It is Thanksgiving and I am ecstatic to be swimming with my cousin Maddy in her family’s fancy pool. I am secretly terrified of the automatic vacuum curling around my legs and sucking me under like a giant squid, but I would never pass up an opportunity to hang out with Maddy – although to be honest, she’s not very nice to me and I don’t think she likes me very much. But she has the most beautiful red hair in the world. My hair hangs in wet tangled mats around my face, while Maddy’s auburn hair lies in glossy, smooth perfection against her head. “Close your eyes,” she instructs me, “and lean back into the water until it hits the top of your forehead. Then lift your head up slowly.” “Will it make me beautiful?” I ask. Maddy nods.
***
Filled with a powerful rage, the origins of which I cannot remember, I watch from the kitchen window as my mom pours chlorine into the pool. Slamming the door behind me, I walk purposefully down the patio steps towards my unassuming mother. I wait expectantly for her to turn around and address me, but she doesn’t acknowledge my presence. My hands shoot out from my arms and attach themselves to the back of my mom’s muggy t-shirt, and shove at her hunched over body. I bring my hands to my face and stare at them in disbelief as my mom tumbles perilously close to the toxic water. She lifts herself off the deck as a few drops of blood mar the beige tile. I realize, in absolute horror, that I just tried to kill Mom.
***
I suck air into my lungs: “Little girls, little girls, everywhere I turn I can see them,” I warble, dancing drunkenly (or at least what my ten year old self perceives as drunkenly) across the stage. I am Miss Hannigan and I want this building to shine like the top of the Chrysler Building! None of my classmates have heard me sing before; Elesse said the only reason I got the part was because I was the class suck-up. I am determined to prove her wrong. I finish my rendition of Little Girls, quivering with adrenaline and exhilaration. I have found my calling. Elesse comes up to me after rehearsal and apologizes.
***
I’m visiting my Opa in the hospital; the doctors suspect he only has a few weeks left. Visiting him is uncomfortable; he makes a weird grumbling sound when he eats food, and even on his deathbed, he’s still rude to my grandma. I go to the bathroom down the hall. “Holy shit!” I squeak — only the second time I have ever used that expletive. I tug on my mom’s sleeve, “Mom,” I whisper into her ear, “I think I just got my period.”
***
James claps me on the shoulder: “I wrote you a song,” he says, and strums his guitar:
Sally’s got big boobs,
And really tiny feet
And little baby Carnie hands–
But she’s got big meat!
***
I return home from the admitted students’ preview of Cornell, and debate calling my boyfriend. Cornell is his dream school, but despite his near-perfect boards, he and I both knew before he ever applied that his GPA barely even qualifies him for UConn. I call him anyway; tonight is our six month anniversary and he has promised me a big surprise. I have already decided that tonight, I will tell him that I love him. “Hi, Mike,” I coo into the phone. Pause. “Hi,” he replies wearily.
“Is everything alright?” I ask.
“No.” Mike has never been a man of many words.
“What’s wrong?” I prod.
“I can’t really say.” Well, that’s just frustrating.
“Are you having problems with…you know…again?” Mike is still recovering from a horrific snowboarding accident, the details of which are better left unsaid.
“No.”
“Um, an emotional problem?”
“Maybe.”
45 minutes later, Mike finally opens up: “I was shopping for our anniversary gift,” he says. “And it hit me. We’ve been dating six months, and I don’t love you.”
“Well, I love you,” I say. “But if you don’t think you can love me, then we should probably break up.”
Mike pauses before saying, slowly, “No matter how hard I try, I can’t make myself love you.”
And that is the first – and only time – I have ever said “I love you” to a boy.
***
The night is eerily quiet; the only sound to keep me company is the wind rustling through the trees. I am completely and utterly alone on the street, and I am terrified. I pass the sign for Grahampton Road. Only one more street. I jog faster in an effort to keep my heart rate up, but it seems to be doing a pretty good job of that all on its own. I’m not sure which I believe: that every looming tree is a monster (irrational) or that behind every tree is a predator (slightly more rational). I’ve always been afraid of the dark — I slept with the light on until I was 12 — but I’m more afraid of being fat. Why’d the damn treadmill have to break? When I sneak into the back door of my house, I check the clock: 3:47 a.m. Something has got to change.
***
It’s the third night of New Student Week and I have just introduced the girls on my floor to Hungry Girl’s Magical Low Calorie Margarita. I’m feeling pretty magical. A tall boy taps me on the shoulder — I’ve always been a sucker for giants — “You’re HRH!” he says. “Excuse me?” “Hot Redhead,” he explains. Apparently he’s always been a sucker for redheads. He leads me outside Willard and asks if I want him to grab a condom. I laugh in his face. I have an out-of-body experience as we make out in the sorority quad bushes. I have problems grappling with the idea of being hot. He leaves to take care of a drunk friend. I find another tall guy ten minutes later. “I love college,” is the last thought I have before blacking out. I wake up and look in the mirror of Tall Guy #2′s single. I am missing all the skin on the left side of my upper lip. I go to Searle and the doctor attempts (and fails) to hide her laughter before prescribing me an antibiotic to treat Human Bite.
***
I close my eyes and sign the dotted line. I am no longer a theatre major.
