but it's ok.

One.

Sep. 4, 2018
No white after Labor Day. No horizontal stripes for bigger girls. And definitely NO mixing animal prints. These "no"s are a few laws of fashion, and a few examples that some laws are meant to be broken. Of course, these laws were the only ones I was willing to break and only ever in the privacy of my own room. In said room, I wear sequins in daytime and am not afraid of denim on denim. I accessorize with both silver and gold. And capture all this in videos and selfies the world will never see.

It's 2018 and judging by social media, I should ooze self confidence. Sure self love Instagram is nice to look at but what message is it really conveying? Half of the profiles take pictures of random pretty, skinny white girls and add captions like "how to get clear skin: drink water ✨". It's catered to all the other pretty, skinny white girls who for the first time in their lives feel insecure because of hormonal acne. So where is a fat black girl supposed to feel confident besides the comfort of her own room?

I say room because even in the rest of house, I can not be vulnerable enough to wear a bralette and leggings like 70% of American girls. That type of attire would lead to awkward conversations with my mother on why "modesty is always the best policy for us plus-size women". "Plus-size", it never made sense for people to go by that term. After all, it is a size range and no short girl will go out of her way to call herself Petite. There's nothing shameful about being short and there should be nothing shameful about being fat.

"What will you be wearing for the first day of school tomorrow, Belle," my mother interrupted my passionate typing. She said this with a mischievous look in her eyes. I studied her until I noticed a large shopping bag behind her back. The unpalatable purple color of the bag was much too familiar.

"Um, I actually didn't have anything planned," I lied. Hiding in my closet was an outfit I hoped I'd have enough confidence to pull off tomorrow. A denim skirt I customized with a patch of fish nets where I tore a hole and a black band tee - something edgy that said I'm just waiting for graduation. I knew my mother had a different idea hidden under her peplum sleeves.

"Well, on my way back home from work I passed by Ruffles and Stuff and knew you wouldn't have a clue as to what to where tomorrow," my mom gestured to the no-longer-hidden bag. "Ruffles and Stuff", just hearing the name sent shivers down my spine. I looked behind her, feigning curiosity.

"Why don't you try it on," she suggested as she pulled out what could only be described as a fuchsia monstrosity. Itchy polyester, an awkward v-neck, and a massive belt in the middle. I said "my mom chose my outfit" without even having to open my mouth.

My mouth did however open to lie. "It looks great," I managed to say.

"Doesn't it," she smiled. I would have to think of her smile all throughout the first day of school tomorrow.

Sep. 5, 2018
Time for a confession: for three whole months I have spent my time daydreaming. The daydreaming even reached vision board status as of last week. In the corner of my bedroom lay a poster board with outfits I dared to imagine wearing and glued on inspirational quotes and pictures of celebrities I'd channel in the next 180 days. For the past three months I've devoted my time creating a whole new Bellamy Hill. And none of it seemed remotely ridiculous until the first day of senior year happened. 

The bad fluorescent lights typical of American public schools provided me one favor today. They muted the purplish red of my hideous shirt to a somewhat pleasing paler pink. But there was also a downside which is a typical occurrence in my life. These dimmed hallways and classrooms cast a shadow on my skin, giving me a permanent scowl which my dark furrowed brows did not help to brighten up. This led to comments like "What's the matter? Still haven't finished your summer work," from obnoxious teachers or "You'd look better with a smile" from even more obnoxious boys. The only one who didn't have a comment excluding my friends who were familiar with this look was this new kid in my homeroom. Niko something or other. And here I am failing the Bechtel Test...with myself. I think that signals the end of today's entry.

I shut down my laptop and let out a deep, spiritual sigh as if I completed a full days of work. I looked down to see red marks on my tanned thighs. Mom would see this as a sign that shorts should never go above the knee for "gals like us". I didn't know what was worse - capri pants or the word gal. I cringed at the thought of both as I went to grab a pack of ice for my thighs.

"Over here!" A muffled voice shouted. I looked out the kitchen window to see my father and little sister in the backyard. Kind of on impulse I placed my hand on the window and dragged it down, mimicking what I've seen in a thousand drama movies.

"Hey, Belle! Come play," my sister's breathy voice interrupted my wistful thinking.

"Thanks...but no thanks. I kinda injured myself," I said, holding up my ice pack. Sometimes I couldn't help lying through my teeth, especially when the truth involved going back to painful or embarrassing memories.

I quit soccer freshman year. My dad and I had spent years training and playing in the backyard like he and Gia were now doing. He never wanted something crazy like an Olympic gold medalist daughter, just his girl playing soccer at a collegiate level. But that changed as for most girls, puberty meant slimming down but my baby weight never disappeared and turned into thunder thighs and love handles instead. This never stopped me on the field but the locker room was a different battle. One with mines that exploded snarky comments like "Should you be eating that" when I grabbed a power bar. The mine that totally KO'd me was set off by Whitley, who I thought was my best friend entering high school. "I really wish I had your attitude. Just eat anything at any time and not care how I look." This back-handed compliment was definitely not the worst I've ever heard but it hurt coming from a friend and even worse, it showed that she never listened to me. I would need two more hands to count all the times I've complained about my weight to her. And at least three more to count all the diets I've been on that just never work. I thought she knew how hard I was trying to lose weight but maybe she just never cared.

I quit just two weeks before championships, without so much as a reason behind my decision. My dad was holding back tears when I told him. The next day he had the coach and our priest visit in hopes of persuading me. I wouldn't budge and I saw my dad go through the process of grief that summer until his focus was on Gia. She's only been training three years and she's practically better than me. My mom was thrilled that we could finally do the mother and daughter bonding she'd dreamt of. Gia inherited my father's slim build so my mom could never project her fat girl fantasies on her. I, however, was a split image of Teresa Hill so we must have had everything in common. Sometimes I wonder if my sister is faking her smile on the soccer field the same way I fake it after a haul at Ruffles and Stuff.