need more eyeliner?” I asked on my way out of their room.
“No,” he said. “You’re beautiful without all that goop. Did you try the new shoes?”
I went to my room, pulled on my jeans and two long-sleeve T-shirts. A belt? No. Back to my own bathroom for more eyeliner. I was mentally saying all kinds of nasty stuff about my father, and my mother, too, who was at an event celebrating a drug that supposedly makes you fart less, her biggest account, and therefore not home to help her daughter get ready for her first real date like a good mother should—though even as I thought this I knew the last thing I actually wanted was my mother to be home, critiquing me at that point; at least my father thinks I’m beautiful, at least he says he does. I smudged on some lip gloss and immediately smeared it right off with some toilet paper. The truth is, for once it was not my mother’s fault, or my father’s. I was a wreck all on my own steam.
Breathe, Josie . Just breathe. I’m not magically half of something; I’m still whole, wholly myself, just myself going on a date.
A date? Who goes on a date, is the thing? Maybe Grandma in the 1950s, in a poodle skirt. But me? There has obviously been a mistake. Something has been done wrong. Or something wrong has been done.
What?
Carson Gold, the gorgeous captain of the lacrosse team, starter on the basketball team, president of the senior class, accepted-early-at-Harvard boy, was about to pick me up in his cute white sports car, along with his hot best friend and his hot best friend’s gorgeous girlfriend, and we were all going to go see a movie. How was I supposed to concentrate on a movie? I love movies. But still, there was such a severe element of unreality in the circumstances that I was having trouble accepting the fact that this part wasn’t the movie I was watching, while crunching popcorn next to Michael and rolling our eyes at how unrealistic movies always are about teenagers: There is no way that odd, independent Josie Dondorff, who never found the smooth or stereotypical way through any part of life, totally non-cheerleader-beach-blanket-white-bread Josephine Dondorff, would end up as Carson Gold’s girlfriend. Even the word seemed like something from a few generations ago. Girlfriend?
Zandra and Tru kept shrieking all that afternoon: Carson Gold’s girlfriend!
And yet it was happening. Yes. I’m his girlfriend, I whispered to myself in the mirror. I am a songwriter, a clown, a friend, a klutz, a chocoholic, and a girlfriend. I shook my head at the giddy grin on my too-round, too-flat face. My jumble of hair still hid me somewhat but even down it couldn’t completely obliterate how dementedly happy I looked.
Where was my scowl?
I tried, failed, and finally gave myself a second just to smile at my own reflection. I like him. He likes me. He chose me, out of everybody; he looked around our whole high school and chose me. And I chose him right back. Well, of course. Why shouldn’t I? Anybody would choose him. He is smart, fun, funny, cute, and sweet.
Just like me! I am all those things, too. Absolutely. Just because not everybody has noticed all that about me does not mean it’s not true: I am smart, funny, fun, cute, and sweet. I am the catch of all catches. If I weren’t me I might want to go out with me, too. I may be falling in love with my own self!
I tried a ponytail again. Really? He likes how that looks? He can’t possibly. It is just such a large face. I let my hair down again and shook it out around my face, pressed my hands against my thighs. Are they too big?
Youch! Whose thoughts are these? Not mine. Some boring girl somewhere must have been shocked to find herself thinking about whether there is such a thing as objective morality.
I tried to concentrate on objective morality instead. Are some things just wrong, or does context always matter? Is anything real or is it all an illusion? What if . . .
What if he really likes me?
He likes
“No,” he said. “You’re beautiful without all that goop. Did you try the new shoes?”
I went to my room, pulled on my jeans and two long-sleeve T-shirts. A belt? No. Back to my own bathroom for more eyeliner. I was mentally saying all kinds of nasty stuff about my father, and my mother, too, who was at an event celebrating a drug that supposedly makes you fart less, her biggest account, and therefore not home to help her daughter get ready for her first real date like a good mother should—though even as I thought this I knew the last thing I actually wanted was my mother to be home, critiquing me at that point; at least my father thinks I’m beautiful, at least he says he does. I smudged on some lip gloss and immediately smeared it right off with some toilet paper. The truth is, for once it was not my mother’s fault, or my father’s. I was a wreck all on my own steam.
Breathe, Josie . Just breathe. I’m not magically half of something; I’m still whole, wholly myself, just myself going on a date.
A date? Who goes on a date, is the thing? Maybe Grandma in the 1950s, in a poodle skirt. But me? There has obviously been a mistake. Something has been done wrong. Or something wrong has been done.
What?
Carson Gold, the gorgeous captain of the lacrosse team, starter on the basketball team, president of the senior class, accepted-early-at-Harvard boy, was about to pick me up in his cute white sports car, along with his hot best friend and his hot best friend’s gorgeous girlfriend, and we were all going to go see a movie. How was I supposed to concentrate on a movie? I love movies. But still, there was such a severe element of unreality in the circumstances that I was having trouble accepting the fact that this part wasn’t the movie I was watching, while crunching popcorn next to Michael and rolling our eyes at how unrealistic movies always are about teenagers: There is no way that odd, independent Josie Dondorff, who never found the smooth or stereotypical way through any part of life, totally non-cheerleader-beach-blanket-white-bread Josephine Dondorff, would end up as Carson Gold’s girlfriend. Even the word seemed like something from a few generations ago. Girlfriend?
Zandra and Tru kept shrieking all that afternoon: Carson Gold’s girlfriend!
And yet it was happening. Yes. I’m his girlfriend, I whispered to myself in the mirror. I am a songwriter, a clown, a friend, a klutz, a chocoholic, and a girlfriend. I shook my head at the giddy grin on my too-round, too-flat face. My jumble of hair still hid me somewhat but even down it couldn’t completely obliterate how dementedly happy I looked.
Where was my scowl?
I tried, failed, and finally gave myself a second just to smile at my own reflection. I like him. He likes me. He chose me, out of everybody; he looked around our whole high school and chose me. And I chose him right back. Well, of course. Why shouldn’t I? Anybody would choose him. He is smart, fun, funny, cute, and sweet.
Just like me! I am all those things, too. Absolutely. Just because not everybody has noticed all that about me does not mean it’s not true: I am smart, funny, fun, cute, and sweet. I am the catch of all catches. If I weren’t me I might want to go out with me, too. I may be falling in love with my own self!
I tried a ponytail again. Really? He likes how that looks? He can’t possibly. It is just such a large face. I let my hair down again and shook it out around my face, pressed my hands against my thighs. Are they too big?
Youch! Whose thoughts are these? Not mine. Some boring girl somewhere must have been shocked to find herself thinking about whether there is such a thing as objective morality.
I tried to concentrate on objective morality instead. Are some things just wrong, or does context always matter? Is anything real or is it all an illusion? What if . . .
What if he really likes me?
He likes
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