Page 28 of The Two of Us

9

THEN (AGE 13)

I’ve avoided mirrors for two weeks until today. The foreign alien stares back at me in the mirror. When my mom held me captive on the phone, against my will, I might add, to discuss what happens when a young lady’s body goes through “changes,” this isn’t what I was expecting. I look like a caterpillar entering a cocoon to transform, but instead of turning into a butterfly, I’ve remained the scary creature midtransition.

I hit a growth spurt, which isn’t saying much because even though my limbs look spiderlike and long, I’m still short. The curls on my head have lost their childlike appeal and now, they’re untamed and overwhelming against the backdrop of my aforementioned spider arms. The new developments on my chest are worst of all. While Cat lucked out with boobs that made even Macy Lang jealous, I’ve been gifted a pair of anthills. Big enough to require a training bra, but small enough to be made fun of for said training bra.

I suppress the memory of my mom calling my dad, informing him that he needed to take me to buy my first bra. He took the mission in stride, his Finnish strength absolving any hint of discomfort or embarrassment. His confidence only exacerbated my discomfort. Nothing in the world could have prepared me for my own father knowing more about the changing female body than me. And while I’m sure one day I’ll appreciate his extensive research and parental proactiveness, that day is far away.

He had to practically drag me into the intimates section of the department store. “Mara, we need to have you measured to find your cup size.”

I groaned, slapping my hands over my ears. “Dad. For the love of God, please don’t say cup size.”

“Oh, princessa. You shouldn’t be ashamed of your body. You’re a woman now. I know you’d rather have your mother here, but we can get through this together, right?”

He was wrong. My mom would’ve made the experience ten times worse.

I glanced around before finally conceding. “Fine. But let’s hurry, please.”

I study my appearance in the full-length mirror one more time before throwing my hands up in defeat. No matter how long I stand here, nothing’s going to change this second. I do the one thing Cat tells me that always makes her feel better on days she doesn’t feel pretty. I smile at myself. A full-out, say-cheese-for-the-camera smile. I ignore the metal and rubber bands encasing my teeth and the smile lifts my mood slightly. I move to my bed, throwing my favorite hoodie over my head. I refuse to spend any more time in front of the mirror. There are more important things in life.

I scoop up my bike from the garage and ride over to Cat’s. I could walk, but these days we spend a lot of time riding over to the convenience store with her on my pegs. Cat owns her own bike and it’s a million times better than mine, but she says she feels safer with me leading the way. Probably because she eats reckless pills for breakfast and attempts stunts on her bike that leave her with all kinds of injuries.

I hop off, walking my bike up the driveway, and see Ambrose and his friends hanging around, fixing up an old four-wheeler. I have no idea when Ambrose got into four-wheelers, but that isn’t much of a surprise. Ever since he’s started high school, he’s changed. Gone is the boy who shamelessly hung out with his little sister and her best friend. Now, you can’t find him without the most popular kids in their grade glued to his side. The Lucky Four,people call them.

Jackson Healy—Speck Lake’s youngest and most notorious player. Jackson never goes out of his way to ignore me, but he makes it clear he isn’t interested in wasting too much of his breath on an eighth grader. Shayla Marks sits on Jackson’s lap. She moved to Speck this year, but she has a face that drew her into the most desirable social circle without hesitation. She’s tall and has long limbs like me, but where mine look gangly, hers looks ready to strut down a runway. Her deep skin glows under the sun and she constantly refers to herself as the next Naomi Campbell, even though none of us knows who that is.

Beside her is the girl who manages to stick closer to Ambrose than the very clothes on his back. Sasha Baker, Ambrose’s girlfriend, is my personal tormentor. I’m unsure who offered her the job, but she takes it very seriously. If they had awards for this kind of thing, she would get employee of the year. Her chestnut-colored hair and soft hazel eyes make her look sweet and approachable until she opens her mouth.

Ambrose’s back faces me as she eyes me with pure disdain. “Oh look, Ambrose. Your stalker’s here.”

Ambrose turns, surprised to see me even though I visit like clockwork. He doesn’t defend me, turning his attention back to the bolts on the ATV.

Jackson sees the heat in my face and graces me with a small dose of pity. “What’s up, Makinen?”

“I’m just waiting for Cat,” I mumble.

Shayla cackles into Jackson’s neck. “Shocker. Say, Marta, do you have any other friends? It’s kinda messed up that you make Cat hang out with you all the time.”

If the heat from my face could ignite a fire, we’d all be burning in the driveway. “I don’t make her do anything.” My eyes sting at the accusation.

Sasha sticks out her bottom lip in a pout. “Aw, sure you do.”

The front door opens, and footsteps run toward us. Cat throws an arm around me, her smile almost making me forget the interaction I’m being forced to endure.

“Ready to go?” she asks, breathless.

I nod my head, not trusting myself to speak. I can usually master my emotions, but if Cat hears my voice, all bets are off. Suddenly memories of my mom calling me oversensitive flit across my mind and it’s like a switch is activated in my brain. I bury my emotions deep under a mountain of bricks.

Sasha clears her throat. “Cat, you know, you could hang out with us today. They say in order to get an animal to stop following you, you just have to ignore it.”

Everyone laughs except Ambrose, but his silence wounds me just the same.

Sasha narrows her eyes at me. “Because that’s what you are, Mara, the mouse. Following this poor girl around like she’s a pound of cheese.”

Tears threaten to overflow as I stare holes into the back of Ambrose’s head and I know he senses it because his back goes ramrod straight. Did he tell his friends he calls me mouse? Did the endearing nickname become the punch line to some cruel inside joke? I used to love it but now it sounds warped and ugly coming from Sasha’s mouth.

“What’s wrong?” she snorts. “Cat got your tongue?”

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