1. Sorry I’m a Downer #2
It’s like watching a car accident happen in slow motion. I knew the impact was coming; I just didn’t know how and when the impact would land. As hard as I may try to smother down those past fears, it all comes flooding back the moment my eyes land on the pink Cadillac parked in the driveway.
Shit.
Blythe is home.
While I want to vomit at the sight, Maggie coughs out a sound caught somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Does your stepmom work for Mary Kay?”
“Not unless Satan bought them out.” I pull down the vanity mirror on the sun visor and cringe at my reflection for what has to be the hundredth time.
“Will you stop? You look hot.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not exactly the impression I was going for.”
When Mags pulled over for a bathroom break halfway through the trip, I still had a hangover and, therefore, still had a case of the fuck-its.
My stepmom would be unhappy no matter what I looked like, so why try to hide the changes I made since going off to college?
It was my way of giving the middle finger to the entire situation.
I hadn’t let my stepmom dictate my appearance for the last nine months, so why start now?
I’m actually wearing makeup and contact lenses and clothes that actually fit.
I know what you’re probably thinking: Why would any of those things be a big deal? Well, during my adolescence, my stepmom commonly referred to me as “pretty-if.”
What the hell is that? you may ask.
Well, it goes a little something like, “Ali, you could really be pretty…”
“… if you got rid of those glasses.”
“… if you did something with your hair.”
“… if you wore clothes that flattered your figure.”
“… if you wore makeup.”
“… if you managed your weight better.”
“… if ”
“… if ”
“… if ”
“… if ”
What makes this so sad is that I wasn’t opposed to some of her “suggestions.” Sure, I didn’t stand a chance in hell of fixing my weight issue when I was younger, and trust me, I tried.
It wasn’t until this past year, when I put on the much-needed “Freshman Fifteen,” that my body finally reached a healthy weight for the first time in almost a decade.
As for the other hundred and twelve things where I fell short?
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to wear makeup, or have pretty clothes, or do something with my hair.
I just couldn’t bring myself to follow through with any of the changes.
Not while I still lived at home. The few small things I put the tiniest effort into, I would immediately be met with criticism, so I quickly learned it was best not to try.
Ultimately, I found it far easier being hypothetically pretty than outright proving to Blythe that I was a lost cause.
And I think my stepmother preferred it that way.
“Hey.” Maggie checks my shoulder lightly with her elbow. “Lighten up. If the Stepmonster has a problem with the way you look, then that’s her own fucking problem. Tell her to go kick rocks.”
I chuckle, but it lacks any genuine amusement. “Yeah, there’s one fatal flaw with that plan.”
“Such as?”
“You know that really expensive place we just spent the last three hours driving away from? How do you think I pay to go there?”
My friend looks back at the gigantic monstrosity otherwise known as my family’s house. “Up until a few minutes ago? I figured it was scholarships and grants.”
“Yeah, sadly not. Those barely cover half the costs, and as you can see, I’m not exactly favored to get any financial aid. If I don’t want to spend the next twenty years paying off student loans, I’ve gotta suck it up and play nice with the Stepmonster.”
Looking down at myself, I realize my attempts at appearing “presentable” are pathetic at best. I’m tempted to grab a makeup wipe out of my purse and trade my contact lens for my glasses again when—
“Alley Cat? Is that you?” The deep baritone voice snaps me out of my stupor as I look back up to the house to see my brother, Derek, bolting down the front steps. I barely have enough time to climb out of the car when he comes up and damn near tackles me with a bear hug.
“Bubba?” Yes, I know that’s not his name, but what can I say? Old habits die hard. When I was little, I couldn’t pronounce Derek’s name to save my ass, and for some inexplicable reason, I wound up calling him Bubba instead.
Derek is nearly six-foot-six, built like a linebacker (which he formerly was), and happens to be the sweetest guy you could ever meet.
A hug from my brother is like being attacked by a massive teddy bear.
Figures. The one person I’m related to who isn’t a complete douchenozzle doesn’t even live at home anymore.
God, I missed him.
I say as much, and his hold on me only tightens until I’m pretty sure he’s going to suffocate me. Thankfully, he lets up before I black out from oxygen deprivation, but I still can’t conceal my surprise. “What are you doing here?”
He groans. “Blythe and Vanessa were supposed to go over a bunch of wedding stuff with Lauren, but she had to work, so I somehow got dragged into it. And they may as well be speaking Greek in there. Seriously, do you guys know anything about door trim and aisle markers?”
Maggie laughs. “We’re college students. The only decorations we put on our doors are socks on the knobs.”
My brother’s eyes sharpen into a mocking glare as he helps us carry my stuff inside. “Is that so?”
“Yep, your sis here is a regular sex addict,” my roommate purrs. “Despite my best efforts, there are still hordes of hot males flocking in and out of the dorm room every night. She’s like a carousel. Up and down and goes all night long.”
Yeah, sadly, that’s the farthest thing from the truth. It’s not that I’m a total prude. I’ve just been hung up on a certain British import.
The three of us laugh…until we step into the foyer. My stepmother’s voice carries on from somewhere in the back of the house, but her heels click-clack across the floor, indicating she’s coming closer.
No one needs to be told twice.
We all bolt up the stairs like Satan himself is coming our way.
The effort doesn’t do me any good. I barely have time to drop off my first round of boxes onto my bedroom floor when my stepmom’s voice calls out from the foyer.
Derek had been the only one in my family to see my makeover beforehand, but based on the tone barking up at me, I seriously doubt things will go over as well as they had with him…
Not until I went away to school (and was no longer under Blythe’s watchful eye) did I make the changes I wanted to.
When I arrived in the dorms nine months ago at the start of Freshman Year, I didn’t own a stitch of makeup, never dressed in anything that wasn’t at least three sizes too big on my already-skinny body, and wore my long black hair over my face like a curtain.
I essentially looked like Cousin It with glasses.
Living in my house, in this town, I was better off being as inconspicuous and harmless as humanly possible.
And that’s why I couldn’t have been happier to have a roommate who just so happens to be a fashion major.
Maggie lives to be people’s fairy godmother, and makeovers are pretty much her favorite pastime.
After three weeks of living together, she finally convinced me to ditch my natural locks in favor of a black cherry hue and then buy the clothes I actually liked rather than what I could use to drown my body in.
The latter was a harder pill to swallow, given my weight insecurities, but as I rediscovered a healthy relationship with food throughout the year and put on some much-needed pounds, it got a lot easier.
Add in contact lenses and some makeup, even I have to admit, I don’t look half bad.
Standing in my house, however, may as well be the stroke of midnight for this Cinderella, because my stepmother will likely tear me a new one the moment she sees me.
Because I’ll never be my sister.
If this were a movie, I’d walk down the stairs in slow motion as some generic pop song plays in the background and a phantom breeze gracefully blows the hair away from my face. Everyone would “ooh” and “aah” and tell me how pretty I look.
Instead, my legs shake so badly that I’m just happy they don’t give out and send me tumbling down to the ground floor.
Can you blame me? I find my sister glaring up the stairs like I just climbed out of a dumpster.
I may as well have, because I’m wearing jeans with rips in the knees, a plain white tank top, and a pair of three-dollar flip-flops.
Compared to the polo shirts, skirts, and pearl necklaces adorning my sister and stepmom, I’m pretty much the equivalent of a hobo.
Thankfully, my stepmom is too busy pacing the foyer, barking into her cell about something to do with flower arrangements, to notice my arrival.
“Well, don’t you look…different.” My sister’s words are harmless enough, but Vanessa’s tone is about as welcoming as the barrel of a shotgun jammed in my face.
“Hey, sis,” I mutter, attempting to plaster on something resembling a smile.
“Where on earth is your sister?” our stepmother finally asks, pulling the phone away from her ear. She side-eyes Maggie before literally looking past me and up the stairs, as if waiting for someone else.
And it hits me after the most awkward moment of my life that she doesn’t even recognize me.
“Hi, Blythe,” I enunciate a little louder.
The Stepmonster slowly pulls the reading glasses off her face, studying me with an expression that, funny enough, is a carbon copy of my sister’s not a minute ago. “Ali?”
“This is Maggie, my roommate,” I add dumbly after the world’s longest, most awkward silence.
My stepmother doesn’t even spare Maggie a glance, her eyes still fixed on me. “Honey, what on earth have you done to yourself?”
I’m beginning to think Blythe and Vanessa can’t operate independently from one another, because, yet again, they both look over my hair, face, and clothes as if everything’s been doused with anthrax.