Page 8 of The Curve
2
Charlotte
I haven’t studied my face in a mirror in a long time. My fingers trace the contours and feel the texture of my skin. Tired eyes stare back, and it’s no mystery why. Sleep for me is more rarity than norm. But last night was restless in a new way. I must have woken up five times during the night, and that was after I finally turned the TV off around two o’clock. My mind was occupied with thoughts of him. Then of he and I. Fantasies of the catcher proved much too stimulating to lead to sleep.
After imagining lustful scenes with Atticus, I moved on to the usual things that play on in my head night after night. Life as a single mother takes all my waking hours, even the ones I spend in the dark. To provide for her, to do what it takes to raise a responsible, independent, intelligent woman. I’m all she has, her example of womanhood, and her teacher. Being her mother has been the most meaningful part of my life, and I thank God for the blessing every tired night.
I only wish she’d realize what a wonder she is. Kind, smart and beautiful, all hiding behind the scars. Despite my best efforts, life hasn’t been easy for my girl. Her misery over the bullying breaks my heart. I’ve done everything I can think of to stop it.
In the back of my mind I’m always aware of the promise I made to her. On one particularly rough day, I said we could move if things didn’t improve. It was stupid, but I needed to buy some time. I saw a life raft and grabbed it, afraid if I didn’t she might do something I can’t even contemplate. Children are so vulnerable at this age.
Now when I should be reenergizing for tomorrow I’m obsessing. I go over and over our options, trying to find a way to her happy. Sometimes I hope she may be facing all the trials in her life early and the rest of her days will be carefree. That’s a mother’s dream. On top of everything else, puberty has arrived. It’s not the easiest thing being thirteen. And when you wear your insecurities so visibly it’s twice as hard.
Stressing over her insecurities makes me review mine as my thoughts turn away from Mallory. My reflection is telling me I’ve looked better. Maybe some eye drops and a little mascara will help. As I pump the wand, it strikes me I’ve kept this product far past the recommended toss-by date. I haven’t worn makeup in a long time and wouldn’t be surprised if I stick myself in the eye and get an instant infection. That would be lovely. I could answer the door looking like a victim from a disaster movie. The unnamed epidemic has spread to my eye. Now no one can get within fifty feet of me or they’ll catch it and die a horrible death.
It’s hard to remember the last time I genuinely felt pretty. I think it was when Mallory was little, and she told me I was the prettiest mommy at church. Ever since those early days there’s been few reasons to dress up or wear makeup. It’s been a conscious decision to not have a revolving door of boyfriends passing through my child’s life. And in avoiding men’s attention I’ve ignored their remarks that might have made me feel good about myself.
But today feels like a special occasion. It’s secretly thrilling to be seen as something other than a mother.
Thirty-three’s coming on cat feet, as quietly as the last five birthdays. My sweet girl always has a cake for me and a present she’s made. But the day’s just a reminder I’m getting older and I’m alone. Even though it’s my choice, there are moments of clarity when I glimpse a quiet future. It’s a heartbreaking possibility that I’m letting every chance for love or romance pass me by.
I’m trying not to get too excited about being with Atticus, because this flirting from him leads nowhere. Not from my angle or his. I thought I did a great job of pretending I was ignoring his efforts yesterday. But he didn’t take no for an answer. There’s most likely any number of women who get flirted with every day by Atticus Swift. I’m a little fish in a big sea.
There’s no denying it’s good to feel like a woman again. Can I be faulted for wanting the small blessing? Even if it’s just for a day or two? So today I give myself permission to be in the moment and enjoy being carefree like every other young woman does. Whether it’s still accurate to call myself young at this age, I don’t know. I’d hate to think I missed it entirely.
I’ve avoided Googling his name because I already know what I need to. The rag magazines have him on their cover often enough. He’s the player to watch, on and off the field. Everything about him screams take my picture. I see him on cereal boxes and other endorsements.
That spectacular face, thick chocolate-colored hair with eyes to match, heavy shadow of a beard, all cherry on the sundae. And the sundae is to die for. He’s six feet of rock-hard lean muscles, with a high round ass that he’s noted for. And that’s just what I can see. Jesus, save me.
“Mom! It’s eleven forty-five!”
I’m snapped out of my nasty thoughts as I hear her hollering from the living room.
“Come here! Show me what you’re wearing!” I call.
Giving myself one last look in the mirror I suddenly hate everything I have on. The jeans are too tight and my pink top looks ordinary.
“You look so pretty, Mom.”
In the mirror I see the figure standing in my doorway, I smile my reaction. “I needed that. I don’t like anything I tried on today.”
She eyes the pile of clothes lying on my bed and smiles.
“Oh, you look pretty too! Let me see.”
I walk to her and lift her hands. The dark-blue shorts look adorable with the aqua sleeveless top. “This looks great, Mallory. You have a gift for putting things together.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“I know I’ve said it before, but you’ve got great legs, honey.”
She shakes her head as if I insulted her. It’s so hard for her to accept a compliment. There’s hardly one she believes.
I take her face in my hands. “I want you to try to have fun today.”
She looks me in the eyes and my heart sinks a little when I recognize the pain she carries.
“Yeah. I’ll try,” she says softly.
