ONE : Brittany
Everyone knows I'm perfect. My life is perfect. My clothes are
perfect. Even my family is perfect. And although it's a complete lie,
I've worked my butt off to keep up the appearance that I have it all.
The truth, if it were to come out, would destroy my entire picture-
Standing in front of my bathroom mirror while music blares from
my speakers, I wipe away the third crooked line I've drawn beneath my
eye. My hands are shaking, damn it. Starting senior year of high school
and seeing my boyfriend after a summer apart shouldn't be so nerve-
racking, but I've gotten off to a disastrous start.
First, my curling iron sent up smoke signals and died. Then the
button on my favorite shirt popped off. Now, my eyeliner decides it has
a mind of its own. If I had any choice in the matter, I'd stay in my
comfy bed and eat warm chocolate chip cookies all day.
"Brit, come down," I faintly hear my mom yelling from the foyer.
My first instinct is to ignore her, but that never gets me anything
but arguments, headaches, and more yelling.
"I'll be there in a sec," I call down, hoping I can get this eyeliner to
go on straight and be done with it.
Finally getting it right, I toss the eyeliner tube on the counter,
double and triple check myself in the mirror, turn off my stereo, and
hurry down the hallway.
My mom is standing at the bottom of our grand staircase, scanning
my outfit. I straighten. I know, I know. I'm eighteen and shouldn't
care what my mom thinks. But you haven't lived in the Ellis house. My
mom has anxiety. Not the kind easily controlled with little blue pills.
my mom is stressed, everyone living with her suffers. I think
that's why my dad goes to work before she gets up in the morning, so
he doesn't have to deal with, well, her.
"Hate the pants, love the belt," Mom says, pointing her index finger
at each item. "And that noise you call music was giving me a headache.
Thank goodness it's off."
"Good morning to you, too, Mother," I say before walking down the
stairs and giving her a peck on the cheek.
The smell of my mom's strong perfume stings my nostrils the
closer I get. She already looks like a million bucks in her Ralph Lauren
Blue Label tennis dress. No one can point a finger and criticize her
outfit, that's for sure.
"I bought your favorite muffin for the first day of school," Mom
says, pulling out a bag from behind her back.
"No, thanks," I say, looking around for my sister. "Where's
"In the kitchen."
"Is her new caretaker here yet?"
"Her name is Baghda, and no. She's coming in an hour."
"Did you tell her wool irritates Shelley's skin? And that she pulls
hair?" She's always let it be known in her nonverbal cues she gets
irritated by the feeling of wool on her skin. Pulling hair is her new
thing, and it has caused a few disasters. Disasters in my house are
about as pretty as a car wreck, so avoiding them is crucial.
"Yes. And yes. I gave your sister an earful this morning, Brittany.
If she keeps acting up, we'll find ourselves out of another caretaker."
I walk into the kitchen, not wanting to hear my mother go on and on
about her theories of why Shelley
lashes out. Shelley is sitting at the
table in her wheelchair, busily eating her specially blended food
because, even at the age of twenty, my sister doesn't have the ability
to chew and swallow like people without her physical limitations. As
usual, the food has found its way onto her chin, lips, and cheeks.
"Hey, Shell-bell," I say, leaning over her and wiping her face with a
napkin. "It's the first day of school. Wish me luck."
Shelley holds jerky arms out and gives me a lopsided smile. I love
"You want to give me a hug?" I ask her, knowing she does. The
doctors always tell us the more interaction Shelley gets, the better
off she'll be.
Shelley nods. I fold myself in her arms, careful to keep her hands
away from my hair. When I straighten, my mom gasps. It sounds to me
like a referee's whistle, halting my life. "Brit, you can't go to school
She shakes her head and sighs in frustration. "Look at your shirt."
Glancing down, I see a large wet spot on the front of my white
Calvin Klein shirt. Oops. Shelley's drool. One look at my sister's drawn
face tells me what she can't easily put into words. Shelley is sorry.
Shelley didn't mean to mess up my outfit.
"It's no biggie," I tell her, although in the back of my mind I know
it screws up my ‘perfect’ look.
Frowning, my mom wets a paper towel at the sink and dabs at the
spot. It makes me feel like a two-year-old.