Page 11 of The Road to Ruined

"Teagan…" Blakely says, shaking her head. "She can't look like that."

"It's okay," my mom says. "It's okay. I'm sure there's something in there with a high neckline or a—a thick halter, right?"

Around us, others have begun to stare, too.

"Holy shit, that's Teagan Townsend," one girl says, trying to get her friend's attention.

As a few of them pull out their phones and start taking pictures, I turn and dart back inside the dressing room.

My mom follows me inside, her expression twisted with frustration. "It's okay. One of these will cover them."

She frantically flips through dress after dress, looking for the one that will make me look like a normal girl, but there isn't one. None of them will cover the scars.

Frustrated, my mom grabs them all and tosses them onto the ground. "Angela!?" she calls, throwing open the changing room door.

"Yes?"

"These are all terrible. Don't you have anything with a high neckline or thick straps?" I back into the corner and try to make myself smaller somehow. She pauses, gesturing at the crowd gathering nearby. "And can't you get them away from us? Don't you all have anything better to do than to harass mymentally illdaughter?!"

"Ma'am, this is all we have. We spent hours searching our inventory to have these ready for you this morning."

"Well, look again!" my mom shouts before slamming the door shut. Then, she sinks down onto the bench and begins rifling through her purse.

"Mom…I'm not…"

"What?" she snaps.

I'm not mentally ill."Nothing…"

Officially, my mom stopped smoking when I was twelve, but she keeps a stash of emergency cigarettes for times like these. I guess this is an emergency because she puts one in her mouth and fumbles with the lighter—right there in the dressing room.

"Mom?" Blakely calls. She opens the door just as Mom gets the cigarette lit and takes a drag. "Mom, oh my god, you can't—"

"Just shut the fuck up, Blakely."

"Can I have one?" I ask.

She passes me the one from her mouth, and I bring it to my lips and inhale.

"She said there's nothing. I'm sorry, I tried but…it's not going to work out, Mom."

"What's not going to work out?" I ask.

"You can't be in the wedding," Blakely says. "But you can pick a dress you like—something that covers you—and you can stand with the guestbook."

"Well, I like this dress," I tell her. "Can't I just wear this? Please, Blake?"

"No," she says.

"Well, what if she kept her hair over her chest like—"

"No! No, I'm not going to have her be a spectacle at my wedding. She's made enough of a spectacle out of us already. It's my day, so, no…sorry, Teagan. And you need to put that out, Mom."

Blake leaves the dressing room, and my mom locks the door behind her.

"You made her do this, didn't you?" I ask, watching my mom exhale smoke before passing me the cigarette again. "Why did you make her do this?"

"'Made' is a strong word," she says, shrugging. "I just want you to feel like you belong in this family, Teagan—that's all. And I want you to get better. I just…I don't know what I did. I raised you both the same. I don't know what happened."

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