Things Are Gonna Get Ugly by Hillary Homzie Read Free Book Online Page A

school yearbook photo.
    Or Olivia.
    Me. It’s for real.
    I jam a brush through my hair, but no matter how many times I try, my do won’t cooperate. It’s possessed! In desperation, I plaster my hair with gel.I now look like I have either very wet or very greasy hair.
    It’s useless.
    On a hook behind my door, I spy a floppy flowered hat, plop it on my head, and call it good.
    Then I head over to attack the closet. It’s a jumbled-up mess with clogs and old rainboots tossed haphazardly on the dusty floor. Dresses hang next to wrinkled pairs of purple pants hanging precariously on wire hangers. None of the shirts are buttoned. A box of headless Barbies and Bratz dolls sit on a shelf with pink plastic ponies, a microscope kit, and a dirty white down comforter. There’s definitely nothing decent to wear in there. Wait! I spot a pair of black capris.
    I yank them off the rusty hanger and put them on. I glance in the mirror, and think that I actually look semipassable. Maybe I can dress myself back into being me. The idea lifts a little hope in my chest. Turning around, I suddenly see the damage on the pants—a giant stain on the back.
    I yank the pants off and throw them onto the bed. There has to be a decent pair of pants somewhere. I need makeup—no, require makeup. But where to find some? In the bottom of the bathroom drawer,I find a blue vinyl bag containing one lipstick, ten nail files, and a bottle of very old mascara. I dip my finger into the lipstick, spread it on my lips and cheeks, and attempt to get some color onto my pale, stubby lashes, but it looks clumpy and pathetic.
    I remember this meditation I made up to help me relax when I was really little: “Am I me? Are you you? Am I me?” Wrapping my pillow around my face, I’d chant it over and over before I’d go to sleep at night. The “you” in the chant meant everybody, every living creature. At the time, when I was three or something, it made sense. I think I was a lot smarter back then. I remember later on it helped me transition into going to sleep at night even when my parents, before the divorce, were fighting, even when they were very loud, and hysterical. I’d think, Are you you? Am I me? until you and me blurred into one, until I felt the comfort of not being distinct.
    This time not being me doesn’t bring happy thoughts. This is not working.
    Yesterday afternoon, after pacing around in this apartment and hoping it was all a very bad dream, I had even biked over to the pool to show up for swim practice but Coach Gina acted like she had no idea who I was. Me! Junior Olympic Swimmer. Thegirl who placed at Far Westerns. I am so not me.
    I crawl into bed and bury myself deep within the comforter, waiting to disappear. For a moment, I reach out to snuggle with Napoleon, our golden retriever. But then I remember we had to put her to sleep last month. Napoleon gone. Dad down in L.A. Myself altered beyond recognition! Oh, I can feel the sadness of all humanity. The depths of despair in SpongeBob. Yet, I’m still me. At least these are my thoughts. Am I in a coma in some sort of vegetative state? A high fever?
    Who’s There?
    It’s Mom, banging on my door, calling out, “You’re going to be late.” Mom is telling me that I’m going to be late? Now there’s a first. “Honey, get up now .”
    I don’t speak. What’s there to say? Her curly brown hair sticks straight up but she’s fully dressed, if you can call baggy sweatpants and the same shirt she wore to bed being dressed.
    I plunk down in a beanbag chair actually shaped like a spaceship.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Mom asks, entering my room. This is special. Usually, she’s been up too late reading books on photography and the lost worldsof Atlantis and Lemuria to be up at seven a.m. She must have been told to share some morning sunlight time with me from her medium Tosh. I think if he told