Her livid expression says it all. God, what is her freaking deal? Doesn’t she realize how insane she seems, dragging her grown daughter inside, away from a boy? Her lip curls and she shoots Connor a poisonous look.
“Stay away from this boy, Thea. I don’t want you talking to him.”
Connor watches the entire exchange with a bored expression, fingers tucked in the sides of his basketball shorts. He meets Mom’s nasty gaze with an arrogant grin, like he knows exactly how much he pisses her off.
“See you later, neighbor,” Connor says, eyes half-lidded and locked on me.
There’s something about the way he says it that makes my skin break out in a ripple of hot and cold.
Mom releases a bitchy scoff and nudges me toward the house, Constantine following. As soon as we cross the threshold, she lays into me, saying what she refused to air in front of our neighbor.
“How could you go out dressed like that?” She flings her hand at me in jerky movements, indicating my top.
My temper rises. I kept my cool with Connor, but Mom sets me off. She never listens to me when I’m quiet. Arguing with her, I don’t have any choice but to raise my voice, or she’d never hear me.
“There is nothing wrong with what I’m wearing, Mom!” I unclip Constantine and he trots off toward the kitchen, the sound of him lapping up water filtering through to the vaulted entryway where Mom and I face off with each other. “These are workout clothes and it was hot.”
“Thea!” Her disappointed cry follows me as I go into the kitchen, picking out ingredients and pulling out the mixing bowls. Screw the ice cream, I need to shut my racing mind up. “I don’t care how hot out it is, boys will see you dressing like that and think you’re advertising you’re welcome to their advances!”
If Dad didn’t travel so much for work, maybe we wouldn’t always be at each other’s throats. But he’s not here to create a buffer, currently away for another regional conference. I’m on my own against her.
“Do you hear yourself, Mom?” I whirl on her, slamming a whisk on the white countertop. Mom startles. I almost jump myself. Being so confrontational isn’t my style. The burst of indignation burned hot and fast at what she said, and I just acted. “This isn’t the flipping dark ages. No one is going to freak out because I’m walking around in leggings.”
“They will if you’re only half dressed! Your bra straps are—”
“Mom, so help me, if you are about to say something about my sports bra being visible, I will lose it.” It’s like I can’t even breathe when I’m smothered by her. Constantine comes to sit by my feet, leaning against my leg. I turn back to my baking supplies, surveying what I grabbed on instinct as I continue ranting, getting on a real roll now that I’ve broken the dam. “Besides, boys need to learn to control themselves so I don’t have to put myself out and be uncomfortable in the heat in order to keep their eyes off me. And why am I living in fear of a boy looking at me? Why is that so bad? It’s human nature!”
Once it slips out, it occurs to me those are Connor’s words.
Moving to the other side of the kitchen, Mom hisses at me, “They’re out of control. None of them know how to behave.”
“Seriously!” I toss my arms up in frustration. Talking to her is impossible when she gets on these topics. She’s so backwards. “That is such a sexist idea that I have to change and be the one to protect myself, and that all boys are dick-for-brains animals driven by their impulses. It’s a ridiculous argument, Mom, and it’s complete crap.”
Her eyes bulge and she opens and closes her mouth a few times, searching for some way to respond to my call out. I can’t decide whether she’s more pissed I said dick or that I disagreed with her. I stand my ground through it all, hands planted on the counter, armed with my baking supplies for fortitude. Having Constantine’s solid weight against my leg helps, too.
When she turns a concerning shade of purple, she gives up on whatever she was going to say and rushes out of the room, leaving Constantine and me alone.
“Well,” I say, glancing at the chubby rottweiler at my feet. “Let’s bake.”
Within minutes, I lose myself to the methodical process that quiets my mind and melts away my stress.
Baking cherry turnovers from scratch helped calm me down, but I’m still annoyed at Mom after finishing up my homework in my room later. The corners of my mouth lift as I twirl a pen between my fingers, sitting cross-legged on my bed. As irritated as I am, I’m so damn proud of myself for not only standing up to Mom, but also telling Connor off.
It felt good.
For those few minutes I embodied everything I aspire to be in my secret folder photos, and for once I wasn’t sacrificing anything about myself to do it. Usually when I try to become Secret Folder Girl, I’m imitating other women who have made me stop and go wow, because they have that it factor.
It’s been like that since my early teens, bombarded with images of the elusive idea of a perfect woman—as if anyone could live up to the fake ideals presented to us. Women are already wonderful the way they are. But I still struggle to accept that myself, even if I can dole out that advice to my friends.
Those old wounds are stubborn, scabbed over but never fully healing.
I shuffle my books to the nightstand and minimize the half-finished English paper for my favorite teacher on my laptop, opening a new browser window. The address I type in is ingrained, my fingers flying across the keyboard with muscle memory to type out my blog address.
The one I hid from Mom.
It loads, showing a feed of my latest posts—old photos of myself posed by the lake in a bikini that Maisy took for me, selfies in my bedroom trying on different outfits with short skirts or tying the tails of my blouse to reveal my stomach, and artsy crops where a hint of bra or panty line edge into the frame. Hundreds of posts blur past as I scroll the history of my blog, each with a photo.
I haven’t posted to it in a long time, at least a year and a half. I didn’t have to once I found someone to fill the void the blog plugged up in my aching heart.
Looking at these is kind of cringy now, seeing the phase I went through where I did my hair in half-braided pigtails in every photo, or the ones where I put on thick winged eyeliner. The cringe factor only lasts for a few minutes, then it’s just like the muscle memory, the old photos from a few years ago reminding me how good they made me feel at the time.
The comments help that feeling.
I click on posts at random, seeing the numerous comments left by Henry_Your_GoodKnight.
Henry_Your_GoodKnight: This is your best color. I’ll picture you like this always.
Henry_Your_GoodKnight: Beauty beyond measure princess, but what really gets me is the way you smile. Your intelligent eyes say it all, love. You’re longing for the world to show you all it has to offer.
Henry_Your_GoodKnight: Wish I could be there with you to experience your laugh. You’ll always be my princess.
His words were always like poetry. He seemed so intellectual and cool. The fact he followed me? Wanted to talk to me? It was a dream come true to have someone like him notice me.