Chris Struyk-Bonn - Nice Girls Endure

To my family

My parents tell me all the time that I should enjoy my teenage years, that these should be the happiest, most carefree days of my life, that this is the time for me to become independent and figure out who I truly am. You know what I say to that? What a bunch of crap.

My happiest memory goes back to when I was four years old. Yes, four years old. Thats twelve years ago, and I swear I havent been happy and carefree since.

We were at the city pool, I think, although my recollection could be slightly off. Memory can do that.

Mom was there in my memory, but she wouldnt get in the water. Instead she lay in the sun, her hair perfectly rolled and perfectly dry.

But Dad was in the water with me, and thats where Im confused by my memory. He doesnt swim now, but in that moment, we splashed and shrieked, bobbed and paddled, spit water from our mouths, and floated on our backs. And then Dad picked me up and threw me into the air. Ill always remember that, looking up, not down, and feeling like Id become part of the open sky the clouds like wisps around me, the ground far enough away to not matter, and the feeling of weightlessness wafting around me through the touch of a breeze on my wet skin.

And then I came down, and Dad caught me. He threw me up again, but Mom rushed to the edge of the pool, yelling at him to stop.

So he did.

But he whispered to me, Always look up, Chelsea. Hold your head high.

I cant do it. Since that day at the pool, that sensation of weightlessness has eluded me, and Ive been looking at the ground instead of the sky. Ive been looking at the gray, cold concrete, and Ive been looking at feet. My feet. And that part, at least, is something okay, because my feet are the best physical attribute I have. My toes are long and narrow, with just enough flesh covering the bony parts. My toenails are strong and nicely rounded. I paint them at least once a week more if I need to. I own thirty-seven pairs of shoes almost all of them backless with open toes. I want the world to see my beautiful feet.

Most people dont notice feet. They dont care that mine are perfect, pretty, because they see other things about me that they dont like, and thats how they judge me. My dad says, People should look up and down. They should notice everything, even little details, not just the first impression. If other people cant see you for who you really are, then you dont need them.

But hes wrong. I do need them. Dad doesnt understand this. He doesnt have friends my parents dont play cards with the neighbors or go on cycling expeditions through Spain with their old college buddies. When we invite people over, we invite his parents, or my moms dad, Grandpa Reece.

Who needs friends when you have family? my dad says.

I guess Ive adopted his philosophy. I dont have friends either.

School is the worst part of my life, and I spend more time there than anywhere else, unless you count sleep. I hate school. The idiots who invented high school sure got it wrong. They decided that throwing people together who are as different as primary colors was a good idea. They decided that they should take the druggies, the jocks, the brainiacs, the socially inept we all have labels throw them together in a little box, shake up the box, and tell them to get along. When they inevitably dont all get along, the kids are thrown out of the box as punishment.

If I could get thrown out, Id be thrilled. Id go home, open up a shoe store called Chelseas, and never look back. Not once.

But nice girls dont get thrown out of school. We just endure, which is what Im doing right now. Accounting sucks. I know that if I open my own shoe store Ill probably need to know something about accounting, so it isnt the class itself that makes sweat drip down my back.

Its Nicholas Dunn.

Nicholas Dunn thinks hes the only guy on the planet who looks good. He struts his stuff every chance he gets by striding back and forth at the front of the room and flirting with the teacher, Ms. Sandell. Of course Ms. Sandell devours every word Nicholas Dunn says and thinks hes absolutely adorable. Ive even seen her check out his butt before. And every time he gets out of his seat, every girl in the room looks up. He wears tight T-shirts that show off his abdominal muscles and well-developed pectorals.

Hes beautiful in an asshole sort of way.

Hey, chubs. You do your assignment? Can I take a look at it? Im talking to you. You-hoo, jelly-belly. Whats your name, anyway? Hey, anyone know what her name is?

Im fully aware that hes talking to me, but until he can communicate in a civilized manner, Im not answering.

Chelsea. Is that your name? Chelsea? Did you do the assignment?

I glance up at Nicholas Dunn, my eyes wide.

Im sorry, what did you say? I ask.

Chubby Chelsea. Thats got a nice ring to it. You like to dance, Chelsea? You like to shake your bootie?

I give him a tight smile, squint, and look back down at my desk.

Yeah, I do my homework, but hell never get anywhere near it. I wish we didnt have assigned seats in this class. I wish I sat halfway across the room from Nicholas Dunn. I wish I knew how to put him in his place, give him back worse than he gives me, but I just dont think that way. At night, while Im lying in bed, I think of all kinds of witty replies, like, My, what a wide vocabulary you have, Mr. Dunn. Or Id say something that really puts him in his place like, Squeeze your bod into a Speedo, Nicholas, and Im sure Ms. Sandell will gladly give you an A.

Okay, so Im not the type to come up with witty one-liners, even when lying in bed at night, but I do know that I hate Nicholas Dunn. I hate him like the mouse hates the cat in a terrified sort of way.

Nicholas Dunn doesnt know anything about me. I sing way more than I dance. I see every musical I can find and watch them fifty times over until I know every word of every song, and so does my dad, who sings better than Fred Astaire. Weve watched My Fair Lady so often, our British accents are perfect. We have a DVD player in our partially finished basement, so we blast the sound and I sing along with Audrey Hepburn through every song. My favorite scene is the one at the horse races where she screams, Move your bloomin arse! in front of all the high-class people.

When shes dancing at the ball, I even dance with her.

Unless Mom is home. If Mom is home, I dont dance. Sometimes, when Mom doesnt have desperate taxpayers lined up outside her office door, she comes home early. If she comes home early, my song and dance session is over.

Im so glad to see you exercising, she says, standing halfway down the stairs to the basement and smiling at me like were all on some reality TV show and have to grin for the camera. Her tan slacks and cream blouse make her look like a vanilla ice-cream cone. Keep it up, Chelsea. Thats great.

I dont need her to say that. I dont want her to say that. My mom is not overweight. She has never been overweight in her life oh, she tells me that she needs to drop ten pounds here, a couple of inches there, a nip, a tuck. She still fits into clothes from twenty years ago, from before she had me. She has no idea what its like to hate going to the mall because the clothes are either too tight or shapeless, or to look at yourself in the mirror and know that losing fifty pounds wouldnt be unreasonable. She believes that if I exercise, the weight will drop off. The pounds will fall to the floor like molted feathers. Shell be able to sweep up the excess that was her daughter, and put it out in the trash.