Simone

I remember the moment I became uncomfortable with my skin. I was in fourth grade and I realized that I had small black dots in the weird flap of skin under my lips and above my chin. I found that if I jutted out my teeth out far enough, and pulled my bottom lip back, I could pick at these dark bumps, which my mother told me were blackheads. I would probably have perfect skin right now if she’d never introduced me to Biore Porestrips and extraction tools and squeezing.

I was always cognizant of my protruding stomach. I spent a lot of time staring at it, very hard. It was the result of being a perpetually constipated child with a penchant for Annie’s Mac and Cheese. One day, also in fourth grade, I stayed home from school, afflicted with nausea. I couldn’t hold down food or water, and I’d exiled any bile left in my system. I looked in the mirror. My stomach was flat. This is how I had to look. This was good. But my arms were kind of big, and my thighs touched at the top. I spent the rest of the day following Exercise TV routines on demand.

Much later, in eighth grade, I found out that dress underlined intent. My style had always been simple and comfortable. Leggings or jeggings, an oversized graphic tee, and a jacket from my father’s arsenal. Interests could be expressed through T-shirt design, and flavor injected by shoe choice. But girls were supposed to wear things that made their butts look good. Butts mattered. Girls taught me that. So my shirts became smaller, and the flannels came off. Except I forgot an important step.

Two boys were over—one a raging (but sometimes helpful) narcissist who got off on humiliating me, the other his equally cruel (but quieter) friend. Of course, I wanted to kiss both. Ultimately, I realized that the sidekick was far more attainable than the lead, and thus, I devised my plan. We three sat in my living room, in addition to one of my more finely-tuned female friends who’d agreed to aid in logistics. After a brief make-out session between Lead and my friend, Sidekick asked for water. I got up to get it for him. I suppose he and Lead watched me walk out of the room, because shortly after I received I text from Lead. He said I should fix my underwear, Sidekick could see it. “Were they too small?” he pondered. I pulled out a wedgie and headed back to the sofa, inching in closer to the boy I so desperately yearned to kiss. I still see it, Lead noted, this time aloud. I bolted upstairs, quickly, as to ensure no one could pay attention to my butt, searching for a pair of panties that couldn’t be seen through leggings. But I was 13, and I had no thongs, and I hadn’t even considered that thongs were a thing I could or should own. And what were cheekies? I only knew of Jockey.

I didn’t kiss Sidekick. The next day, my savvy friend brought over three thongs she’d stolen from her Grandma. ♦