Spectrum

Part One: THIRTEEN-Heaven

THIRTEEN

Heaven

I both hated and was drawn to mirrors.

I have this long T-shirt I used to wear as a nightgown. I haven’t worn it since I realized it was meant for a skinny girl, that it doesn’t hide nearly enough of me. It’s knee-length and as white as the edge of the universe. As white as heaven.

I have a flimsy full-length mirror glued to the closet door. Now I’m wearing the nightgown and standing in front of it and having revelation after revelation. I can see that my face isn’t bad. I have nice eyes; my lips are a good shape. It’s maybe even pretty.

It’s my weight that makes me ugly, and it always has been. The makeup I tried this evening was a waste of time and money.

There’s a knock on my door. I jump, but before I can say, “Just go away,” Sean barges in. Typical. It’s a somehow polite barging, though. It’s unusual for Sean to be any form of polite.

“Um, hi,” I say uncomfortably, turning away from the mirror.

Sean runs a hand through the dark red Ireland-kissed hair he shares with Dad. I wonder vaguely if my great-great grandparents were sad when they moved to America. Did they miss their rolling green homeland?

“Hey,” he says awkwardly. “Well, I just wanted to, like...I just wanted to know, are you okay, Alanna?”

A sudden wave a sadness crashes over me. I sink to my knees, clasping my chubby hands. I’m drowning in sorrow that’s eating me from the inside. No, no, I’m not! I think. I’ll never be. Never!

But Sean can’t know that; no one can. I have to get through this myself, because I don’t want to worry people.

And because no one else can see me as anything but the hideous girl I am.

...That doesn’t make sense...

“I’m fine,” I manage.

Sean sits beside me. “Are you sure?”

“School has just been a little hard.” I give him a smile. “Don’t worry about me.” And I truly don’t want him to worry. But...somehow, at the same time, I long to spill everything.

Evelyn’s name is on my tongue, and I’m on the brink of revealing my secret.

Is this the cowardly way out?

Sean ruffles my hair and says, “Okay then. Good to know you’re still your annoying little self.”

The words die in my throat. Sean stands up, leaves my room, and quietly closes the door.

I hug my heaven-white clad knees to my chest, thinking. It’s so tempting to find a shoulder to cry on, but I know it’s the weak way to deal with my problems. I don’t want to be that pathetic little girl. I can’t pinpoint why; I guess it’s because I want to be the aloof, brittle model whose very eyes seem to say, “I don’t need you, I’m above you, get out of my face.”

I don’t just want it.

I yearn to be that model.

I do want help. I just don’t want help for my self-pity. I want help with becoming that model--at least, as close to one as I’m ever going to get.

And I know where to get that help.