Milo shrinks back. “Why would I do that? Why would you want to do that?”
Sarah stutters for an answer, and settles on, “Do it, Milo.”
He swats the marker away. “Sarah, we had sex last night.” He’s all earnest. It’s infuriating.
“Milo! You do not want to piss me off right now! I’d do it myself but I’d write it backward. Please.”
He groans, but he climbs onto his knees and pushes the hair up off her forehead.
The marker drags across her skin. As Milo writes the word, she glances up at the windows in the second-floor bathroom. There are girls staring down at her; they know where to find her, so they’re checking to see if she’s heard yet. Sarah salutes them with her middle finger. “Make it as big as you can,” she tells Milo.
The spicy scent of the ink makes her woozy. Or maybe it’s the anticipation. Milo caps the marker, and the click is like a movie clapboard. The show’s about to start.
“For the record, I am totally not cool with this,” Milo whispers as they enter the main door of Mount Washington.
“Then don’t walk with me,” she bites back. “Seriously. Don’t.” She gives him the chance to leave, to take the easy out.
Milo opens his mouth, then thinks better of it. “I’m walking with you,” he says. “I walk you to class every day.” His eyes go again to the word on her forehead, and the corners of his mouth sink.
It makes Sarah’s throat tight. She can’t fucking deal with Milo right now. So she starts walking, fast. The speed flutters her hair off of her forehead, so people can see the word. And they do. They see it.
But only for a second. Once the people in the halls see what she’s done to herself, they quickly find another place to set their eyes. Their shoes, their friends, their homework. They’d rather look at anything but her.
The list is so powerful, its judgment so absolute, and yet no one wants to deal with it in black Sharpie on her face.
Fucking cowards.
But knowing this doesn’t make Sarah feel better. In fact, it makes everything worse. Not only do they think she’s ugly, but they want her to be invisible, too.
Bridget Honeycutt is halfway to school when her sister, Lisa, starts begging to put on a little bit of her lipstick.
“No way, Lisa. I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup until sophomore year.”
“Come on, Bridge! Please! Please! Please! Please! Mom won’t know.”
Bridget puts a trembling hand on her temple. “Fine. Whatever. Just … be quiet, okay? I have a serious headache.”
“You’re probably just hungry,” Lisa says, and then reaches into the backseat for Bridget’s purse. She rummages until she pulls out a slender black tube.
Bridget watches from the side of her eyes as her sister flips down the visor. Lisa traces her lips with the stub of peachy pink, presses them together, and blows a kiss at Bridget.
The pink makes Lisa’s braces look extra silver, but Bridget doesn’t say that. Instead she says, “Pretty.”
Lisa touches up the corners of her mouth. “I’m going to wear red lipstick every single day when I’m your age.”
“Red won’t be good with your skin,” Bridget tells her. “You’re too pale.”
Lisa shakes her head. “Everyone can wear red. That’s what Vogue says. It just has to be the right red. And the right red for girls with dark hair and pale skin is deep cherry.”
“Since when do you read Vogue?” Bridget wonders aloud, thinking of the rainbow that the spines of Lisa’s horse books make on the shelf over her bed.
“Abby and I bought the September issue and read it cover to cover on the beach. We wanted to be prepared for high school.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Don’t worry. Besides the red lipstick thing, we didn’t learn much. But we did get ideas for homecoming dresses. Abby will be happy you like the one she wants. It’s a red-carpet knockoff.” Lisa pouts. “I hope I find something nice, too.”
Bridget wipes away a smudge of lipstick left on Lisa’s chin. “I said I’d take you shopping this week. We’ll find you a dress.”
“Do you think Mom will let me wear makeup to the dance? I was thinking that if I ace my Earth Science quiz, I’d show her the grade and then ask her. Isn’t that a great plan?”
“Maybe … if Mom didn’t already expect you to get As.”
“I guess I could sneak it on once I get there. I’ll just have to make sure no one takes any pre-dance pictures of me.” As Bridget parks the car, Lisa sets the lipstick on the dashboard and grabs her things. “See you later!”
Bridget watches Lisa sprint across the yard toward Freshman Island, weaving in and out of human traffic, her overstuffed book bag slapping against her legs, her long black ponytail stretching down her back. Lisa is growing up so fast, but there are plenty of glimmers of the little girl that shine through.
It gives Bridget hope for herself. That there’s still a chance to be the girl she was before last summer.
She turns off the car and sits for a few minutes, collecting herself. It is quiet, except for her deep, measured breaths. And the voice in her brain, calling out instructions that reverberate inside her hollow body.
You have to eat breakfast today.
Eat breakfast, Bridget.
Eat.
This is her life every morning. No, every meal, every bite chewed to a monotone mantra, mental cheerleading needed to accomplish a task that would be no big deal to a normal girl.
She picks up her lipstick and drags a finger through the thin layer of dust on her dashboard. Bridget wants to feel proud that she’s been doing much better. Eating more. But the victories feel bad, if not worse, than her failures.
A girl Bridget knows taps hello on the glass. Bridget lifts her head and manages to smile. It’s a fake one, but her friend doesn’t notice. No one does.
It’s scary how fast things got messed up. Bridget thinks about this a lot. The timeline of her life had been linear and sharp and direct for most of her seventeen years. Until something went jagged.
She could trace it back to, of all things, a bikini.
Every summer of Bridget’s life began and ended the same way — with a trip to the Crestmont Outlet Mall.
It was the halfway point between Mount Washington and the beach cottage where the Honeycutt family spent the entire summer. The family stopped at the Crestmont outlets to eat lunch, fill the gas tank for the second leg of the drive, and shop for clothes. In June, Bridget and Lisa stocked up on summer things. And then, on their way back to Mount Washington in August, they’d search for back-to-school deals on cardigans and wool skirts.
With summer vacation beginning, Bridget’s shopping bags were full of new tank tops, shorts, a jean skirt, and two sets of flip-flops. The only thing missing was a new bathing suit.
The bikini she’d worn last year had sprung an underwire, and the tankini from the year before was too small for her chest, so she’d given it to Lisa. Snipping the tags off a brand-new bikini was akin to the ribbon cutting of a store or breaking ground on a building site. The Grand Opening