Page 27 of Make Me Pretty
Elise clicks her tongue. “No. He doesn’t pay me, so I don’t expect you to. Ever.”
I can barely swallow through the constriction in my throat and down through my sternum. “Well, I…” My eyes dart between her and Peris, feeling the rush of blood to my face but unable to avoid it. “Thank you,” I force out strongly with a nod.
Her smile is blinding. “Of course! Here’s my one exception to no phones at the table. Open it, and we’ll get our numbers added! It’s got unlimited everything, so have fun. And I already connected it to the Wi-Fi for you.”
“Uh, yeah, sure. Erm. Thanks.”Jesus, could my face burn any hotter?Peris snortsloudly.My head jerks in his direction, but all he does is blink before picking up his fork and shoveling food into his mouth.
After Elise gives me hers and Peris’s numbers, I call them both so they have mine, and I’m unable to fight back my smile at Peris’s grimace seeing my number pop up on his screen.
“Now, we can call each other,” I whisper to him as Elise responds to an apparent work text.
“If you even?—”
“So, Abel, tell me some stuff about you,” Elise says as she flips her phone upside down. I straighten in my chair, eyes unconsciously flickering toward Peris in warning. He only rolls his.
There’s a long pause as I try to formulate a singleappropriatething about myself, but nothing comes to mind, and if that’s not embarrassing…
“Only if you’re comfortable, of course,” she adds quickly. I barely manage to bite back a grimace as I push a lump through my throat, passing it off as a cough. I take a drink of water, and as I set the glass back down, Peris’s smirking face is revealed.
Asshole.
As if she can sense my unease, she prompts something that would generally be an easy topic, but nothing really is when it comes to me and my fucked up life. “Do you have a birthday coming up? Peris just had his eighteenth at the end of July, and mine’s in August,” she says, shooting me a smile. I return it, feeling unsettled.
Not because of anything she did necessarily; I’m just not used to talking about myself.
Actually, I don’t think anyone—aside from previous kids I’ve been in a home with—have ever asked me personal questions.
Mo asked a lot…
I wince and clear my throat again, tugging at the collar of my hoodie. “Uh…mmm,technically February,” I answer with a wave of hesitance. Her steps falter on the way back to the table, three sodas in her two hands.
“Technically?” She sets a can of Dr. Pepper in front of me.
“Thank you. And yeah.” The hiss of the top popping open hits my ears.
“What the fuck does that even mean?” Peris blurts. My gaze flicks to him, not quite meeting his eyes, but I arch a brow as if to say, what do you care? His lip curls in disdain.
Squinting, I look away from Peris to tell Elise, “My real birthday is October eleventh.” I drag my bag out from between my feet and rifle around inside until I find the Polaroid between yellowed pages. My eyes catch on the yellowed plastic with unease. Something akin to shame settles in my gut.
I stare down at a weathered image of my mother. She’s lying on an old, twin-sized mattress placed on a floor. Her skin is blotchy with knots and bruises, pupils blown so wide, her eyes look black. She’s smiling weakly, showcasing yellowed teeth, as she looks right at the camera with me in her arms. I’m swaddled in dirty blankets with my mouth open in what was probably a scream.
I can’t imaginenotscreaming around her.
My jagged thumbnail traces the date written at the bottom.Abel. October 11th.
With an unsteady hand and a pit in my gut, I hand it over. Elise takes it gently to study it, and I watch as her face softens in empathy. I hate the way it makes my heart ache.
Just say it, Abel. Say the truth no one believes.
It’s not like it matters, anyway.
“Lucy gave birth to me at home, high out of her mind. Or, I guess, it was probably some dealer’s house. I honestly couldn’ttell you because she never even told me.” There’s a pregnant pause, two sets of eyes burning into the top of my bent head.
The shame of what she did, of who I am, will never be less than this overwhelming forever.
“But after I was born, I guess it took her a few months to register my existence to the fucking government.” I spit the words out, hating that I still sound so bitter over it. “But when she finally fucking did it, she couldn’t even remember the exact day I was born, so I guess she wrote down the date of the day she went in.” I pick up my fork and stab a piece of penne covered in a cheesy cream sauce.
“And so, that is why I am technically eighteen, and yet, there is no proof, no paper trail to back it up other than theapparentword of a junkie and her degenerate kid.”And I’m still stuck in this vicious fucking cycle.I shove the bite into my mouth, chewing viciously. I swallow against the constriction in my throat, hating the way it has closed up, almost making me choke on more than my truth.
