by Allen, Dylan
1
Pretty in Pink
ELISABETH
“Today is going to be the best day of your life. Everything you’ve ever wanted is finally happening, and you are ready.”
I take one last look at myself in the magnifying makeup mirror I bought this morning. I’m ruthless in my inspection of my cheek. I move the light, changing angles to make sure that my concealer is evenly and sufficiently applied.
Once I’m satisfied, I step back and look at my whole body.
I run suddenly sweaty palms down the figure-hugging front of the pink sundress, lament my nearly-flat chest, give thanks for the tiny waist and ballet-honed legs, and practice my “Oh, I come here all the time,” smile.
I’ve taken care to look exactly the way Duke likes his girls. I bought this wig weeks ago. Past attempts to dye my own hair blond have left me with hair so damaged that I’ve had to cut it all off. I smooth down the stick straight, silky locks and check the small combs to make sure it’s attached to my own hair securely.
I shudder at the thought of it slipping off at the party.
There’s no room for error, today. If I mess this up, I won’t get another chance.
I smile at my reflection and extend my hand as if someone is reaching to kiss it.
“Why, thank you. Just a new look I’m trying.” I preen and look up through my lashes in what I hope is a coy, but beguiling way.
I sigh and clutch at my chest as my heart flutters like a nectar-drunk bee.
I’m going on a date. The excitement bubbles out of me in a tinkling laugh that I’ve never heard pass my own lips before.
Oh, how I’ve waited for this.
My phone chimes, and I run to my bed to answer it.
It’s a text from Duke.
Heading over.
A grip of nerves tamps down my giddiness.
I’ve got a final hurdle to clear before I can relax. I stuff my sketch pad and pencil case into the little blue leather backpack and take one last look in the mirror.
Then, I go find my brother.
“James?” I call when I step into the huge multipurpose room that takes up most of his second floor.
“In my office,” he shouts back.
I run down the stairs, and jump over the final few in my rush to get down there.
“Hey.” I try to sound cheerful and look nonchalant as I pop my head through the door of his office.
“Hey, your--” His mouth falls and whatever he was going to say is forgotten when he looks up from his work and sees me. Despite a surge of anxiety, I smile and step into his office of book-lined walls and give a mock curtsey.
“Who are you and what’d you do with my sister?” He leans back in his chair, his face pinched in confusion.
I roll my eyes and laugh dismissively, but my guts have turned to goo at his reaction. I thought he’d smile and tell me that I look pretty.
I flick a lock of hair over my shoulder and smile.
“I’m right here, Bean.”
“Uh—yeah, I see.”
I give up my feigned disaffected posture and cross my arms over my chest and glare at him. “You’re looking at me like I just walked in here naked.”
His eyes narrow and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
“Uhhh…I just…you’re wearing… pink.” He says it like that’s the same thing as being naked.
My annoyance fizzles when I realize that for me, the way I’m dressed is as revealing as nudity might be for someone else.
This dress – in all its pink glory - is a very public acknowledgement of desires I’ve long denied.
My brother is the only person I’m ever vulnerable with. But when it comes to my appearance and the way I dress, even he seems to have the same blinders on as everyone else and I can’t bring myself to tell him how exposed I feel right now.
So, I square my chin and shrug curtly, instead. “I like this dress and I like pink.”
He’s not convinced and his expression doesn’t change as he takes me in. “Clo- you hate dresses.”
“I don’t.” I sniff indignantly.
“And you’re wearing makeup and a wig. And you hate pink.” If he can sense my growing discomfort he’s ignoring it.
He still sounds confused.
I’m starting to feel nervous. This is not the reaction I expected or wanted.
“I don’t hate pink. I just like blue better,” I try to keep my voice level and remind myself that he’s just being honest.
I don’t wear makeup. Mainly because when I used to experiment with it, my father’s comments made it clear that it wasn’t doing me any favors. I don’t wear dresses, but only because I’ve never looked good in them.
As for my fascination with blue, it’s self-explanatory. It’s not just the color of the canopy we call the sky. It’s the color of the ocean; it’s what give lapis lazuli it’s glory. It’s what makes blueberries a superfood. It’s what becomes of fire when it’s at its hottest. It’s the color of our blood before it’s tainted by oxygen. My blue eyes are the only thing I have from my father. My mother once said to him in anger that his eyes were the color of his soul. I don’t know what it meant, but I knew it meant that I had a blue soul, too.
“It’s like you’re in disguise.”
This is not the reaction I expected or wanted.
It’s true, I don’t wear makeup, but it’s because the one time I did, my father told me that my lips were too big for my face and that the lipstick made me look cheap. But, I watched a tutorial on YouTube, and I made sure I played down my abnormally full lips.
“I just wanted to try something different.”
“Are you thinking of growing your hair?” he asks, and I swallow nervously.
“No.” The dark swirling mass of curls that never frizzed is a gift from my mother. My memories of her include the way her dark hair used to cover me like a veil of silk when she cuddled with me at night. It smelled like sunflowers, and the memory of being surrounded by it is like being suffused with warmth.
My father got rid of every picture of her. I only have one, and it’s just a profile of her. When she first left, I wore it long as a way to feel close to her.
When I was old enough to understand how the way I looked affected the way my father felt about me, everything changed. Being close to her, looking like her, was the very last thing I wanted.
I bought myself a box of dye and colored it myself because the only person I could ask for help was my stepmother and I avoided talking to her as much as possible.
It didn’t go well and my hair disintegrated and broke so badly I had to cut it.
Again, I did it myself. This time though, I watched a video tutorial on Instagram. The results, initially had excited me.
I didn’t look like her anymore and without all of that hair, I could see my bone structure. My face looked almost…pretty.
That evening, I went down to dinner excited to see what my father thought. When I told him and Fiona that I was going for the Audrey Hepburn pixie look, she laughed. “You’re more Scout Finch than My Fair Lady, Lizzy. Only really pretty girls can pull off that look. It’s a shame you don’t wear makeup. At least with your long hair, we could hide your…stain.”
My father hadn’t looked up from his tuna steak when he said, “Nothing can hide that thing. And what’s the point of makeup? Everyone knows what’s under there. If only she were really a boy, then it wouldn’t matter that she’s so ugly.”
I’d been breathless with the swift kick of pain his cruel, casual words delivered.
The knowledge that my own father, my only parent, thought I was ugly broke something in me. His words didn’t just bruise my pride, they sank into my marrow and stayed there.
Not because I believed that he was right, but because I knew then that it must be what everyone else thought, too.
I spent all day making myself look like the girls they’ve bestowed the monikers of pretty and loveable on.
If my own brother, who know
s and loves me best, doesn’t recognize that this Liz is the real me - fully manifested and on display, then maybe Duke won’t either.
My stomach dips and dread starts to taint the sense of excitement I felt when I first came downstairs.
“Stop looking at me like that. You jerk,” I snap at James’ bewildered expression and storm out of his office.
“Hey, come back,” he calls after me. When I hear the scrape of his chair and his rapid footsteps behind me, I stop and let him catch up.
“It’s fine, don’t worry.” I say without looking at him when he comes to stand next to me.
He puts a finger under my chin and tips my face up to his. The look of discomfort on his face is a little mollifying, but it’s nothing compared to the sinking sensation of failure that’s starting to overwhelm me. I bite my lip to stop it from trembling and try to smile.
It’s a feeble effort and his discomfort takes on a pained air, and I wish I had wings to carry me away. I turn my head so that my chin is free of his hold and look at the floor to hide my disappointment and worry.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry. You were just being honest.” I say in what I hope is a light voice.
“I’m sorry. You look great. It’s just…why are you wearing a wig?”
I duck and weave away from him.
“I’m going out; I wanted to look pretty.”
“You do. You look pretty.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself, as well as me.
I groan and lean my head back against the wall.
“I saw your face when I walked in. I look stupid. I’m not fooling anyone. I should change.” I hate the self-pitying tone of my voice, but I can’t help it. I turn to go back up the stairs, a bleak despair wrapping itself around my heart as I try to think of what excuse I can give Duke.
He grabs my shoulder and stops me from leaving.
“Stop that. Pink looks good on you. It’s just…not like you to be so worried about how you look.” He looks suspiciously at me. He touches the blonde hair that’s spilling in cascading waves over my shoulder.
I step out of his reach and tuck a lock of hair behind my ear.
“I told you, I’m going—"
“You covered your birthmark?” He peers at my face, his expression now concerned.
My hand reflexively comes to my left cheek.
“I’m already nervous. Stop looking at me.”
“What are you nervous about? I thought you were going to hang with some girls from school.”
“I am. It’s just I haven’t been to a party like this, I just wanted to look, you know—nice.” I lie.
He cups my cheeks and smiles down at me, his expression growing tender and understanding.
“Well, you look much more than nice. So, mission accomplished.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head and lets me go. He looks back at his desk.
“They’re going to be here any minute. It’s okay for me to go, right?”
“Of course. I can tell it’s really important to you. Have fun. I’ve got a pile of work to get through, and tomorrow I’m taking my favorite sister somewhere special for her birthday.” He waggles his eyebrows and grins.
My woes are forgotten at his pronouncement which feels more like a threat than anything else.
I hate my birthday. I was born on Friday the 13th and it’s always felt like bad luck.
It was on my seventh birthday that my mother left. It was on my tenth that my father proposed to Fiona. And it was on my fifteenth that we discovered that my brother Phillip had disappeared without a trace. Those are just the major things. If I counted the disastrous birthday parties where no one showed up, or the birthdays where only my brother remembered the day, the law of averages would agree that it’s a day best left unobserved. Attempts to celebrate always end in disaster.
“I don’t want to do anything, I told you,” I plead in a voice I use when I need him to say yes. It doesn’t work.
“You can’t deny a big brother the right to spoil his sister,” he says stubbornly.
“James, come on. You’re just asking for trouble. Can’t you ignore it like everyone else?” I stamp my foot and he laughs at the overtly childish gesture.
“Just trust me. You’ll love it.” He kisses my cheek, gives me another once-over - this time with an approving glint in his eye and goes back to his office.
I stand there trying to think of how I can dissuade him when I realize that I just sailed over the last hurdle between me and going out with Duke today.
I sag in relief.
I’ll cross my birthday bridge when I get to it, I decide. Maybe today will be a harbinger for this birthday, my twenty-first, to be different too.
“Okay, don’t work too hard,” I call over my shoulder and rush out to the foyer to wait.
“Love you, sis.” He calls back and guilt makes my step falter.
I hate lying to my brother. But if he knew it was Duke, he’d never let me go. Not after the disastrous night a few weeks ago. He hasn’t brought it up again, but he’s never been so angry with me before and the whole ordeal is still fresh in my mind. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize his letting me stay with him this summer.
My parents spend every summer at their house in Cabo and usually, I go with them. But, I hate going and this year James interceded and they agreed to let me stay behind.
I still live at home with them, and even though I’m about to turn twenty-one, my father’s ultra conservative background and beliefs means that I can’t stay home unsupervised. So, I’m staying with James and his wife, Erin.
I’ve only been here for a few weeks, but my whole life has changed. And even though I’m sneaking out to do it – if today goes as planned – my father will be proud of me.
Finally.
My family is one of the richest families in the state of Texas, but Duke’s family is the most powerful. My father’s family has courted their friendship and patronage for decades. Duke’s father is a US Senator and he’s the chairman of the party my father hopes to represent in his bid for governor. It’s an office his father held for one term before he was soundly routed.
Senator Tremaine and my father have been friends for years. But, my father is desperate for his endorsement. So far, in the previous three attempts he’s made at the governorship, he’s failed to secure it.
A few weeks ago, we were invited to the Tremaine’s for dinner. James had been called away to an emergency at a construction site a couple hours away, so it was just me and my parents.
That morning, a rack of dresses and a team of makeup artists showed up at our house to get me ready.
When they were done, I didn’t recognize myself. My hair was too short to do anything with, but my face and body had been transformed.
My birthmark was completely gone. Without it, I looked like anyone else. The dress they put me in was a pink cocktail-length dress with elbow-length sleeves and a collar that came all the way up to my throat. But, it fit me, and with the body shaping undergarments they’d stuffed me into, I didn’t look flat chested at all.
When I came down, my father did a double take and said “Nice.”
His dismissal of me as ugly was too entrenched in my psyche for me to forget, but his brief compliment paired with it, enlightened me and was the catalyst for the changes I’ve made since then.
Now, I understand that what people see when they look at me has nothing to do with who I am, or what I feel, or what I want them to see.
I took a long hard look in the mirror and made myself see what they did.
Without anything covering it, my birthmark – called a Port Wine Stain – was the first thing anyone who looked at me saw. My hair, so short was in fact, tomboyish. My breasts were nonexistent breasts, my mouth, overly generous.
My clothes were all chosen for comfort and obscurity - but they just highlight my lack of feminine grace. And in a town where the standard of beauty is modeled on an ideal that’s so far from what I look like – it’s no wonder t
hey’ve taken all of that in and found me lacking.
How could they know what really lies beneath the shell that I had no part in creating?
What about my appearance says that in my chest beats a heart with a vast capacity for love and forgiveness. What part of my appearance displays that my imagination is relentless and uninhibited? Where’s the evidence of my wicked sense of humor?
How could they know that I love beautiful things?
I used to pray that one day they’d look at me and see all of those things and think that I was a beautiful thing who should be loved, too.
In the weeks since this revelation, I’ve learned the futility of such prayers. If I want them to see me, then I have to show them who I am.
And that night, I got a taste of what it might be like to be me – both inside and out.
When we walked into that party, a few of the boys I’d grown up, who had called me names and made me a wallflower, asked me to dance.
But nothing could have prepared me for the way it would feel when Duke Tremaine took notice of me.
I had a massive crush on him when I was a girl. He’s almost ten years older than me and had never spared me even a passing glance. I hadn’t seen him in years. He’d been away at school and was working for his father in Austin.
If I’m honest, I’ve always thought he was a bit of a …dummy. Not in the way that I was…I just struggled with reading.
He seemed to struggle with everything. But, what he lacked in brainpower, he made up for in spades with his looks and to my teenage eyes, that’s all that mattered.
And at the party at his parent’s house, he couldn’t seem to stop looking at me. But he never asked me to dance. I was sure he’d never approach me and I certainly wasn’t going to approach him.
Then, during the fireworks display at the end of the night, he’d walked over to where I was standing and whispered in my ear that pink was his favorite color. When the party was winding down and my parents were arranging a separate ride for me so they could head to the airport, he offered to have his driver take me home.
But, Duke didn’t take me home.