My Life in Black and White (16 page)

“My mom is driving me
nuts
,” I said.

Kendall’s battles with her own mother were legendary—like the time in eighth grade when Mrs. Kinsey showed up in the cafeteria with Kendall’s retainer in a Ziploc bag, telling her she was supposed to be wearing it, and a screaming match ensued, right there in front of everyone. Kendall knew just what to say to me now. “Moms are the worst.”

“Tell me about it,” I said.

“What did she do?”

“It’s not so much what she
did
,” I explained, “as what she
said
. She tried to tell me how hard it’s been for her … you know … since the accident. Like
she
was the one it happened to.”

“Oh … uh-huh.”

I kept blathering. “It’s like my face is a reflection on
her
and … I don’t know … it’s taking everything in her arsenal just to get through the day. Meanwhile, I’m the one who—” I paused, hearing noise in the background. “Where are you?”

“JB’s,” Kendall said. “A bunch of us came here after practice…. Hold on a sec, will ya? I’m putting you on mute so I can order.”

“Okay,” I said. Just thinking about JB’s made me drool. They had the best mozzarella sticks in the universe. And the best chicken fingers. And fries. And—

“Omigod, you guys.”

Just like that, my food reverie was over.

“Someone take the phone.”

I wasn’t on mute.

“I don’t know what to say to her.”

I was on speaker.

“She’s, like, freaking out.”

I was on speaker, listening to my friends talk about how they didn’t want to talk to me.

“Rae, you do it.”

“What? I don’t know what to say, either.”

“Laurel, take the phone.”

“Uh-uh.”

“What did she do to her hair, anyway?”

“I know, right?”

As I sat there, frozen, the reality of my new life came into focus. I had no friends. I had. No friends. I. Had. No—

“Hey. Sorry about that,” Kendall finally said in the same phony, over-cheerful tone she’d used in school. “New guy behind the counter, doesn’t know his ass from his elbow…”

“What did you order?” I managed to ask.

“What? … Oh, mozzarella sticks … Hey, listen, Lex … I’m really sorry, but I have to go…. Wish you were here with us.”

I could tell she’d tacked this on at the end to make me feel better, like the obligatory postcards I used to send my grandmother from Florida.
Wish you were here! Weather’s great!

“Me too,” I murmured, wondering what Kendall would say if I told her it wasn’t mute she’d pressed, it was speaker. Would she make up some excuse? Fall all over herself apologizing? Would she—

“Lex?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll see you in school tomorrow…. Take care of yourself, ’kay?”

“’Kay,” I repeated.

And the phone went silent.

For the next hour, I lay in bed thinking about Sylvia Plath, this poet we studied in ninth grade, whose life got so bad that one day she sealed off the rooms between herself and her children, left out some milk and bread, turned on the gas, and stuck her head in the oven. Then I remembered this woman I saw on
Dateline
who, after her husband divorced her, made herself a Gatorade and Windex cocktail.

It’s not like I was planning to kill myself. It’s just that I needed some real friends, and a new face, and a different mother, and—

“Hey.”

I looked up, startled.

“Beans in your ears?” Ruthie said. “It’s dinnertime.”

“I’m not hungry,” I lied.

“Mom made baked chicken. Your favorite.”

“What’s the point?”

“The point of baked chicken?”

I shook my head. “Forget it.”

“Suit yourself.” Ruthie shrugged, and turned to walk out the door.

I felt my eyes burn, realizing that I needed a new sister, too—a sister who wasn’t an emotionless robot. “Thanks a lot!” I blurted after her.

Ruthie turned around. “What?”

“You’re just
leaving
me here?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Um … it’s your
room
?”

I felt a stirring of anger. “Obviously, Ruthie, I’m in my room for a reason. Which is my life basically sucks right now. Which maybe you, as my
sister
, could
notice
without me having to spell it out for you….” I paused, giving her ample opportunity to say that she
had
noticed and she was sorry. When she said nothing, I kept going. I told her about the fight with our mother and the phone call with Kendall. “I’m telling you, I can’t even look at Mom right now. And I can’t go back to school, either. I’m way too humiliated.”

That’s when Ruthie had the nerve to suggest that perhaps my friends were acting weird because
I
was acting weird.

“Me?” I pointed to my chest in disbelief. “You’re blaming
me
for the way they’re acting?”

“I’m not
blaming
you, Lex. I’m just saying … you chop off your hair, you don’t want to talk on the phone anymore, you suddenly hate pep rallies…. Should I keep going?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

“They’re not necessarily bad friends,” Ruthie continued. “Maybe they just don’t know how to act, how to treat you after the accident…. It’s like when Jenny Albee’s brother died, remember? And Mom made five thousand casseroles because she didn’t know what else to do?”

I stared at my sister. “Who cares about casseroles?”

“You’re missing the point.”

“No,
you’re
missing the point!” I cried. “I hate my life!”

“So,” Ruthie said calmly, “get a new one.”

I snorted. “Great. Thanks.”

“I’m serious, Lex. If you hate your life so much, stop wallowing and change it. Change
yourself
. No one’s going to do it for you.”

At first, I was too furious for words. I leapt off the bed, ran to the door, and shut it in my sister’s face.

But later, when I really thought about it, I saw the genius in Ruthie’s idea. It was so simple and yet so brilliant. I would change my
self
, and in so doing I would change my
life
. But this wouldn’t be a Sandy-Dumbrowski-from-
Grease
type of transformation, where she goes from cute goody-goody to leather-clad hottie just to impress the Pink Ladies and win back Danny Zuko. Oh no.

This would be the opposite.

There Must be a Reason You’re
Dressed that Way

IN THE MORNING, while Ruthie was in the shower, I went straight to her closet. Riffling through my sister’s clothes gave me a feeling of hope I hadn’t felt yesterday, when I was stuck wearing her khakis by default. Yesterday, because my mother was dictating everything—from makeup to clothes to every bite of food that entered my mouth—I felt powerless. But starting today, things would be different.

For half an hour, I was all about creating the perfect outfit, determined in my mission to ditch the old, pathetic Lexi and welcome the new one. I opened a drawer and found a pair of leggings with a rip in the knee. Then I unearthed a box of ratty, oversized cardigans I remember Ruthie buying at the Salvation Army. I picked the best one: mustard yellow with a distinct old-man smell. As I laced up a pair a combat boots, I felt almost giddy, imagining the look on my mother’s face—on
everyone
’s face when they saw me.

I closed my eyes and pictured my new life….

Gliding through the hot-lunch line of the Millbridge High School cafeteria, tray balanced casually in one hand, I select my favorite foods: pepperoni pizza, side of fries, Yoo-hoo. As I pay the cashier, I spot my ex-friends flagging me down. But I breeze straight past Taylor, Kendall, and Rae—past Heidi, whose jaw is on the ground from seeing my outfit, past Ryan and Jarrod and the football guys, who don’t even give me a second glance. Finally, I arrive at my destination: a table that, in a million years, no one would ever expect me to sit at. A table that—

“What are you doing?”

I opened my eyes and there was Ruthie, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping. “What are you doing,” she repeated, “in my closet?”

“Getting dressed!” I said, springing to a stand. “You like?” Then, before she could answer, I added, “As a wise woman once told me, ‘change your life, change yourself.’”

Ruthie shook her head. “That’s not exactly what I said.”

“Yes, it is.” I quoted back her other gemstones: “don’t let your face define you” and “stop wallowing.” “See?” I smiled, gesturing down at my outfit. “I’m taking your advice.”

Ruthie shot me a funny look, but that didn’t stop me from sharing the list I’d written the night before—my RULES FOR BECOMING THE ANTI-LEXI—that I happened to have brought with me into her closet.

1) Eat what you want.

2) Stop worrying about looks, aka no more makeup, scales, or
Elle
magazines.

3) Get some real friends (who aren’t fake, obnoxious, or boyfriend stealers).

4) Forget guys (they’re more trouble than they’re worth).

5) Boycott all football games, pep rallies, dances, and other nonacademic after-school activities aimed at the so-called “popular” crowd.

6) Study!

7) Stop letting other people (aka Mom) dictate your life.

Then, because I’d just thought of this one and I knew Ruthie would appreciate the sentiment, I threw out:

8) Care more. (Become more “globally aware.”)

“Wow,” Ruthie said when I was finished. “You’ve really thought this through.”

“Yes, I have.”

She was giving me the strangest look—like she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure she should.

“What?”

Ruthie shook her head. “Nothing.” She reached up to a hook on the wall. “Here … the fashion police will hate this.”

“Oh, yeah.” I smirked at the barf-green scarf she held out to me. It looked like something one of the old ladies at church would knit for the Christmas bazaar. “This is hideous.”

“Right,” Ruthie said, shrugging as she turned to walk out of the closet. “I made it.”

I started to apologize and then stopped myself. Apologizing was an old-me move, because the old me never wanted to offend anyone. But the new Lexi didn’t let other people dictate her life (Rule number seven). She spoke her mind. Besides, my sister didn’t care if I thought her scarf was ugly. Those things never bothered her. And, anyway, Ruthie was smart enough to understand that—starting today—ugly was whole the point.

My mother’s reaction was even better than I’d hoped. When I walked into the kitchen she took one look at me and sloshed her tea on the floor. Then, after she’d cleaned it up and regained her composure, she asked, “Are you doing a skit in school today? Some kind of performance?”

I played completely dumb. I flopped onto a chair, helped myself to a piece of toast, and said, “What do you mean?”

“Your clothes.”

“What about them?”

“There must be a reason you’re dressed that way.”

“Yes,” I said, spreading butter on my toast—not just a thin coating, either. Hunks. “I’m going to school.”

My mother shook her head. “No. No, you are not going anywhere dressed like that.”

I took a bite. “Why?”

“Why?”
she repeated in disbelief. “Because you look like a ragamuffin … a … homeless person.”

This was exactly the opening I was waiting for. “Ruthie dresses like this all the time, and you don’t even blink!”

My mother hesitated then said, “We are not talking about your sister. We are talking about you.”

“I wore her khakis yesterday!” I cried, spraying crumbs through the air. “And you didn’t have a problem with
that
!”

“Those pants were new. I bought them just last week. They didn’t have rips, or stains, or—”

“Right,
you
bought them.
You
picked them out. If
you
pick something out for me, it’s fine. If Ruthie picks something out for
herself
, it’s fine. But if I want to choose my own clothes or get my own hair cut I need your
approval
? That’s just…” I paused for a second, wracking my brain for the best word. “Lunacy! And I am not doing it anymore!” Then, for good measure, I threw out, “And you can take that scar makeup back to the store because I’m not doing that anymore, either!”

I grabbed three more pieces of toast before marching out of the kitchen, down the front steps, and into Ruthie’s car.

Minutes later, my sister opened the door and got in.

“Did you hear me telling off Mom?” I asked.

She nodded, turning the key in the ignition.

“You should have seen the look on her face…. She
hated
my clothes … and I really got my point across about her not telling me how to do everything all the time, how just because she wants me to look a certain way doesn’t mean her way is the be all and end all….”

The whole time I talked, Ruthie didn’t say a word. She just drove. When I stopped talking and looked at her, she stayed silent.

“Well?” I said.

“Well what?”