then surrenders. Mark goes upstairs to grab her blankets and pillows. She wants to refuse because she doesn’t think she deserves his kindness, but she is too tired to fight. She needs someone she can trust, and Mark has always supported her.

Mark comes down and unfolds the bed sheets for Mavis on the couch. He props up pillows for her. She lies down and feels like she is in heaven. The pillows are soft and feel like clouds, and she wraps the warm heavy blanket around her. He goes back into the kitchen and finishes putting up the dishes. Mavis sleeps peacefully that evening.

INT, SATURDAY MORNING, BREAKFAST. Mavis is in the kitchen, helping Joyce and the kids make breakfast. Mavis was never a great cook, and she ends up making the first few pancakes all runny and undone.

LILY: I’ll help you, Ms. Mavis!

Lily pours fresh pancake batter onto the griddle and waits for 2-3 minutes before flipping them over.

MAX: I wanna flip them! Me, me, me!!!

JOYCE: One at a time, you two!

Joyce shakes her head at Mavis and laughs. Mavis laughs, too.

By the time she is done, the pancakes have come out fluffy and done. Mavis watches in fascination as Lily and Max take turns flipping the pancakes. It’s pretty darn cute.

MAX: I wanna serve Ms. Mavis breakfast!

MAVIS: Oh, it’s fine, I—

But before she can refuse, Max and Lily have started setting the table and Lily h put a porcelain vase with an assortment of beautiful flowers at the center of the table.

JOYCE: Let me call Daddy down for breakfast.

She goes to the staircase and calls from below.

JOYCE: Mark, honey! Your pancakes are ready!

She hears no answer. She goes upstairs and finds he is not in his room. She lets out a blood-curdling scream and rushes downstairs. Mavis is quickly snapped out of her brief moment of bliss.

JOYCE: Mavis! Call the police! Mark is missing!

(Cue suspenseful music.)

Mavis grabs the landline and dials the local sheriff.

SHERIFF: Cook County Police Department, this is Cherylynn.

MAVIS: Hi, um…my brother…

Mavis starts crying.

CHERYLYNN: Ma’am, I can’t understand you.

Mavis finally snaps.
MAVIS: MY BROTHER! HE’S MISSING!

INT, COOK COUNTY POLICE DEPARTMENT. Mavis, Joyce, Max and Lily have been waiting for several hours. Lily is reading a book and Alex is crocheting. Joyce looks up at the ceiling and closes her eyes, tears streaming down her face. Mark comes out of the sheriff’s office and his nice white T-shirt is stained with blood. His face is covered in blood. Joyce gasps and screams. Mavis struggles to breathe. Did her brother kill someone?

MARK: Mavis, I can explain. Joyce, please go home with the kids. I’ll tell you everything when you get home.

JOYCE: No, I am not “going home,” Mark, until you tell me what the hell is going on!

Max and Lily stare in silence at their father. Mark takes a deep breath.

MARK: I rode down to town an hour away and found Uncle Robert.

Mavis freezes.

Mavis: I thought he was dead. No one in the family had spoken of him for years.

MARK: Not yet. He was talking outside with his buddies outside a bar. I went outside and froze when I saw who it was.

FLASHBACK, EXT, 10:00 PM, DESERTED LOOKING TOWN. Mark is walking and comes across Uncle Robert talking with a group of men outside a bar. Mark freezes. Uncle Robert turns and gives him a nasty look. He is 50, divorced and an alcoholic.

UNCLE ROBERT: What’re you lookin’ at, motherfucker?

Mark goes straight up to Uncle Robert and knocks the daylights out of him. Uncle Robert’s face gets bloodier until Mark has beaten it a pulp.

MARK: You got away with what you did to my sister! I will never forgive you!

He turns away and hears a click. Uncle Robert has aimed his pistol at Mark and has a menacing look on his face. Mark takes a step forward and laughs.

MARK: You may seem scary, but you’re nothing but a coward. A piece of shit. I will never forgive you. And neither will Mavis.

Uncle Robert sighs and pants, then gives Mark a twisted smile and laughs.

UNCLE ROBERT: No one has caught me yet. Why should you be the first?

Mark tries to find a distraction.

MARK: Hey, police! Behind you!

Uncle Robert turns and before he knows it, Mark grabs the pistol and shoots Robert in the stomach. Twice. Blood pools around Robert’s body. Robert struggles to crack and smile before closing his eyes.

ROBERT: Tell Mavis I said–

He is dead.

Now Mark really hears sirens. The police are coming for him.

Excerpt Draft from Babyface, something I am working on

Kat goes into the bar. Her friend, Miranda, is with her. Miranda goes up to the bouncer, a 6’4″ tall Black man.

Go on in, the bouncer says.

Kat tries to go in, and the bouncer shakes his head.

I need to see some ID, says the bouncer.

Miranda has already gone inside, even as Kat tries to wave her hands to signal, “Hey, buddy, can I get some help?”

Kat finally rolls her eyes, and shows her ID to the bouncer. The bouncer sees her age (30) and lets her in.

Sorry, I thought you were underage, so I had to ask, the bouncer says.

Kat walks into the club. Loud music is blaring. They find themselves crushed against the sweaty, horny bodies of college students and 70-year-olds trying to be young and free again. Kat finds them a seat at the bar. Miranda calls to the bartender.

Two beers, she calls out, sliding a $10 bill on the table.

The bartender gives a beer to Miranda, but not one to Kat.

Hey, um…my friend got us two beers. Where’s the other? Kat gently asks.

The bartender shakes his head.

I can’t give you beer. You’re underage. But I can fix you up a non-alcoholic drink if you want. Shirley Temple, Sprite, what do you want, hon?

Kat bristles. She has been called “hon” her whole life for having a babyface and it really annoys the hell out of her. Frustrated, she whips out her ID and practically shoves it in the bartender’s face.

I’m 30, okay? Freaking 3-0. Got it? she snaps.

The bartender just starts laughing until his ribs hurt.

Why’s that funny? Kat asks.

I’m sorry, the bartender says, it’s just…you don’t look 30! I-I-hahahaha–you just look like a teenager!

Kat frowns.

Anyway, beer coming up, he says, continuing to laugh. He pours beer from the tap and slides the glass to Kat.

Thanks, Kat says, rolling her eyes.

Miranda is looking around the club at all the boys. She spies a hot-looking tall guy with dark brown hair and blue eyes. His name is Bryan.

He’s cute, Miranda says, looking at Bryan up and down like he’s dinner.

Kat shrugs.

He’s ok. Not my type, but you should go talk to him, Kat says, sipping her beer.

You’re asexual, you don’t even have a type, Miranda says, rolling her eyes. Anyway, I’m gonna go over and introduce myself.

Have fun, Kat says, waving to her friend.

An older woman walks up to Kat and sits down.

Aren’t you a little young to be drinking, sweetie?

Kat groans. Not again.

Miranda saunters over to Bryan, who is dancing and drinking with his buddies. She tries to dance with him, but he ignores her.

Hey! Miranda shouts over the music.

Bryan turns around.

Oh, hey, he laughs. Didn’t see you there!

Miranda flirts with him.

You’re a good dancer! she shouts as she gyrates in an awkward fashion.

Oh, thanks! he shouts back. He motions to his buddies that he’s going to go home with Miranda.

Aw come on, man! Bryan’s buddies call out to him. You’re ditching us?

Bryan waves goodbye. His friend, Artie, raises his Solo cup.

Meet us tomorrow night at Brigsby’s! Poker and burgers, he reminds Bryan.

It’s a deal, bro! Bryan yells. He disappears in the crowd with Miranda. Miranda leads him over to the bar to introduce him to Kat.

Hey, bud, you good? Miranda says, running out of breath. Me and Macho Man are gonna head on out.

Kat looks at her, a little taken aback. They were supposed to navigate this rowdy territory together.

But we just got here, Miranda, Kat says.

I don’t care! It’s 12 am and I’m in the mood to fuuuuuuck!

Bryan gives Miranda an uncomfortable look.

This is Kat, by the way, Miranda says.

Bryan isn’t looking at Miranda anymore. He smiles shyly when he and Kat make eye contact. Kat is asexual so she’s not interested in him at first, so she just smiles.

Nice to meet you. Don’t worry, Kat, I’ll take an Uber home.

Miranda waves goodbye as she forces Bryan out the door to go back to her place. They’re walking down the street.

So…what’s your friend like? Bryan asks.

She’s a little naive. I don’t think she’s interested in dating, Miranda says.

Bryan gets a little sad but shrugs.

That’s understandable, he says. What do you do for work?

I’m a data analyst, Miranda says.

Bryan nods.

How about you? Miranda asks.

I’m a Spanish teacher, Bryan says.

Ay, Papi! Miranda starts flirting with Bryan again, looking him up and down like he is dinner. Hablas Español?

Bryan laughs shyly.

Si, pero necesito improvar mucho.

Well, you can speak all the Spanish you want to me, daddy, Miranda says, smacking Bryan’s butt. Bryan gives her a strange look but doesn’t say anything. They keep walking home.

Kat has left the bar. She doesn’t want to be around anyone anymore after her friend ditched her. She sits at home, reading Light in August by William Faulkner.

Lambert’s

During road trips to Chicago, we would often go to a few places: The Flying Fish in Little Rock, Arkansas; Cracker Barrel (anywhere we went through the South had a Cracker Barrel, so we were pretty fortunate in that sense); or McDonalds. During one road trip to Chicago (I think it was during my winter break), we decided to go outside our comfort zone and try a restaurant called Lambert’s, which was located in Missouri. We didn’t know much about it, other than that they were called “Home of the Throwed Rolls.” We were pretty intrigued by the title, not just by the intentional grammar choice but because as a kid I was picturing a scene where a bunch of waiters and waitresses were throwing rolls at people in a sort of Sylvester Stallone action type movie. Would I get hit in the eye? The groin? The nose? How would I dodge these rolls once the waiters and waitresses started throwing them? And would this go down as a food fight, the kind I saw in movies like Max Keeble’s Big Move? I am exaggerating, but from what I can remember they were serious about throwing the rolls. And even more serious about the portion sizes.

We walked into the restaurant and blues music played on the stereo. It was a bustling day, and there were quite a few people. Even though we didn’t eat red meat or poultry, we ate fish, so we ordered four plates of fried catfish. They would charge us extra if we shared a plate. I didn’t know what was in store for us when we set foot in the restaurant, but let me tell you, it was neither Cracker Barrel nor The Flying Fish. It was a completely new experience.

Waiters came around with tin cans of a sticky syrup called sorghum. Up until I stepped foot in this restaurant, the only sweeteners I had consumed were honey and cane sugar.

“Sooorrrrghum on your rolls!” a young mustachioed waiter hollered as he came around with sorghum. Fluffy hot rolls flew at us, and we caught them with serious baseball sportsmanship.

“Macaroni and tomatoes!”

I nodded, and the waitress heaped my plate with macaroni and tomatoes. I ate. Mmmm, I said, as I dug into the buttery pasta. My stomach shelf was at about 40 percent. I ate a bread roll with sorghum. It was an interesting taste. I chewed the roll and swallowed, and it worked its way through my throat like warm glue. Oh, gosh, my stomach groaned. You are at sixty five percent, kid. Slow down.

“Fried okra!” As a kid who grew up in the South, I couldn’t say no to some fried okra. It was just too good. I savored each bite. My stomach was yelling a little louder. You are at seventy-five percent! Don’t give me any more food to digest!

But I couldn’t. I also didn’t want to hurt the waiters’ feelings by saying “no, thank you.” Our plates of fried catfish came around, and by the time they got to our table, our stomachs were smaller than our eyes. I wanted to take a break, but the food just kept coming around. My stomach was screaming, STOPPPP!!! IT IS WAY TOO MUCH FOOD! You are at 110 percent!!! I weakly eyed my catfish, and my stomach nearly lurched. I grabbed my fork and cut through a sliver of the fried fish filet and took a bite. Delicious. I took more forkfuls and almost made it through half of the catfish. My family was almost done with theirs and they were getting pretty full, too. We groaned from the pain of eating more than your stomach allows you to.

“Macaroni and tomatoes?” A woman came around with a bowl of macaroni and tomatoes. She had a Santa hat on, and a cheery disposition.

I waved my hand in defeat. I might as well have waved my white napkin and called a truce between me, my stomach, and all that delicious Southern goodness.

“No thank you, ma’am.”

She gave a concerned look.

“Are you allergic to the food?”

I shook my head.

“No, ma’am, I am just full.”

She moved on to the next table.

We paid the bill and thanked the people at the restaurant. We slowly got up and used the restroom and then waddled our way to the car, sleepy and full. I don’t know how Mom and Dad are going to drive back, I thought. We ate so much food.

We got in the car, and the first thing my sister jokingly said was, “Wow. Let’s go get some ice cream!”

We all gave her dagger eyes. I couldn’t drink alcohol because I was underage, but it wasn’t until I ate in that restaurant that I learned you can be intoxicated just from eating a lot of good Southern food until your stomach is begging for mercy.

The Babysitter (CW: explicit)

It was a Friday night. Kayla and her kids were sitting on the couch watching SpongeBob SquarePants, Kayla cradling her prominent bump. She was about to approach her due date pretty soon. She was going to have another girl. These nine months have felt like nine weeks.

Dave came out from the kitchen, holding a plate piled high with nachos. Steaming chips dripping with gooey melted Velveeta cheese, piles of greasy ground beef, topped with sour cream, guacamole and salsa. Was he going to share some with his wife and kids? I wondered as I folded Mike and Laurie’s laundry, making sure Mike’s Power Ranger pajamas were creased and folded perfectly, the way Kayla wants me to fold them. I have been working as a babysitter for the McRobbins family for four years now. I needed a job to pay for my college tuition, and so far it has provided a good way to pay my bills and also, the kids are too darn cute for me to leave them.

Dave crams nachos in his mouth, and finally he offers the remaining half of the nachos to his wife and kids. Kayla rescues a chip from the cheese pile, scoops up some ground beef and guacamole, and crams it in her mouth. The kids are busy eating Goldfish with their eyes glued to the television. I hear a ping, and walk over to my phone. My girlfriend, Katherine, has just texted me.

Kat: U ok?

Me: Yeah. Love you.

Two minutes pass, then my phone pings again.

Kat: Love u more.

I put my phone back in my pocket, and continue to fold the laundry.

“Hey, Jenny! Can you get me that pint of Blue Bell from the freezer?”

The soon-to-be-born baby was craving chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. I walk over to the freezer, and am about to open the door and take in the cold air, when I hear a loud groan.

My blood freezes.

I hear the plate clatter on the hardwood floor. I walk in and I see the nachos piled on the floor. Bret, the family’s cute Border Terrier, is licking off cheese and meat from the floor with a delighted expression on his face. I’m going to have to clean up his vomit later because he surely can’t be eating that.

But that’s the least of my worries. Dave is grabbing the hospital bag from the kitchen table, and he rushes over to his wife, who is red in the face and panting, clutching her stomach in pain, gritting her teeth as another intense wave of contractions courses through her body.

“Jenny, call the doctor.”

I nod, and scroll through my contacts. Kayla had me to keep Dr. Gross’s phone number in my contacts for when the due date came. I quickly enter the ok button, and wait as the dial tone rings.

“Welcome to Medical City. If you are in labor or have an emergency, press 1…”

Without waiting for the other options, I press 1.

“Please hold.”

Some elevator music plays on the other line. A sweet voice answers the phone.

“Dr. Gross’s office. This is Linda. How may I help you?”

“I have a patient named Kayla McRobbins. She is in labor.”

“Wonderful. I will let Dr. Gross know.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. See you at the hospital.”

I hang up.

Kayla is a puddle of sweat and tears as she bends over in pain.

“Dave, they’re ready.”

“Thanks, Jenny. We’ll see you and the kids when we get back from the hospital.”

I help Kayla walk to the door. She clings to my arm.

“Breathe.”

She remembers what she learned during the birth class, and takes quick breaths in and out.

I help her into the car, and watch as they drive off. I go back inside the house.

“Mom’s gonna be ok.” I reassure the kids. They are no longer watching SpongeBob SquarePants. Bret is looking up at me with a pained expression. I should have told him to not eat those nachos.

Then I hear a ping. I check my phone but haven’t gotten any messages. I hear another. It’s coming from the kitchen. Dave left his phone by accident on the kitchen counter. I pick it up. The messages are from a woman I don’t know named Carla.

Carla: Hey babe. U free to talk?

Carla: We had such a good time last night on the phone.

I freeze. Wait, it can’t be. Is Dave…cheating?

I know I shouldn’t be nosy. But seriously, it’s Dave’s fault. I wouldn’t have gone through his phone if he was a little smarter and listened when his wife told him to create a PIN for security reasons.

I scroll through the text thread, and my blood runs cold.

Dave: Hey baby.

Carla: Hey.

Dave: Send me some sexy vibes.

Carla: I am wet. My fingers are touching myself. When I think of you on top of me…

Dave: I’m getting wet too.

Carla: I am moaning. My finger is rubbing that spot. I want you to feel my body all over.

Dave: My hands feel their way through your tits. I want to cream all over you. I want to grab your juicy ass and—

I put the phone down. I am nauseous. I literally cannot read anything more from this jackass. How long has he been with this girl? Is this his ex from college he thought he left behind? I know he once dated a woman named Carla Richards during the Stone Age, but there are so many Carlas out there…

My head spins. I nervously look at Mike and Laurie as they gently rub Bret’s upset stomach and coo to him baby words to make him feel better. I would rather die than ruin these sweet little souls’ lives by telling them their dad is a liar, a cheater, a jerk. I can’t do anything right now. Dave and Kayla are at the hospital. What am I going to do? Drive up there to the emergency room and tell Kayla during her strenuous labor that her husband is cheating on her with his ex? Gosh, that would really ruin everything.

I quietly chant Nam-myoho-renge-kyo to calm down. So glad my friend told me about Buddhism because I don’t know if I can handle all the thoughts and anxieties running through my head right now.

It turns out I didn’t have to really do anything. A couple of months later, Kayla found her husband’s phone and saw he was texting Carla, and she kicked his ass out of the house for good.

“But baby, please, what about the kids? What about us?”

“DAVE! LISTEN TO YOURSELF RIGHT THIS FUCKING MINUTE. I SPENT NINE FUCKING MONTHS CONCEIVING YOUR THIRD KID AND I TOOK CARE OF THE KIDS WHILE YOU SHOVED NACHOS DOWN YOUR BEERGUT STOMACH AND HAD PHONE SEX WITH SOME CHICK FROM COLLEGE! DO YOU THINK I GIVE A FUCK WHAT HAPPENS TO YOU AND ME TEN YEARS—NO, FUCK THAT, TEN SECONDS FROM NOW?”

I heard the door slam and a loud “FUCK YOU” that definitely didn’t come from Kayla this time. I was in the kitchen cooking breakfast for the kids and Baby No.3, Greta. As greasy rashes of bacon danced in the frying pan with sunny side up eggs, my blood ran cold. I wish I had told her sooner but what was I to do? She was in the hospital, about to give birth. I didn’t have time to tell her Dave was cheating on her. I turn the stove off and dish out the breakfast for the kids.

Kayla walks quickly into the kitchen, wearing a black suit and sleek Louboutin heels. Her mascara is smudged and her perfect cherry-red hair is a mess. She sees me and then breaks down in tears. Just stands there and cries. I don’t know what to do.

She then comes over to me and gives me a hug. Her tears and mascara smudge on my cheek, but I don’t even care. We quietly stay like this for a good five minutes and I don’t let go once.

She pulls apart from me and sniffles.

“Do you think you need a day off?”

She nods, then her lips tremble and she cries even harder.

I grab my phone to dial her boss, Miranda, but she puts a hand on my arm.

She shakes her head and whispers, “It’s ok. I’ll email her later.”

We make our way quietly to the couch and watch some TV, the kids’ cacophonous cries echoing behind us from the kitchen.

On Trichotillomania (content warning: mental illness)

Pluck, pluck, pluck. My fingers dry as can be, cracked shriveled skin. They move towards my eyes. My eyelashes, rough and short because I plucked so many of them out and they are not growing back the way I want them to. Damn it, I think, they are so short. I can’t pluck them. When I pluck, I feel tension, like someone is tugging at my eyelashes and then when the hair separates from the follicle in one fell swoop, I fell a weird release of tension, the same kind of tension one night release when they take a breath of fresh air. It is painful and my eyelashes are so short but I can’t stop no matter how hard I try. I pluck when I do anything: sitting, watching, television, eating Fritos, writing a blog post, catching zzzzs and failing. I wish there was some magic trich fairy that could make trichotillomania disappear.

My mom knocks on my door.

“Come in,” I yell as P!nk blasts through my stereos.

She walks in.

“Are you coming for dinner?”

I stare at the computer. The red beanie cap covers my newly plucked scalp. I mutter a laconic “mmmm-hmmm” and keep staring at the computer. Please don’t ask me about this dumb trich, I plead to God, Buddha, the Universe, or whoever is listening up there.

“Why are you wearing a hat?” she asks.

I quickly shake my head.

“Nothing.”

“No, it’s not nothing, Miranda.”

She walks closer. Then she removes my cap and gasps when she sees the plethora of hairs I have pulled from my scalp over the past couple of months.

“Dr. Steinberg told you to not pull for at least a few months!”

“I know, I know…” I mutter. “But…”

“But what?”

“I can’t stop, Mom, okay? It’s just something that I have, ok? I cannot get rid of it, I have done everything.”

“So the Zoloft didn’t work wonders for you, eh?”

“No, the Zoloft was fine, Mom, I’m not saying that. It’s just…it will take me a while to recover from this habit, that’s all.”

She rolls her eyes towards the ceiling.

“Dear God, we have been through this so many times,” she mutters, her eyes closed.

She is clearly exasperated with me and I am starting to become exasperated with her. Unconsciously, my index finger and thumb make their way to my eyelashes…

My mom slaps my hand away from my eyes.

“Mom!”

She pauses.

“I’m sorry, but this has been going on for too long.” She sighs and shakes her head. Before she leaves my room, she calls, “Wash your hands for dinner.”

I pause, then take a shaky breath. It’s ok, don’t take it personally. You will overcome this, I think. I know I will. Just get me through these dumb stressful teenage years and it will just go away.

Tears form in my eyes and my bottom lip trembles. I cover my tear-stained face with my right hand and lower my head to my desk my body heaving each time I break down. I gasp for breath and choke out sobs. I feel like a total failure. Mom and Dad sent me to a therapist and the therapist gave me medication, and it worked, so why the hell am I still plucking?

The next day I go to school wearing the same beanie. A skinny young woman wearing a red flannel long-sleeved shirt, a black skirt and clunky Doc Martens walks down the hall, only something catches my eye. She is wearing a beanie, too, except it’s a navy blue one. And it looks like her eyelashes and eyebrows might have bald spots, too… I realize then: I’m not the only one with this problem.

The girl pauses to take a drink at the fountain. Madison Hart and her friends turn and look at the girl wearing the blue beanie and start giggling.

“Why is she wearing a hat inside?”

“Maybe she has lice.”

“Maybe she is bald.”

They all gasp and giggle at each other’s jokes. I am really sad that this girl is being teased. She continues to walk down the hall, quicker this time, and out of the corner of her eye I see a tear fall. I hope I get to see this girl at some point during the day. I wonder if she has friends.

Lunchtime comes, and I stand in the cafeteria line. The hot piping smell of fresh calzones and steamed broccoli wafts up to my nostrils. I hear the sizzling of canola oil as the greasy smell of French fries tantalizes my taste buds. I feel a tingle, then a twitch, then that impulse to pull gnaws at me as I anxiously look at the fifteen other students in line. I am too embarrassed and shy to speak to anyone. I close my eyes against the cacophony of high school freshmen chattering and someone at the table nearest the lunch line blasting Fetty Wap’s “Trap Queen” from their iPhone. I take a deep breath. Please don’t pull, please don’t pull….

Unfortunately it doesn’t work. Within milliseconds my fingers are fondling my eyelashes. Ugh, they are so ugly, I just need to pull them out so that when I look in the mirror I don’t have to look at how ugly these short eyelashes are. I don’t want to do this now, not with people watching. People are going to laugh at me if I do this.

My stomach lets out an impatient growl. Hurry up already, it screams. But the urge to get rid of this super-short eyelash is screaming even louder, drowning out the cries of my hunger. I make my way out of the lunch line, losing my place within 5 minutes of approaching the mecca of food. The cacophony glides behind me and then falls from a crescendo into a muddled whisper as I am now in the quiet of the girls’ bathroom stall. I dig out my compact mirror from my purse and wipe off the smudges on the surface. I take a good hard look at my eyes, putting the mirror closer to my eyelids so I could know which hairs needed to go. I found my right hand fumble towards my chin. Ugh, there is hair on that, too. There are bald spots where I pulled the hairs out from last week. They look dry, scaly and frankly unattractive. Long rivers of tears fall down my cheek and kiss each of these bald spots. I don’t want to pull that curly one, I know it will hurt, but it’s so damned crooked and it stands out. I sigh. I am losing this painful battle and it hurts to admit that I have done everything I could and am still doing this to myself. Don’t I want to be pretty? Don’t I want to have beautiful long curling eyelashes softer than the softest pillow? I give in to temptation, and tug at the lonely short crooked hair that belonged on my chin. It doesn’t give at first but I keep tugging it. Fuck it, I just want some release, just want to release the tension in my fingers, in my body, in my life.

The hair comes loose and I rub it around with my fingers and let it rest on my tongue. Then I don’t feel good about swallowing hair so I just flick it off my fingers and let it fall to the linoleum floor and land somewhere it can find peace.

I unlock the bathroom stall, feeling relieved, anxious, ashamed and alone. But my breath catches when I see no one other than the blue-beanie girl peering in the big long mirror plucking away at her eyebrows using nothing other than her long fingers. I stop dead in my tracks. She continues to pull, a lonely expression on her face.

“Hey…” I shyly say.

She doesn’t reply. She just continues to look in the mirror silently and with a pained expression on her face. She gathers her brown leather messenger bag and before leaving, give me a blank indifferent look and leaves the restroom, the cold metal red door slamming behind her. The dim lights flicker and a cockroach crawls from under the sink. It darts towards a crack in the wall and disappears. I stand all alone.