Eight-year-old Josh stares in the
mirror. He wears Transformer pajamas, the water is running, and his toothbrush
is untouched. He pushes his nose up and puffs his cheeks out. Giggles erupt.
Josh likes to make goofy faces at his reflection; he does this every time his
mother, Jean, says to brush his teeth. She used to yell about it, but he’s
grown devious. Now he doesn’t leave the water running too long, he remembers to
wet his toothbrush, and he squishes the toothpaste tube in a different spot so
it looks as if he’s actually put some on his toothbrush.
After Josh leaves the bathroom,
Tricia comes in and closes the door. She’ll be thirteen next month, but she’s
already hit her ugly duckling stage. At least that’s what Jean calls it. She
says it’s a natural thing all girls go through. Tricia knows that’s a lie; her
older sister, Kelli, has never looked ugly or awkward or disgusting - ever.
Tricia stands before the mirror now, staring at her sullen face. She opens her
mouth and exposes shiny metal braces. The glasses she wears dwarf her face, but
she wanted them because “they’re just like Mom’s.” Then Tricia looks down at
her legs. A sob erupts. She jerks her head toward her reflection. “Four-eyed,
brace-faced, bird legs,” she says, voice filled with contempt. This isn’t the
first time she’s repeated the names her classmates call her while she stares at
herself, feeling unadulterated revulsion for her appearance. From the counter,
she yanks the orthodontic headgear the dentist said she must wear nightly and
tosses it into a drawer. Kelli tries to hurry Tricia out of the bathroom, but
the younger girl glares at the closed door and yells, “I’ll be out in a minute!”
A few minutes later when Tricia
opens the door, Kelli whispers, “It’s about time, dumb ass.” She sails into the
bathroom and closes the door. When she turns to the mirror, the sour expression
she wears disappears. She poses this way and that. Obviously pleased with what
she sees, she smiles. Pulling her long hair into a ponytail, she reaches for
the shower cap. When she drops her robe and turns sideways, a glint of fear
changes her expression. She rubs her hand over her still-flat stomach, and
bites her lip. Seconds later, she hunches over the toilet and deposits her
breakfast. Jean knocks on the door, asking if “Kelli Belly” is okay. Kelli
wipes her mouth; she lies, saying it’s just a touch of stomach flu.
After Kelli showers and leaves
the bathroom, Jean enters. She heaves a loud sigh, drops her robe, and steps on
the scale she’s scooted away from the wall. Her second sigh is louder. She puts
the robe back on and kicks the scale back into the corner where it belongs. Her
brow is furrowed when she glares at herself in the mirror. She’s taken to heart
her husband’s teasing “pudgy” comment from last night. A tap tap tap comes at
the door, and he pops his head in, saying, “Hey Babe …”
Jean, who usually calls her
husband sweetie or honey, verbally backs Don away from the door. “Babe? Babe?
Like that big fat pig in that movie? Is that what you’re trying to say?” She
slams the door in his face then picks up the hair dryer and looks as if she’s
about to throw it at the mirror.
In the bedroom, Don stares in the
dresser mirror. He wears a bewildered expression. Aloud he says, “Women! I
swear to God I’ll never figure them out.”
B--
