Page 1 of Lilies in Autumn

Ava

When I was eight years old, I thought the concession stand at the local football field was referred to as a “confession stand.” It made sense in my young, twisted mind since food was always my coping mechanism for sin, vice, and sorrow. I treated donuts like the Eucharist and soda like the body and blood of Jesus Christ.

Like clockwork, every Sunday we would be at the football fields to support my younger brother, Rafe, while he got the shit beat out of him by other boys. Somewhere between the first and second quarter, I would sneak off for penance at the concession stand and load up on “bad” food. I always thought it was strange watching other young kids dismiss the concession stand while I would beg my mother for five dollars to secure as many ice cream sandwiches as my grubby hands could carry.

As I got older, and my pants got larger, I became more self-conscious about my chosen method of repentance. But I couldn’t stop; it was like an addiction—eat as much as I can in as short a period, and then cry over the wrappers as if my tears could eradicate the calories I just consumed.

What makes me even more pathetic is that I tried to throw up the contents of my stomach multiple times, but a lack of a gag reflex and a strong disposition fucked up my bulimia attempts.

I compensated by taking copious amounts of laxatives and developing a GI infection. By the time I was fifteen years old, living on the edge meant sneaking into the teachers’ bathroom to use the toilet in private.

I am better now. Sort of.

While I had a healthier relationship with food and didn’t binge eat anymore, I still struggled with my size. Maybe if I were truly plus-sized, I would accept my body more easily. My notquitethin but not quite plus-sizebody was an unknown question mark for me; I was undefined and struggled to fit into a box, let alone clothes.

Most of the time, I faked my confidence. Sometimes, it felt like I faked who I was, too.

I know it worried my parents, my mother especially. While most moms hoped that their daughter would stay a virgin until their wedding night, my mom panicked that I had never had a boyfriend or rarely accepted a date. She worried that I had sheltered myself for so long that I would eventually experience a psychotic break and fuck every living creature, human and otherwise, within a hundred-mile radius. I know this because she told me.

I did tell her I wasn’t into bestiality, but that just brought a wooden spoon out.

When she tried to convince me to stay home for my freshman year and attend the local community college instead of a four-year university, I had to swear to every Italian saint that I wouldn’t dance on tables or go streaking in the quad in acts of rebellion. It helped that my best friend, Celeste, or as I called her, CeCe, would be my roommate.

The feelings of reverence and wonder I had for the concession stand are back as I stand in my dorm room at Marymount University. Boxes, plastic bins, and clothes are strewn around the floor and small desks as we try to make sense of the massive amount of shit we brought with us.

My mom, CeCe, and CeCe’s mom, Trisha, are standing in front of the small window, peering into the contents of one of my boxes. CeCe turns to look at me while I struggle with my fitted sheet.

Who the hell didn’t label the sides of this cotton death trap? I’m just getting one corner of it over the mattress when it snaps back up.

This motherfucker.

“Ava, why do you have a ceramic frog in this box?” CeCe calls out.

“CeCe, I don’t have time for questions. I’m a little busy.” I hold the sheet up for emphasis. “Deborah, why did you buy me sheets that require a college degree? I’m here to learn how to be an adult, not put a sheet on a bed.” I finally have two corners of the sheet secured onto the mattress.

My mom comes over, nudging me aside. “First of all, little girl, I’m Mom, not ‘Deborah.’” She takes the sheet off the mattress and rotates the fabric. Huh, so it was the wrong side?

“Second, you bought these sheets online for fifteen dollars because you wanted to be cheap. By the way, these sheets feel like they were preowned by a prison. Do you feel that fabric? It’s going to rub your skin raw.” She finishes securing the sheet to the mattress and starts to arrange my pillows and comforter like aBetter Homes & Gardensmagazine picture.

She looks at me while she fluffs my pillows. “Now, please enlighten us as to why you have not only a ceramic frog in that box but three boxes of condoms and a beer funnel.”

Dammit, I thought I hid those better.

“Well, Mom, the condoms are self-explanatory. CeCe and I will not be dropping out due to teen pregnancy. I found the frog at the garage sale on Willow Street last week, and the owner told me it would help me find a man, like the fairy tale of the princess kissing a frog.” I let out an exasperated sigh. “And we need to practice funneling if we’re going to hold our own at college parties.”

Trisha shakes her head, looking like one of the bobbleheads they hand out at Yankee Stadium during championship games. “Ava, there is so much to unpack there. Let me just sum it up with this: don’t be idiots, don’t get trashed at strangers’ houses, and don’t have sex in public places.”

Part of me recognizes that these are our parents and probably aren’t too excited to hear about the drinking and possibility of sex in relation to their daughters. But our moms aren’t prudes and are realistic about what happens in college.

“Ava, you delusional soul,” my mom starts. “You would need to accept a date from someone to get a boyfriend.” I see we’re bypassing the conversation of sex and underage drinking and going right for the jugular.

“Yes, Deborah, I know.” I turn to CeCe and watch her hold up the funnel and reach back into the box to grab the tube that attaches to it. Her gaze bounces back and forth between me and the plastic in her hands as her brow furrows. “C, what are you staring at?”

“Ava, you fucking idiot, the tube is shaped like a penis.”

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Fifteen minutes after the dick tube emerged from the box, we rushed our mothers out of our dorm room with the promise that we wouldn’t use the penis funnel in public, and under penalty of death, we would not post pictures with it on social media.

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