Writing

I'm not overwhelmed with an abundance of time (I've looked at my watch five times in the last half-hour), so I'll post a short story I wrote for an essay contest. I played around with present tense, something new for me. It was fun to write - let me know if it was fun to read!

Mirror, Mirror On the Wall

I view mirrors like the wicked queen in Snow White did. Not only do they tell me I’m not the fairest in the land, they also point out each flaw. The build that makes Olive Oyl look downright curvy. The gumdrop-nose. The family of acne inhabiting my dreaded T-zone. The tooth-pick sized scar above my left eyebrow.

And the glass fiends do all this without speaking a word. I can only imagine what they’d say given voices. Did you stick your hair through a blender and add ketchup? Were you born with eyelashes, because I don’t see them! Doesn’t it suck to have a sibling that’s so gorgeous?
I turn away from the bathroom mirror, face hot as though I actually hear the mirror mocking me. How is it my fault my hair’s naturally the color of Heinz? Or that Mom refuses to take me to a hair salon, insisting she can cut my hair just as well for free?

My watch informs me I have ninety-four seconds to reach my next classroom. Geometry class equals David Carlisle, scourge of my life. I groan and shoulder my backpack, running for the stairs.

I slink through the door behind Brandon, who shields me from view. Soundlessly, I drop my backpack and slide into my back-row chair. David isn’t in his usual place. As I scan the room, I realize he isn’t here.

The too-loud voice sounds from the hallway. “Hannah! What up?”

I hoped too soon. I rest my arms on the desk and lay my head on the cushion they form.

Brrring!

Mrs. Hadley strides toward the door, cocking an eyebrow at David. The toes of his black Nike Shox sneakers are six inches from the doorway. “You’re late.”

His shoulders sag, and his chin tips up. His dark brown eyes melt into golden retriever mode. “Come on, I only would have been in like ten seconds late.”

“You’ve been ten seconds late a lot. Late is late. Go on to the office and get a tardy.”

David glares at me like I had something to do with it. I stare at the whiteboard, memorizing the assignment written in green marker, all caps.

Ten minutes later, David skulks around the back, plopping into the seat next to me. Guys as a rule cannot whisper, but David is an exception to most rules. “So, what color is your hair today? Fire Hydrant Red? Candy Apple?”

I can’t count the number of ‘red’ remarks he’s come up with over eight weeks. I look at my notebook as I pencil in the formula for 45-45-90 right triangles. Afterward I draw one, insert a value for the hypotenuse, and solve. Geometry comes naturally to me. It might be my penchant for drawing. I don’t think my doodles are that great, but they keep me occupied.

“Hey, Olive Oyl, have you eaten anything in like, the last month?”

I feel my jaw tightening.

“I mean, you make those trees out front look hefty.”

The trees mentioned were planted three weeks ago, and are as thick as my wrists. I begin sketching a Serpenski’s Triangle. At first it’s one large equilateral triangle. I draw another triangle dead center, forming four smaller equilaterals.

“Are you deaf, too?”

I continue sketching until dozens of tiny triangles fill the original. Mrs. Hadley calls on me. I regurgitate an answer from the textbook, and she moves on. David’s right. I’m ugly as original sin, but he doesn’t have to rub it into my face.

David quits for a moment to scrawl the equation on the board into his notes. As he bends over, Blake catches my eye. He sits on the other side of David. Brow furrowed, he glances at me, then at David, then back.

I half-smile and shrug, like David is just an annoyance.

Blake lifts an eyebrow but returns his gaze to the teacher.

Mrs. Hadley pauses mid-sentence, blinking. She plants one hand on the board, smearing the cosine angle of a triangle.

Rose pipes up from the front row. “Are you okay?”

An uneasy feeling squirms in my gut.

Mrs. Hadley nods, slowly. “Just dizzy for a minute.” She clears her throat. “As I was saying, the leg opposite…the…the ninety-degree angle is…” Moaning, she melts to the floor.

Rose shrieks in unison with half the class.

I stand, jolting my notebook off the desk. “Mrs. Hadley?”

She’s shaking now, uncontrollably, like every muscle in her body is cramping at once.
I’ve seen this happen before. It’s a grand mal seizure. I glance around. Almost everyone is freaking out. I run to Mrs. Hadley’s desk and grab the phone, punching 9-1-1. I look around for someone sane. “Jessica! You and Mark hold her still. Make sure she doesn’t hit her head on anything.”

The emergency operator picks up. “Yes, where are you and what is your emergency?”

“I’m at Stony Park High School, and my teacher just went into a seizure.”

“Alright, what room?”

“1423,” I say. “Go past the check-in desk and take a right at the second hallway.”

She asks for the teacher’s name and other form questions, like if Mrs. Hadley has a pulse (yes), is breathing normally (no), if she’s still shaking (a little). A few minutes later, she assures me help is coming, and to call immediately if anything changes. I hang up, an odd glass wall of serenity surrounding me.

Blake has posted himself by one of the doors to keep panicked kids from running out. He smiles at me. “Quick thinking.”

I nod absently, peeling off my long brown coat. “Jessica, put this under her head and just keep telling her she’ll be alright.” I head for the door.

“Where are you going?” says Blake.

“Out front.”

The ambulance arrives a few minutes later, and I guide the paramedics to the classroom. The principal is now present along with the secretary. I slip into my usual veil of seclusion and grab my backpack as the bell rings.

David tails me. “Hey, nice going, Oyl.”

My contentment vanishes. I feel rage rising to a boil.

“So, how is it that Sarah looks so different than you? I mean, she looks like she’s sixteen. Are you adopted or something?”

I spin, feeling tears pool in my eyes. “You know what? I am adopted. My real parents left me at an orphanage when I was three and told the director they didn’t want me because I was too expensive and too ugly.” My throat starts clogging. “Because I was so skinny and red-headed and not the poster American child.” I feel tears dripping from my chin. “I get it, I’m ugly and my adopted sister’s perfect. So just leave me alone, okay?”

David’s face blanks. With horror, I realize Blake is standing behind him, gaze fixed on my face. I turn and hurry off, pushing toward the bathroom even as Blake calls my name.

I avoid speaking until I’m walking toward the locker room, so I can change for swim practice. I’d rather curl into my sofa and tune out with my MP3 Player.

Blake steps in front of me. “Hey.”

“Hi,” I mutter.

“Are you okay?”

I shrug.

His eyes narrow. “Look, David’s just a jerk. Just ignore him.”

“I can’t! He sits there and blathers on and on about how hideous I am, and it’s true!”

“No, it isn’t! Since when did your face put a value on you as a person?”

I stiffen. “Because that’s what everyone looks at.”

“Not everyone. For crying out loud, you just helped Mrs. Hadley get help because you stayed calm when everyone else was freaking out. Do you think she’d rather you be a beautiful bubblehead?”

“That’s different. She’s a teacher.”

“I don’t care what you look like. I mean, you’re a genius with math, you can draw amazing stuff, and you’re compassionate.”

I gawk, wondering if I’m hallucinating.

“Besides, you’re a Christian, right?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah?”

“Remember that one verse? Man looks at the outside appearance, but God looks at the heart.
You’re God’s child.”

I am? I am! The implied meaning begins to emerge.

Blake smiles. It’s a cute little smile. “So that’s where your value comes from. Not from eyelashes or makeup or whatever else you think.”

“Wow,” I say. “Just…I don’t know. Still, doesn’t outside appearance mean something? I mean, that’s what all these girls look at.”

The smile vanishes. “Yeah, it is. Ruth went into the hospital yesterday because of it.”

I frown. “What? Why?” His sister possibly fits the ‘beautiful bubblehead’ label.

His face becomes somber. “Yeah. We found out she was OD’ing on laxatives and diet pills
because she thought she wasn’t pretty enough or thin enough.”

I know girls who threw up regularly to be Ruth’s size. “That’s crazy! She’s already practically perfect.”

“That’s my point. So your best features aren’t looks. Big deal. You’re talented, and that’s a lot more than I can say for a lot of girls in this school.” He flushes a little. “Besides, you have nice eyes.”

I feel my face heat, but in a nice way. “Really?”

He nods, stepping back. “Yeah. Well, I gotta go.”

“Yeah, see you later.” As he walks off, I reach up and touch the corner of my right eye. Is it possible?


The next day, I’m in the bathroom again. My hair’s still red and cut at weird angles, and my complexion hasn’t cleared. The mirror starts talking. You think Blake likes you? Get a grip. You’re so ugly it’s –

I square my shoulders and look the mirror – at myself – dead in the eyes.

Man looks at the outside appearance.
God looks at the heart.

I narrow my eyes at the mirror. “Shut up.”