Chapter 41
The Race begins. The Race for beauty, for wholeness, for emerging into someone worthy, fuckable, lovable.
I pray forty minutes is enough for the transformation.
It’s gonna have to be. I speed through the yellow lights and roll through the stop signs to get home from school a half a minute quicker. Every second counts in The Race.
I throw whitening strips on my teeth then wet down my hair, smear in handfuls of goopy conditioner, and twist it up in a claw clip.
I hop in the shower and double shave, up each portion of my body and then back down that same portion, then scrub every square inch of myself with a salt scrub that feels like the taste of wasabi as it seeps into my pores.
I rinse the conditioner out and wash the body scrub off and pat my skin dry with a towel instead of rubbing to prevent redness, then massage myself with body butter and body oil and spritz myself with body spray.
I glance at the clock. I’ve gotta move faster.
“I’ll be there at four on the dot,” he said. “It’s a long drive. Don’t want to go somewhere close by and risk us getting caught…”
“Got it,” I nodded like a soldier. His soldier. Ready to do as he instructs.
“Dress nice,” he said. “And come hungry. They do an amazing cioppino.”
“Great,” I said, even though I had no idea what a cioppino was.
This is the third date Mr. Korgy’s planned for us, the others being my birthday and our day trip to Alyeska.
Our third real date, where consideration had to go into it and arrangements had to be made.
I get why this type of outing is a rarity—a luxury—for us, and I’ve been careful to not ask Korgy for more of them.
Nobody needs a nagging wife and a nagging girlfriend, one whining for him to do the dishes, the other whining for him to buy her a bowl of spaghetti.
I’m his reprieve, I remind myself. I’m his reprieve. And who needs dates anyway? They’re contrived performances, people swirling their whiskey sours and flirting with lines they heard in a James Bond movie. What we have is beyond that.
And sometimes, that works. But sometimes, I start to wonder, is it? Are quick fucks squeezed between grocery trips and daycare pickups beyond that?
I throw on a robe and rip open a hydrating cucumber-scented face mask so aggressively the mask splits into two halves.
No matter. I splay each half on my face and hammer them into my skin with taps of my fist, hoping to get the vitamins and nutrients to ooze into my pores faster.
I blow-dry my hair and drag a straightener through it, rip off my Whitestrips and flick them off my fingers into the trash can.
I’m a madwoman as I search my closet, the hangers scraping on the rack as I slide items back and forth hurriedly, violently.
Jackets and jeans and blouses and bodysuits, dresses and shoes and necklaces and pants.
So many different identities in one closet and I’m just the paper doll ready to display any one of them, whichever will be the one he wants most.
First I try cool girl—bodysuit, boyfriend jeans, tomato leather bomber jacket, mock crocodile boots that look pretty real if you’re standing more than four feet away.
This could work. I could start talking in a raspier voice.
Pick up smoking and guitar. I stand on the toilet so I can check my reflection in the poor man’s full-body mirror.
All I see is a girl trying too hard. A girl who’s never smoked a Camel and isn’t able to pull off looking like she has.
I try “effortless chic girl” next—trousers, masculine belt, snug white tee, blazer, leopard-print pointed-toe slingbacks, gold chunky necklace.
She speaks French. She has a side hustle.
She’s been featured on some kind of one-to-watch list for burgeoning businesswomen.
I throw on some red lipstick and yank my hair into a slicked-back middle-part bun then stand on the toilet seat again.
She doesn’t speak French. She doesn’t have a side hustle.
She’s on no list. There’s nothing effortless about her.
She’s full of effort, of need, of “please believe I’m this.
” She’s a kid playing dress-up with a slicked-back bun that makes her head look like an egg.
How can some women pull off anything? Whoever they want to be that day, they get to be. Yet my clothes betray me. Judge me with a snide smirk that says, not quite, sweetheart.
I press my fingers into the inner corners of my eyebrows, the same way Mom does.
I want to get it right. I want to look right.
A cool, chic, elegant woman who deserves commitment.
Demands it with her mere presence without even needing to say it out loud.
This woman looks so good she doesn’t have to beg or ask or even try.
This woman commands respect. And love. The kind of love that makes a man want to be with her. Really be with her.
3:50 p.m. Fuck. I attempt to rip the tags off a dark gray, jersey bodycon dress I got on clearance at Marshalls, but the plastic digs into my palm so I rip it with my teeth instead.
I add a pair of slim black boots and a pendant necklace.
I run to the bathroom and climb onto the toilet.
Good enough. I don’t look like a clown or a kid or totally insane.
I tug out the egg bun, brush out the gel, and re-flat-iron only the most offensive hair dents, no time for the rest. I add a lip stain, stick, and gloss, two coats of mascara, even a smoky eye.
Ballsy. I grab a slouchy purse and at 3:57, he texts.
Mr. Korgy: Hey pretty lady—I’m so sorry but I can’t make it.
I was so looking forward to seeing you, but Gwen and I got in a tiff and I’m stuck doing damage control.
I’m doubly sorry for the last minute nature of this.
Just noticed the time. It’s been hectic, to say the least… I’ll make it up to you soon. I promise.
I collapse over myself, hyperventilating, tears and snot oozing out of me as I type my response. no prob!