Unpretty
2 Minutes Read Time
It was a sleepover & she’d never put her hair up
in a high ponytail before. We’d been best friends
for years, bought cheap necklaces that split hearts
into even best-friend pieces, but tonight
we were all sick of her: how she thought
the lyrics to TLC’s “Unpretty” were Damn!
I’m pretty!, how she cried mascara-blue tears
because if we got redistricted, she’d have to
break up with her boyfriend, & now
we were all talking seriously about which song
to make a dance routine to & where was she?
Her face almost touching the mirror, never breaking
self–eye contact & bobbing her head
to make the high ponytail bounce. Caity?
we asked her, she didn’t care. She made us
go around the room & say what we didn’t like
about ourselves. She’d always go first, turn
her complaints into bragging: My eyelashes
are too long & thick, so you can’t tell when
I’m wearing mascara! or My boobs are bouncy
& boys notice! Always in a fake whining voice.
This game was supposed to get us to palm her knees
& say, No, they’re not, Caity, you’re perfect. We were
all eleven, a never-ending list of the awkward
ways our bodies were changing: we wished our boobs
were real boobs & not these nubs, wished we were taller,
skinnier, had our periods, had hair in the right places,
had a smaller nose, bigger eyes, lighter hair, the right
clothes, the right makeup. Her response was always
There’s surgery for that! or TRUE! blurted
without looking up from her Teen People. In a few years
a rumor spread about her, so gross it would have to be
at least part true. Something about a boy fingering her
on a playground, hitting the wrong button, & she pooped
in his hand. But didn’t we all grin when we heard?
Were we the engine behind this story, embellishing
as we passed it on: the floral skirt she dirtied, the smear
on the slide, & never the boy whose hand misfired.
& didn’t we all want to believe it? Our own bodies
were safe & hidden in our clothes, the spotlight on hers
like the game we would play.
Read more from Issue 18.2.
