Standards

They tell you to try your best. Work hard, they say, it’ll be enough. But what if your best doesn’t quite make the cut? What if you stay up all night, drowning in caffeine, eyes swollen, head on the verge of explosion, but when you sit down the next morning, you feel blank? Empty, like a canvas that has just been opened, like a candle with no more wax. You can’t remember the date Hitler came into power, or the main causes of the French Revolution. Then what? What if your best doesn’t “meet the standard”? The boy sitting next to you exceeds, as always. What does he do differently? Does his head hurt too? What happens when there are more red pen marks on the paper than words you have typed? And that “C” at the top, engraved into the page and circled, does it stand for clever or challenged? Teachers sew their eyebrows together, utter a quick “try harder next time” and vomit the next assignment, due next Tuesday, along with twelve others. What if your best doesn’t fit onto the two lines you are given, or the workspace that has specifically been marked out for you? They tell you to think “outside of the box” yet the box is printed right there on the page. Education fits into one box with countless possible labels. Just like the comments on yesterday’s essay - banal, unjust, lacking. What’s the issue, you ask? Education seems to “meet the standard”. And if that isn’t a problem, I don’t know what is.

Every body

Real men love curves, I repeated to myself as I ran my hands down the side of my body. They trembled, my fingers burning through my own skin. The sides of my hips were straighter than the edge of a picture frame, but I was not what you’d want to have on your mantelpiece. I was not something anybody could be proud of.

I didn’t even feel my eyes glaze over, didn’t notice the tears until they dotted the bathroom floor, forming puddles that would dry within minutes, but would leave a mark for hours, days even. I’d gotten used to it. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how numb my feet felt after pressing them together, my thighs wouldn’t touch.

I lifted up my faded grey shirt, ignoring the scars winding their way around my stomach. Bones poked out from underneath my paper white skin. That extra layer that other girls whined about, I longed for. I longed for the C cups and the figure-hugging dresses. Instead, I was stuck with a square like body and leggings that were baggy at the butt.

She’s so skinny, I’d hear them say, their eyebrows pulled together and the side of their lip lifted, as if it were held up by a string. They pointed too. It wasn’t a compliment. They weren’t admiring my stick legs or my too-small-for-children’s-size waist. Everything other girls thought they envied was everything I was. And everything I didn’t want to be. Real men love curves, right?

Gingerbread brownies

We’d made them together, my mother and I. We’d been making them for years. I’d wait for her to call me down one December morning, when the rest of the house was still dancing in their dreams. The frost would line the window edges and she’d have a candle lit in the kitchen. Vanilla – her favourite. She’d see the reindeer dot my pyjama bottoms and laugh because hers were the same.

“Which bowl should we use this year, Liv?” She asked as if I would change my mind. I never did.

“The red one.”

“With the hearts?”

“With the hearts.”

I didn’t watch the flour go in, or the way the eggs whisked together until they became one. I watched her face, her tongue peeking out from the left side of her mouth, her eyebrows slithering closer together with each new ingredient.

“Your turn.”

I felt the concentration etch its way onto my face as I added the ginger. I mimicked her as I always had – she was everything I’d ever wanted to be.

***

I woke up to the sound of sirens, red lights bouncing off my bedroom window. My skin hardened, my throat tightened. The house shook but my body was numb.

“I’ll be fine honey, it’s nothing. It’ll all be fine soon.” She’d lied about being sick. She’d lied. Every day I watched her face grow paler, watched her movements lag. Her songs stopped echoing through the house. She didn’t stir as fast anymore.

My own house was unfamiliar, the floor ice under my feet. Tears blurred my eyes but my ears heard everything. The footsteps, the cries, the distant sound of my mother’s heartbeat slowing down with every passing second.

“Liv, look after your sister.” Dad’s voice echoed inside of me, his footsteps a memory within seconds. That was it, no explanation, no reassurance; no “it’ll be okay”. Because it wouldn’t. It wouldn’t ever be okay again.

***

The brownies didn’t taste the same when I made them. 

Bully

 “Why do you bully?”

She’d been taught to stare like that. She’d copied another school counsellor’s stone like gaze, the ruler-measured line of her lips. I stared back at her in the same way. She was a statue – almost. Aside from our breaths, mine faster than hers; she moved her fingers, nails drumming against the table Slowly, as if the sounds were different and each needed to be heard. My mother did that.

She’d do it right before she opened her mouth. It was an introduction, a way of leading me into the insults, softening my fall. She’d feel my body tense, my skin harden. Idiot, liar, good for nothing. She’d pace around the kitchen and drum her nails on the knives as if they were rose petals. Her pupils were bullets and I was not immortal. Her yells pierced my ears – they never became familiar. Worthless, pointless. They hurt. They stung like injections at a doctor’s office, when the needle doesn’t hurt as much as the nurse’s lies. My mother’s shouts wouldn’t crack glass, but shatter it until the pieces resembled nothing other than disappointment – what I’d become to her. I regret you.

I hear snippets of her in my voice. The insults I hand out are mirror reflections of her, likes replaying tapes of my evenings.

“Well?” The counsellor’s robotic voice became a melody, more comforting than any I’d ever known.

“It’s the only thing I know how to do.”

Anyway

She was the type of girl who stacked her pancakes higher than her plate would allow. As she coated them in a thick layer of syrup, the tower would topple and she would laugh. Her laugh sent shivers through my body. She was the type of girl whose eyes twinkled as she flipped the pages of her favourite paperback. My hoodie drowned her body as she pushed her glasses up to the top of her nose. She couldn’t hide her giggles as she knew I was watching her. I couldn’t stop. She was the type of girl who woke up in the middle of the night and went down to the kitchen. Her footsteps were wind chimes on the stairs. When I woke up in the morning, remains of chocolate would lick the bottom of the mug and the marshmallows would dot the marble counter. She was the type of girl whose cheeks turned the colour of her lips when I whispered “I love you.” She was blind to her own beauty, when it was all I could see. She was the type of girl who painted the sunset, her eyes shimmering in front of the canvas, like the ocean under the evening light. She wouldn’t show me the paintings, hiding them away. She didn’t know I looked at them later. My breath caught in my throat without her, and I’d forget to breathe when I was with her. She was the type of girl you couldn’t argue with. You’d watch her face fall and feel your heart tear away from your body. “You’re right, I’m sorry,” I’d say every time. She was the type of girl who cried when she left. Even her tears were crystals. Her eyes wouldn’t meet mine, her breaths drowning my begs. Men don’t cry, my father’s words rung in my ears. I ignored them. I held out my arms but I could no longer reach her. She told me it was over, she was that type of girl. I loved her anyway. 

Empty

“I’m so sorry about what happened.”

“You poor thing, I’m always here to talk if you need.”

“If there’s anything you need give me a call.”

Meaningless words flooded the room as if to fill the space, as if to colour in the hole that grew in the pit of my stomach. They weren’t really sorry. That was just what they said – what everyone said, what they had to say. Were they sorry for the black dress that hung like a cloak from my slouched shoulders? Or were they worry for the lack of tissues because I’d use them to wipe my tears? They asked me to talk, to give them a call if I ever needed anything. But would they be able to give me the one thing, the only thing, I needed? Would they bring him back? Would they even listen to my guilt-filled words, my cracked sentences and my deep breaths in an attempt to keep everything locked inside of me? The sorrow, the anger, the constant wishing that I could rewind that night. Would they listen to the whole story or tune out at the parts I needed to say the most? Would they believe me when I told them it was my fault? Would they comfort me or convince me that the truth wasn’t really true? I needed their words even less than they needed mine. They knew nothing. They didn’t know that I’d been the one to suggest late night smoothies. That was me. Would I tell them? The street was busy, too busy. Would I tell them that I’d been sitting in the back seat? I didn’t see the car. Neither did he. He didn’t swerve. He didn’t even scream. Would I tell them about the hospital and the lingering scent of coffee on every corner? I’d start telling them what it felt like to explain, to explain what we were doing, to explain why. I’d wanted blueberry and apple flavour that night. The thought did nothing but sicken me now.

They would hear, but they wouldn’t listen. Not really, not the way I needed them to. Their words meant nothing. Their apologies shot right through me. Just like the car shot through my father. 

Stop

Stop. Don’t look at her hair, don’t watch the way the curls bounce over the back of her black striped t-shirt. Walk away. See that girl over there? Don’t look at the curves of her body. Stop. Run your hands over your own hips and see yourself for what you really are. Worthy. Her legs might not touch, but yours do. That’s okay. It’s okay to have acne scars over your face and it’s okay to find a stretch mark or two on the sides of your body. I promise. Listen to me, you matter. Show people your perks. Stop and show everyone your rosy cheeks and the way your face flushes whenever you get a compliment. Listen to the compliments. Show people your favourite songs and the way that they tickle your body with goose bumps at 1am. The freckles that decorate your face as soon as the sun kisses your skin. Stop, don't look at her. Admire yourself. You're worth that. Show people your hobbies, your talents, your favourite words and the way they roll off your tongue. Show people what really matters. And, one more thing – smile. Open up that mouth and take pride in your white teeth. Show people the way they gleam. Smile, it makes the envy, and the embarrassment, disappear. Make it all disappear.