Painted Pretty ♡

one ♡

Mom dropped the first bomb – you know, the "You killed Michael" one. It was like blood splatter, no attempt to hide, no second-guessing. But, honestly, I think it was her way of dealing with my random "Hey, I'm a girl". I mean, I dropped a megaton truth bomb, right? Blew her perception of me to smithereens.

In her head, I transformed into this chilling murderer, hands soaked in red, a sinister grin etched on my face. She probably pictured me as the curator of a secret basement, chock-full of, well, you get the picture.

It was kind of weird, though, 'cause I couldn't help but imagine myself as this super-hot assassin. I'd rock an outfit showing off skin – like, loads of skin – leather and makeup that could totally slay the gods.

And you know what? I'd rock a lace front wig, or even be cool with some braids, although those could be as annoying as digging a grave sometimes.

I remember this one time I went to a braider, and her salon chair felt like a medieval torture device. She was braiding my hair like her life depended on it, and let me tell you, those three or four never-ending hours were like straight-up murder for my neck.

I envied the girls who could pull off standard box braids, but I always fell in love with the bohemian box braids, like the ones I have in now, which made me feel like a mermaid. I only got them for this camp thing mom kept bugging me to go to.

I yearned for a summer that would make me feel like Barbie. Picture it: decked out in pink from head to toe. And given the abundance of wannabe Kens at my school, snagging one for myself seemed almost too effortless. They flooded my DMs, the same ones who would later go on to accuse me of pushing some kind of "gay agenda." Eye roll-worthy, I know.

I walked into the living room and saw Mom lounging on the couch, carefree and flipping through a magazine. It felt strange because inside me, emotions were all tangled up.

Sometimes, I thought Mom wasn't ready for a child like me. It felt hard for her to have a kid who didn't fit her expectations. I felt like an unfamiliar presence in our home, and even though she smiled at me, I could tell she wondered who I truly was. That smile hid so many truths she just didn't want to voice.

Maybe it was too uncomfortable for her to have that conversation with me. Perhaps she herself just didn't know how to have that conversation with me, which was okay, I guess? But, at the same time, the conversation needed to be had. I suppose both of us didn't really know where or how to even start it.

She's shipping me off to some church camp with Nea, her friend's kid. I guess she's hoping it'll sprinkle some sort of magic to resurrect Michael. Speaking of the devil, my phone buzzed. "Heyyy," I chirped, channeling my inner excitement.

"Yo, get ready for this! Peaceful Valley is about to become your jam. I know it sounds all crunchy-granola, but trust me, it's gonna be epic. Sometimes disconnecting and rolling with nature's vibes is exactly what we need."

"Gross, though. Nature is like a buffet for bugs. Bugs, sweat, and dirt. Can't forget the dirt," I shot back, sneaking a glance at Mom who was buried nose-deep in a magazine. "And seriously, how does showering even work in the middle of Camp Nowhere? Am I supposed to plunge into a lake or something? Or, you know, maybe I should just expose myself in live on the wild side." I bit my finger in thought.

"Ariah, seriously, cut the drama." Mom heaved herself off the couch, aiming for the kitchen for a drink. "Hi India!" She shouted from a distance, "Work your magic on Ari, alright? Say hi to your mom for me." As she playfully pinched my cheek, Mom sauntered past me.

Maybe Mom thought it was just a cliche phase. I don't know. Anyway, despite not being sure about it, I would try to make the most of this summer journey with Nea. Who knew, we hadn't seen each other in a while, and maybe I needed a reason to stop fantasizing about how to become Barbie, so this was the perfect excuse to leave the house.