It was his hands. They were drenched in poisonous ink and freedom. I never would have thought to draw on my skin; it was strictly forbidden in my house. The act could lead to skin poisoning, lead poisoning, heart disease, high blood pressure, and, of course, death. But his kind eyes convinced me the risk was worth it. In only 4th grade, he had already mastered the art of having that Matty Healy, James Dean, Johnny Depp, mysterious, artsy, cool-guy persona. He was intentionally an outcast and I wanted to join him; so, if that meant having to live with a fatal disease, then so be it. It was hard being the girl with the widest hips and a higher maturity level than most of my peers. He understood my frustration, and at snack time, we’d sit in the corner making jokes other people “just wouldn’t understand.” After a while, I got pretty good at doodling on my hands and transferred the artwork to paper.

It was his crooked smile. He was sweet. The kind of person that could just casually tell you how pretty you look and not realize how much that means. Junior high temporarily turned everyone into demons, but for him, the serum kicked in later and he maintained his sugary exterior for one year past the average. But, like sugar in its purest form, there was a coarse exterior that made his spoonfuls especially hard to swallow. He was friends with my usual audience: a group of boys with blurry faces. They’d walk down hallways and giggle among themselves. I would hear my appearance scratch against their tongues.

“She’s so ugly! And she’s big as hell!”

The final blow was the leader of the pack slinking his way up to me and saying, “Aye, my friend said he likes you.” The roaring denial and bursting laughter from the rest of the pack were like cheers from a crowd. I was center stage, their between-class entertainment. Their words, while hurtful, were nothing in comparison to the sad reality that he would never see how sh**ty his friends and, eventually he, could be. To them, I was funny.

It was his lips. They were plump with an ignorant defense. It’s 7th grade art and it’s been a good day. No groups of boys using me as their entertainment, no homework, and my shadow of insecurities had stayed just far enough behind me to permit a relieving breath. Mrs. Punda had given us the tools needed for crafting our amateur clay vases. And so I lost myself in my work and found some form of solace in the one subject where my mistakes were beautiful. Eventually the time came for me to re-enter reality. The bell rang and we scrambled to the large bottomless sink placed awkwardly to the side of the work stations, all of us attempting to scrape away the slip that nestled between our knuckles. 

“Damn! Your arms are really hairy.”

Scarlet burned my face as I tried to laugh it off. I rolled my sleeves back down; I didn’t care if they became soaked with the muddy water.

It was his eyes. My wide hips grant me – in some but not all hallways– the privilege of being considered “thick.” For the first time, tight clothing is sexy and having an a** is a great thing (just as long as you don’t exceed the limit). His eyes were deep brown, like the chocolate that coated his skin. I was only 12, but I swear, when our irises met, the world slowed down. He saw past the implicit bruises and enjoyed the view. Sugar freckled his cheeks, too. Long stares with warm smiles and small eternities in the hallway: he changed my name to Beautiful. He was my Prince Charming. The only problem was, I wasn’t who he thought. I took note of every girl who had the pleasure of catching his glare and convinced myself I could never measure up. So, when Ms. Bell placed his name tag next to mine, it was because of the seating chart and not fate. When he’d lean in a little closer than necessary to ask for help, it was because he wanted to make sure I heard him; not because the mixture of my coconut co-wash and shuttle-run sweat make me smell like an exotic flower he just can’t seem to resist. When he insinuated that if given the title of my boyfriend, he’d “treat me like a lady,” I don’t notice the way the tips of his fingers tickled mine like a ghost, or that his eyes were praying I’d understand what he was trying to ask me. I retracted my hand with a friendly giggle and returned to my work. I pretended not to notice the way he slunk in his chair. The bell rang.

It’s the way he remembers my name. He’ll never understand just how much power he truly has. He’s the literal embodiment of every teen movie heartthrob. Pumped with a fiery confidence and a loner perception of the world, his success is inevitable. That Patrick Dempsey, Jake Ryan, Peter Kavinsky kind of magic glistens the walls of his reality. He saunters with admiration and pseudo-stability. Wisdom spirals from his mind, and I think that’s what intrigues me the most. His smile is just as twisted as mine, but his cracks are better hidden. His eyes make my hoping for more seem like less of a waste of time. But, I could never give him my all. My brain has already written our story: girl falls for boy and boy doesn’t notice, so girl cries her heart out because she’ll never hold his gaze.

Childhood fables didn’t prepare me for hyper-vigilance. I harbor comparisons and thoughts of “you’ll never be enough.” I couldn’t seem to find the difference between self-love and self-maintenance, so my hair looks nice, but my heart is covered in sunspots. And it’s all his fault. He’s the reason I can’t cough too loud in class or walk to blow my nose, my thighs would make too much noise. The reason my face is painted with cuts in hopes to make my nose sparkle. The reason happiness is two sizes too small. I’d rather gift it to someone else anyway.

I had learned to live in my cage and accept my lifelong rejection.

He ruined it; he broke the lock.