This is a girl. It is 2004. She is 14. One of the facts she likes about herself is that if you add 10 to the date, you will get her age. She is envious of babies born in the year 2000. But only so much, because she loves feeling nostalgic for the 90s. She has acne and braces. She attends an all-girls private school. She thinks about killing herself, most days. If only she could be alive to see and hear the mourners. She spends the Fridays, and Saturdays, of every weekend, listening to Nirvana. And trying to download rare recordings off the Internet, and reading interviews with Dave Grohl, and looking at pictures of Dave Grohl, and looking up their astrological compatibility, and signing on and off of MSN because none of her 8 contacts are on MSN on Friday (or Saturday) night at 10:30pm. She rolls her skirt up, but she wears smiley-faced boxer shorts underneath. For Christmas, she got her braces colored red and green. That was three months ago. In December, it was festive and fun, now it looks like she constantly has food stuck in her teeth.
It always looked like she had food stuck in her teeth.
At night, sometimes, she lip-syncs Radiohead’s Fake Plastic Trees into her mirror, emulating the Sinead O’Conner music video for Nothing Compares to You. Sometimes she lip-syncs Nothing Compares to You, too. She imagines her attractive, young drama teacher is on the other side. Or some other attractive man she hasn’t met yet but who will love her, braces, acne and all. Or an expansive audience, captivated.
At night, sometimes, she writes a list of all the things that are wrong with her body. Acne, braces, bacne, those weird spots on her nipples. What are those? She doesn’t know about WebMD. Or does WebMD even exist?
She’s never kissed anyone. Or been kissed by anyone. Except on the cheek in grade 6, by Max Fine and Andrew Schipper. But she has told people who ask that she has, last summer, by Will, her long-time family friend. Whom she has not actually seen since they were four and naked in a sandbox together.
She has premature sex dreams of boys she has only met once but is sure these are premonitions.
She’s tried cutting herself. But only so deep that the scars had scabbed off three days later. She’s tried throwing up. But hadn’t heard of the toothbrush technique, or the finger trigger technique, and scratched her tonsil badly.
She holds on to her pillow, and rests her head on it as though it were the man who loves her. She kisses and strokes the face of the large stuffed animal dog her mom bought her on her first trip to New York as though it were the man who loves her.
Her mom has breast cancer. Her mom told her this while on a dog walk that she didn’t want to go on. She said, she knew something was wrong. All those doctors appointments. She doesn’t ask any questions. Her mom tells her everything is going to be fine. And she says she knows.
She straightens her hair. She wears mascara to school and applies concealer in between classes. She walks alone around Kensington Market. She plays Family Feud in the computer lab during lunch. She sleeps and sleeps and doesn’t sleep but doesn’t leave her bed, and imagines her own funeral, but never her mom’s.