When I was thirteen, my dad painted my ceiling blue because that’s what I wanted. Not because someone else suggested it, or thought it should be that color, but because I liked it. The same way I was so in love with my yellow Beetle, before Kristen berated it to my face.
How did something as simple as deciding what I like become so freaking complicated?
Before I realize it, I’ve torn every article of pink clothing off the hangers and tossed it all into a pile behind me. It feels…good. Liberating. Why should I wear a color I hate? It isn’t like it’ll change Kristen’s mind, or make people like me, or make my life at all easier. These past few days I’ve tried to blend into the walls by hiding in too-big sweaters and jeans, make myself as unnoticed as possible, but obviously that isn’t helping.
So maybe it’s time to stop working around other people’s expectations.
I go through the rest of my closet and my entire dresser, pulling out anything I don’t like anymore, or never liked in the first place. Over half of my clothes end up in the DO NOT WANT heap. I don’t stop there—I sort through all my makeup, my jewelry, my shoes, the girly magazines stashed under my bed. By the time I’m done, my room looks like it was ravaged by a level-five tornado.
I throw everything I’m getting rid of into garbage bags. Most of it can go to Goodwill. The magazines I’ll dump. Clippings of articles I’ve written for the Gazette are taped up by my mirror; there are photos, too, snapshots of Kristen and Warren and Derek and our whole group, hanging out on the quad, partying at Kristen’s, group shots of us all in our formal wear for Homecoming, that I carefully peel off the wall. I stuff it all in an empty shoebox and shove it all the way in the back of my closet shelf, where I won’t have to be reminded. Out of sight, out of mind.
* * *
Mom finds me in the basement as I’m piling the garbage bags next to the dryer. She folds her arms and watches, waiting for me to acknowledge her presence. Once I’ve stacked the last bag, I turn and look at her. She has the same hair as me, red and wild, but she always pulls it back in a tight knot. A few wisps have escaped the elastic and frame her face.