My mother made mayonnaise. I watch her as she places the large white ceramic bowl with blue flowers into the fridge. She tells me not to touch anything she prepared, that if I eat something there will be consequences. Tomorrow she\u2019s having lunch with her friends, who are all like her, eight reproductions of the same female phenotype that usually scares me. I don\u2019t answer. I keep scrolling Instagram at the kitchen table, ready, the fabric of my swimsuit irritating my skin beneath my clothes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When I hear the scooter honk outside, I stand up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lucia\u2019s here, I say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother throws me a look from above the cutting board that seems, I think, disapproving. I don\u2019t understand why \u2013 maybe it\u2019s Lucia, my best friend, whom she has never liked. But my mother says nothing. She scans me, and as I reach the door I scan myself too in the mirror at the entrance. Maybe I understand now. I pull my T-shirt out from my shorts and try to stretch it down to my thighs, but it won\u2019t reach. I pull at the fabric, trying to widen it, to hide myself, but it won\u2019t reach, and Lucia keeps honking, now insistently. I know she insists because she\u2019s excited to go: she has the new Fuck bikini she wants to show Tommaso, to steal a kiss from him and maybe something more. I meet my own eyes in the mirror and I look desperate. But I can\u2019t despair over things like this, I promised myself. I grab my canvas bag with the towel inside and leave the house toward the end-of-year party, at Tommaso\u2019s pool.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lucia talks about nothing but Tommaso. She repeats for the hundredth time how they\u2019ve been flirting, recounts their messages, how she found that bikini on sale and begged her mother to buy it even though it\u2019s for older girls. She stops in the street to show me how the cup fits and, when she lifts her tank top and exposes her thin body \u2013 her ribs protruding beneath her breasts \u2013 I feel anger rising. But she doesn\u2019t notice and keeps talking. Usually I listen to these stories with interest, but today Lucia\u2019s love life seems stupid to me. And when we arrive and I see everyone in the pool shouting and throwing each other into the water, their normal, naked bodies everywhere, I try to hold back a nervous breakdown directed at Lucia, who really talks about nothing else. Then she falls silent because Tommaso walks toward us. He greets us. But he doesn\u2019t speak to both of us: only to Lucia. That extra presence makes my excess obvious, my imposing body even more out of place. My friend glances at me to make sure I haven\u2019t run away, but I can\u2019t stay and I walk off. Now I\u2019m really angry at Lucia, who used me as a sidekick to get to the party; the last party of high school and she spent it acting stupid over a boy. I approach the table where there are bowls of soggy chips and dirty plastic cups. I grab the bottle of gin. I don\u2019t like gin, but it usually helps me in situations like this. Someone comes to talk to me, since I\u2019m strategically positioned at the bar, but I can\u2019t really converse anymore, even though that\u2019s why I stood there. I feel angry, and anger steals my words, makes me curt. Meanwhile, I see Lucia and Tommaso walking away. I decide I need to go to the bathroom, pretend to be busy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the living room there\u2019s a boy. He\u2019s alone on the couch, watching me as I pass. He smiles and I smile back. He\u2019s beautiful: blond curly hair, a slightly bored look. Hi, he says, and I say Hi. I look away, but from the corner of my eye I see him watching me the whole way to the bathroom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I lock the door. I look at myself in the mirror and realise I\u2019m still smiling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Maybe, I realise, I shouldn\u2019t look at myself the way I do before leaving the house. If you look for flaws, you\u2019ll find them. So I decide to stop. Everyone is in swimwear except me. I take off my shirt and freshen my hair with water from the sink. As I do, I think about boys, how comfortable they seem with nudity \u2013 how easily they take off their shirts when summer comes \u2013 though maybe that\u2019s a generalisation. As I think this, I open the cabinet beside the mirror and find a blush. I don\u2019t know how to use it, but I take a little and apply it to my very pale cheeks. I think I look good, like this. Maybe I put on a little too much. Still, it suits me. I could do something I\u2019ve never done, like talk to that boy. I realise I was harsh with Lucia, that I didn\u2019t share her excitement. Now that I\u2019m excited too, for the same reason, I understand her. I feel light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But when I step out, I see the boy kissing someone else. His body covers hers and all I can see clearly are her legs, long and sharp, her skin golden even though it\u2019s only June. Now I feel humiliated by my nudity, by the too-much blush on my cheeks. I feel stupid for having, even for a second, equated myself with Lucia, and the image of her lifting her tank top haunts me as I rush out of the room. I put my shirt back on and pull it down, stretching the fabric again to reach at least mid-thigh, but it always rides up. I feel like I can read people\u2019s thoughts, I see myself through their eyes, pitying all the space I take up, with that pathetic blush badly applied. Lucia is nowhere to be seen and suddenly I\u2019m angry again. My problems have no short-term solution. They are attached to me, stuck to my body. It takes time to free yourself from them, and this awareness \u2013 that I cannot be fixed immediately \u2013 makes me lose myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When Lucia arrives, I am no longer myself. Her face is open and happy, she runs toward me, I\u2019m the only thing in her eyes, she can\u2019t wait to tell me everything. She hugs me while I remain stiff \u2013 I feel her dry hands brush against the excess flesh on my back \u2013 and then she says, Why are you still dressed?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because I\u2019m not a slut like you, I say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We both widen our eyes, but I have no intention of taking it back. In that moment I believe it. I believe she is cruel, that she used me to get to Tommaso and now she should feel as bad as I do. Tears fill her eyes and I say something like There\u2019s no point crying and I walk away and try not to feel guilty but I do, even more when I hear her sob, and that\u2019s when I go home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I walk four kilometers in silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When I arrive, everyone is asleep and I\u2019m hungry. That kind of hunger. I know I shouldn\u2019t listen to it, but I open the fridge almost involuntarily and with the same cold intent I take the bowl of mayonnaise and place it on the counter. From the drawer I take a large spoon. I begin to eat. I don\u2019t even use bread. The metal of the spoon occasionally hits my teeth. I keep ingesting mayonnaise, its creamy texture sticking to the roof of my mouth. I take large spoonfuls, shove them all in, use my tongue to leave nothing behind. It\u2019s not that I can\u2019t stop. It\u2019s that I don\u2019t know how.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When the bowl is empty, I feel sick. I stay there, looking at that elegant ceramic, streaked with the residue of my fury. The bowl seems simple, easy to clean. For me, it isn\u2019t. And with this awareness \u2013 that I cannot be fixed immediately \u2013 I begin to wash it. My hands grow quiet under the warm water. Then I dry it with a cloth, put it back in its place, and leave the kitchen.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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