How to be the Perfect Girl

It was staring again; that large piece of glass that threw that ugly reflection back. The damn piece of glass that could send my heart back down into my stomach every time.  Maybe if I just closed my eyes, it’d be gone.

But when I did, it wasn’t. This isn’t forever! I wanted to scream aloud and there was nothing to do but accept what was there. The tears starting to well up in again and my hands resumed the familiar cover position.

                It took a while to get recollected, and when I did the mirror was turned so away from me that it could no long mock me. I needed something else, I needed to call someone or get someone to talk to! The frantic search for the phone commenced, but when it was finally found, there were no missed calls or even texts. They must just be busy, that was all. I put the phone back down.

                “Mallory!” Mother starts to scream, “Dinner time!

                My heart starts to sink again.

                Great, now I have to eat? I rush to wipe away the running mascara. The clock on the nightstand reads 6:35 and I rush down the stairs for another wonderful family gathering.

                A table sent up for four only sits three and I sit down at the seat between my two parents. None of us make eye contact though, and all that can be heard is the sounds on the forks against the dishes.

                “How was your day sweetie?” My mother asks. She’s still wearing an apron and her hair looks like she spent hours on it. I didn’t know how to respond; terrible? Miserable? Before I could open my mouth someone else thankfully interrupted.  

                “It was swell” answers dad, which suddenly gets my mother angry.

                “I asked Mallory”

                “What now I’m not your sweetie?”

                They start to bicker until she gets up, and slams her dish. My father, exhausted from the argument grabs a pipe and walks into his bedroom, leaving his dish.  My stomach is rumbling, and at this point I could care less about the mirror than the pain coming from my stomach. I take my fork and dig into some of the pasta.

I start to count, One… two… three… four…

“Mallory!” I drop the spoon and my face starts to feel hot, “Are you still eating?”

It’s my mother, and she’s standing there with one hand on her hip and the other clutching a dishrag.

“N-No” I stutter out, but she doesn’t look pleased. Her eyes roll over my body like it’s something to be ashamed over and I feel myself getting up with the dish. She leads me into the kitchen, and I walk over to the garbage.

“Dinner was awful good, right?” Her mother asks before starting the dishes.

My eyes lay in fixated on the plate, and I want to take a bite, but I lie “Yes, great”.

“You should go out, for a walk—no! Maybe a jog!” she instructs again, and she doesn’t even look at me. Her arms are busy scrubbing a dish to look at her hideous daughter.

Hunger starts to ache again, but I find myself at the door, with my red fall coat. I’m putting on my old converse when the tears start to well as I hear my stomach growl again.

                Outside is cold, and as I start walk away I looked up to my bedroom and think of the mirror. I must have been so fat that it wasn’t just the mirror but my own mother who wanted me to just stop being such a fat-ass. Nobody liked a fat girl.

                Thin girls were the only ones who had fun.