I’d turned my phone off and had collapsed on my bed. I didn’t want Thembi to call me. I felt like I’d let her down. . . . Or maybe you let yourself down? a soft voice whispered in my ear.
“Crap!” I buried my face in my pillow. Now Vicki’s voice had also joined the peanut gallery in my head. As if the cacophony couldn’t get any bigger. I kicked my legs a few times and then screamed into my pillow, because I wasn’t sure I knew what I was feeling. The sound of my door opening made me turn. It was Zac.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking perturbed.
“Nothing.” I wiped my face and tried to flatten my hair.
“You look funny,” he stated.
“Really?” I must be a sight if Zac had noticed.
“Your face looks red and ugly. You don’t look pretty anymore.”
“What?” I asked, standing up off my bed.
“You always look pretty. Now you look ugly. I don’t like it.” He folded his arms across his chest.
“You think I’m pretty?” I was totally taken aback by this.
“I think you are the third prettiest girl in the world,” he stated matter of factly.
“Oh. Who are number one and two?”
“Well, Mom and Lisa of course,” he said.
“Did I used to be number two before Lisa came along?” I asked, taking a step closer to him.
“Yes.”
“You think I’m pretty,” I repeated.
“But not when your eyes are red like that.”
And this time I didn’t hold back, I walked straight up to him and pulled him into a hug. “Come here.” I squeezed him hard and he tried to pull away from me. “I’m not letting you go this time,” I said, squishing a massive kiss on his cheek. He wiggled even more and I knew he was reaching absolute capacity now, so I let him go and he ran from my room. I smiled, pleased that I’d managed to steal a kiss and a hug.
“I’m the third prettiest girl in the world,” I whispered, and then closed and locked my bedroom door. I walked over to the mirror and looked at my reflection. It stared back at me with that same cold, relentless look it had a few weeks ago. But this time, I wasn’t going to take crap from it.
But . . . what if I was going to hate the person I was about to meet? What if all I could see were the flaws? I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. And when I finally opened them again, I locked eyes with the person staring back at me. We gave each other a firm and determined nod. We were in this together, me and my reflection. We could do this!
I pulled my T-shirt off and dropped it to the floor, and then looked at the torso in front of me. The first thing I noticed was the color. I was pale, and my broad shoulders and chest were covered in freckles that I’d never really liked before. I focused all my attention on the freckles before looking anywhere else. I stared so long and so hard at them that they seemed to transform in front of my eyes and suddenly, they didn’t look like freckles anymore.
I moved closer to the mirror and lifted my finger to one of the freckles and joined the dots, like joining the stars in the constellations. And when I was finished, I shook my head in utter disbelief.
I walked over to my makeup bag and pulled out a red lip liner, and then carefully lowered it to the first freckle and traced the dots again. This time I left a trail of red behind, and when I was done, there it was. As clear and perfect as one of my paintings: a heart.
The freckles on my chest made a perfect heart shape, just above my left breast. I looked at it and smiled. I had no idea that under all those things I usually hated, something like this would have appeared.
I turned sideways and looked at my arm and my eye immediately sought out another image. I lifted the red lip liner again and followed the dots. This time a star appeared, a little wonky, some arms longer than the others, but it was a star. I turned the other way, looked at my other arm and shoulders, and immediately saw more images. I traced them excitedly; I’d uncovered a hidden world that I never knew existed until now. I pulled my pants off and looked at my legs. On my upper thigh, a sickle moon. On my other thigh, a flower.
I stopped tracing the images and met the mirror’s gaze once more. This time, it wasn’t looking back at me like it usually was. A strange feeling washed over me as I dragged my eye from one red drawing to the next. I didn’t see the flab and stretch marks and cellulite this time. I saw something else entirely. I saw a work of art reflected back at me. Sure, not a perfect work of art, but a work of art nonetheless. A work in progress maybe? I looked at the fingerprint patchwork of drawings on my skin—they were all mine. No one in the world had this pattern of lines and dots and curves.
The white stretch marks on my hips looked like a tiger’s stripes in the moonlight, and I swear, the cellulite on my upper thighs reminded me of waves crashing against the shore. I was seeing myself through the eyes of an artist now. Like Pierneef and the mountain, like Turner and the sea, like Warhol and the soup can, and all the other great artists who chose to look at life through a different set of lenses. Who sought out and found beauty in things that no one else did. And right now, I was seeing that beauty in myself. Reflected back at me, but this time, not seeing its faults. I swept my eyes over my body and then turned slowly, looking at every last part of me. This was my body. It was unique, and if bodies like mine didn’t exist, everyone would look the same. Every artwork in the world would look identical; nothing would stand out anymore. Nothing would be different. And the world would be as boring as hell.
Things I Like about Myself by Lori Palmer
I’m a good sister.
I’m a real artist (despite what Blackwell says!).
I, Lori Palmer, am officially good with parents!
I have a voice. There is power in my art.
I am brave!
I am a great kisser!
I’m a good friend (even if I don’t really want to be just a friend).
My voice can start a movement!
My body is a work of art!