The Whore

The whore was five. Her mom stayed in bed and cried while her daddy lived in a different house with a different momma in his bed every night. Some of those momma’s had crooked teeth, others never smiled. Not at the whore, anyway. Some pinched her cheeks and played with her hair. They called her cute and told her things ears that little never should hear. 

The whore was seven when the man in the ice cream truck told her about cherry pie. He told her he liked it when she wore those sweet little skirts with no leggings on underneath. The man asked her if she wanted to trade a little bit of cherry pie for all the ice cream she could eat. Something sweet for something sweet. A secret sealed with sprinkles and chocolate sauce. A secret with a little piece of cherry. 

Twelve. The whore was twelve when she thought she found love. It chased her at recess and pinched her in the hall. Love giggled with the sound of innocence and the prospect of playing doctor. Love tickled her thighs and examined the two little bumps that she was told to keep hidden beneath her shirt. Love played doctor behind the wooden jungle gym with no panties on. The doctor couldn’t fix anything, and the whore was broken by love.

She was fifteen. At fifteen the whore met a boy. It was the lunch table and they were at school. His lips were pink and he asked her if she was too. Friends were few, and the whore liked the attention. His words were sweet like ice cream, and his teeth only a little bit crooked. Broken hearts were meant for fixing, he had said, although she wasn’t sure hers had been broken. He didn’t claim to be a doctor, but he told her for certain that it wouldn’t hurt. The whore said no, but pink lips came with strong hands. Teeth bit at those bumps she was told to keep hidden beneath her shirt. Nothing tickled her thighs. It turns out he lied, it really does hurt. And then he spit between his pink lips. He called her a liar and swore about cherries because hers never popped.  

Eighteen and she was a whore. Broken hearts were meant to be fixed. She was no doctor, but she knew she was sweet, and a something sweet makes everything better. Everyone likes something sweet. There were boys. One, two, and three. Their words like chocolate sauce and sprinkles, although delicious, never really made her smile. They liked her quiet. They played doctor while she played love. Thighs, teeth, and those two little bumps, bigger and with more force. She opened her legs and kept her mouth shut. Puzzle pieces are what broken hearts become. They fit together—the whore and boys one, two, and three. Sometimes when she let them, and sometimes when she didn’t. The bottle would make it better, they said. It was the glue that put them together, they said. They were not doctors, but the bottle and those pills would help them fit together. Broken hearts are pieces of a puzzle, and broken hearts were meant for fixing. She swallowed. 

The whore was twenty-two when a boy came and never left. They always left after they came. He didn’t tell her she was sweet, but he did call her by name. In her sleep he whispered I love you, but sleep was never something she did well. Friends were few and she liked the attention. There was no more two or three, only one. His lips weren’t pink, but neither was she, not any more, the whore. Broken hearts couldn’t be fixed, not when they were missing pieces he had said. He promised to give her part of his. Something sweet for someone sweet. And so he did. But pieces come with a price, like ice cream and sprinkles from a truck. The whore did what she knew best. Kept her mouth shut. She went through the motions and learned to play house. Because crying moms behind closed doors, and daddies who lived in different houses weren’t really how it was meant to be played. So he took her to church and taught her to live because despite all of her questions she could be saved.

The whore was twenty-six. The boy that came and never left played doctor and house with her still. Broken hearts were meant for fixing and she still had that piece of his, but broken hearts are like puzzle pieces and puzzles fit together just right. He got her ice cream, but ice cream and pieces come with a price. An answer came knocking in the middle of the night like chocolate sauce and sprinkles. A secret she would keep, a little piece of cherry. Sentiments whispered that taken ears should never hear. Those words were sweet and everyone likes something sweet. Something sweet makes everything better. 

Today. The whore isn’t a doctor and she doesn’t know love. Broken hearts are meant for fixing, but not with stolen pieces and chocolate sealed secrets. Nothing too sweet is ever delicious. No sometimes sweet turns sour.The bottle and pills, no she wont see a doctor, but she does have a plan.  With her bouquet of names and arsenal of sweetness she carries a crooked smile, looking for pieces and cherries untainted by secrets or words that hold her hostage. 

Playing Grown-up (behind the scenes)

I’m finding that it is harder and harder to wake up. Even harder to get ready for work.  Hardest yet to put a smile on my face and pretend like I belong. Work. I’ve  always known that I would have to work hard for what I want. Nothing good ever comes easy—especially not something you deserve. I work between 50 and 60 hours a week because I have dreams. When I was younger I was told that I should always  dream, and always follow those dreams. What I wasn’t told is that dreams are freaking expensive. My other problem is that for as long as I can remember, I have chosen to dream big. The concept sounds sweet, but the process is dirty, rough, and tiring. Like sex, accept the reward takes longer to get, and part way through you question calling it quits.  Lately, all I want to do is stay in bed, drink chocolate milk, and rotate between working on my book and watching Gossip Girl or something by Joss Whedon.

But I cant.

That is what I always imagined adulthood to be like.

But it’s not.

Instead, I wake up at 6am to an alarm clock. I dress in business appropriate clothes—which also happen to be the most uncomfortable and unflattering. I use my ‘nice voice’ on the phone, and sympathize with customers. When coworkers try to pass off work onto me, or scold me for using too many post it notes, I have to smile and work towards a professional solution. Work needs finished, and then redone again after my manager changes his vision. At around two in the afternoon I find myself day dreaming, and question why  I ever protested nap time  as a child. Then, at five ,when it is time for me to clock out for the day, my boss will finally have time to meet with me—and yes, he will want to meet. So I do.  I do it. I do all of it. All day, every day.  Again, and again, and again.

Because I have dreams. Big dreams.

I will get over it, of course. I will push through and work hard so that one day I can stay in bed and rotate between working on my novel and catching up on Gossip Girl or something by Joss Whedon.

Until then…

You can find me in my living room, in my blankets-and-pillows-fort, typing on my work-issued computer so that I can finish my assignments for job number two and ‘play grown-up’ like I used to—but without all the fun parts.

Xoxo

Working Girl

The real Letter from the author

This is the letter I wrote my lovely teacher who is currently helping me edit my book. My mental state is questionable at this point-- this much I know. I just thought I'd share so that people could see how much a piece of writing becomes part of you. Enjoy!

Dearest Laura,

This packet was probably one of the toughest I have had to date. I have decided that this is by far a good thing. Revising this story this time around revealed to me more than I could have ever expected. First of all, I began working on this story with Swati, then did a little of it with Kelly last semester, and of course now I’m working on it with you. Each time I knew that there was a problem with the pov/narrator, but I kept ignoring it—telling myself that it was an easy fix, that this was Randy’s story and no one would care about Alex. I couldn’t figure out why-- until I really looked at your comments, and dove into the deep end, head first, without my water wings.

I have realized all of the following things after revising for this packet (and yes I will probably sound like I need therapy). First of all, I really took a look at the female characters in this book. Like you pointed out, they were all rather flat, kind of shallow, and not very attractive in the non-physical sense. But why? I knew these characters in my head, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t force myself to develop them on paper. Realization number 1: All of these girls are fragments of myself.  I (unconsciously) based all of these girls off of my own horrid dating experiences, and honed in on the negative qualities that I brought to the relationship. Pushiness, misguidance, mind games, all of it. As a teenage girl I wanted so badly to blame the boys for all of the problems, but deep down I’ve known that many of the faults were my own. I admitted them through these female characters, but was more afraid that once they became real three dimensional people that perhaps I would like them. How could I go off liking these people who were based off of things I hated about myself?

I told myself that this was fiction. More importantly, I told myself that facing these fears was why I decided to write in the first place.   

So I moved on.

After that, I forced myself to look at the major issue—my POV and narrator. Why—besides maybe laziness? Or the prospect of having an almost finished novel—did I want an easy fix to the story? Why was I so upset when I forced myself to the ending and realized it was Alex’s story, not Randy’s after all? Why was I afraid to go through and ‘kill my darlings’ (I was once taught to slaughter them and have done it before with other pieces of writing)? Realization number 2: I have fallen in love with this world and these characters…all over again.. which leads me to: Realization number 3: This isn’t just a funny story about some boys trying to date. This is a story about me, and the boys I left behind. I’ve known all of these boys, or at least boys like them, at one point in my life, and for good reasons and bad, I pushed them aside. Realization number 4: I think perhaps like most girls, my high school dating experiences left me hesitant about what relationships really have to offer. Perhaps I wanted this so badly to be Randy’s story because his is what seemed like real life—or was MY reality. The thought of a boy who actually learns and becomes that boy that deserves the girl seemed sadly out of reach. Realization number 5: This story, in a way, is threaded with hope. Hope that the guy will get the girl. Hope that the girl will accept the guy. And hope that there really is someone of the opposite sex that wants to work hard and figure it out just as badly as you.

Realization number 6: I have hope. Hope that this story can and will finally turn into what I have envisioned it to be all along—funny, but real. When I started the project, I interviewed over thirty high school boys in order to get voice, lingo, and circumstances so that it would be realistic. I wanted it to be funny because I wanted people to take a look and laugh (like I thought I had done) at the ridiculous circumstances that surround high school dating.

 Realization number 7 (but I already knew): I have a lot to work on. I am trying to storyboard or outline or something to that effect. I’ve never really done it before, but since I know the story and have an idea of what needs to happen, I need something to help me organize. I am still a little afraid of what is happening with the story as I revise. I fear that I am losing some of the humor and edge that I had before and really enjoyed (but that could just be my fear of letting go). I’m still working/ exploring/ developing all of the characters and trying to get them clear on the page. Also, after giving both the old version and this one a read, I am trying to build more scenes that don’t take place in dialog, as well as build setting, and figure out the right structure.

 I know this letter was a lot, but I went through so much that I wanted to share. I’ll have to send Meridith and Alicia some thank you gifts because they were awesome at listening to me and talking me through things. Also, a big thanks to you for being ruthless, yet gentle—it is just what I need. I will keep pushing forward, and can’t wait to get your feedback on this. I suppose, for the first time in three semesters of working on this piece, the challenge has finally been accepted. Woot! Perhaps I will celebrate with some ice-cream and an episode of Gossip Girl (I figure it’s like research haha)

Have a lovely, Laura!

Always,

Hayley

IMAGE: a struggle

Image is something I never thought I would struggle with. 

Young, thin, active, it was the last thing on my mind… or was it? Now that I am older, wider, and struggling, I realize that this issue is nothing new. Ever since the third grade I have been secretly obsessed with the way that I look.

In third grade I was befriended by two girls, Katie and Maggie, both of which were above me on the popularity scale. Somehow they scooped me up and tucked me under their wing. We embodied the confidence and bond of the girls from the move Now and Then, and pretended to be The Spice Girls at recess.  Everything was glorious. We were known as MKH.

And then it started. My two friends began giving me critiques. Cut my hair this way, or wear clothes like that. I became obsessed.. I just didn’t know it. Every night I sat in front of my closet and agonized over what I would wear the next day. Suddenly nothing I had was good enough.  

As the years passed, my friends changed. Some better, some worse. But the feeling of inadequacy never left. If anything, it got worse. Makeup, padded bras, high heeled shoes, and a flat iron took over me. It was subtle. All the other girls were doing it, so I why would I think that what I was doing was self destructive?

Today I find that things are worse than ever. Maybe because I have realized that I’ve never really been happy with my appearance. Maybe it’s because I haven’t had to think about my weight until recently. I color my hair, I obsess over clothes, I pinch my fat, and hide my ankles (which are permanently scared from a syndrome that I was diagnosed with in 2005). I smile and do my best to mimic confidence, but in the back of my mind I am always critiquing myself. 

It’s like I’ve caught a plague where the side effects are slow onset self loathing, and a skewed sense of image.

Lately I have been striving for a healthier lifestyle by exercising and eating healthier. I lost 20 lbs, and thought it would make me feel better, but the flaws are still there. As I continue to work on making my body healthy, I find that my biggest challenge may be molding my mind to be healthy as well. 

Until then, I will continue to battle with myself and the mirror.

r.

A pat of encouragement

I find it funny that several uncomfortable things for women have been invented by men.  High heels, bras, the pap-smear test. Don’t get me wrong, I like a nice pair of heels, and for my boobs to not hang to my belly button, but sometimes I wish I could go without.  This feeling is strongest when the date for my annual pap sneaks up on me.

This, year it happened to be yesterday.

The experience is never one that I can say that I enjoy, but this time it was extra interesting to say the least.

First of all, I had to wait an hour and a half before they called my name and lured me back into an exam room.  Waiting is the worst. Not only do you have to sit with nothing to focus on but sticky magazines covered in who knows what, or a tv playing a promotional video (this time about gender identity), but you have to sit knowing that everyone there is thinking about vaginas. I tried to focus my thoughts on something productive, homework, what to make for dinner, what workout I’m going to do today, but my mind kept flipping back to those stainless steel salad tongs that were about to be shoved between my legs—and the pinch that would inevitably follow.

After about 30 minutes of waiting, a young woman (she looked about 20)walked in with her two young boys. This was fine by me. One of them actually had a cute giggle. Everything was going to be fine… that is until I remembered that I was waiting to pay a doctor to violate me and that in this instance nothing could really work out in my favor.

Apparently the woman checked all her parenting skills at the door. The two boys ran wild through the waiting room—screaming, pounding on the door that leads to the exam rooms, and swinging car keys. They boys hit two people in the waiting room with the keys, and screamed at the nurses working behind the counter. All the while, the mom sat two rows behind me and yelled “sit down and watch t.v.” My head was throbbing, and my patience was dwindling.

Still, I sat patiently with my legs crossed and tried to direct my attention to the buckle on my boot. This was fine, for about five minutes. Before I even had time to process what is happening, there was a nudge against my boot and a little voice growled “move!” One of the boys was under my chair, and wanted me to move my feet so that he could crawl the rest of the way through. Unacceptable. I leaned forward, looked at him with lips pursed, and said “no.”  Another punch to my boot, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I flung my heel back and gave the boy a little bop on the head with it. He cried. Mom yelled.

Thankfully, the nurse saved me by calling my name, but the hard part was yet to come.

I changed into the weird elastic gown—which is now like an oversized skirt in which you settle the elastic over your boobs—and agreed to let a male student join in for the exam. In the name of education, why not.

The man was young, blonde, and had a sheepish smile. Something about the way he struggled to make eye-contact made me smile. He was just as nervous about the salad tongs as I was. He started with the breast exam, working his fingers in the appropriate circular motion, and concentrating. I watched as he eyes widened as he examined a mole. This was fine, the mole does need looked at. He inquired about said mole, and when I agreed to get it looked at, I thought it was over. I was wrong.  He kept his eyes wide,  and leaned down so that his face was practically in my chest, and poked at the mole. Awkward.  At this point I was almost begging for the salad tongs, almost. He was learning, I couldn’t be mad, but I could laugh, and I did.  His face turned pink and avoided eye contact completely.

And it gets better.

Let the salad tongs, pinching, poking, swabbing, and prodding commence.

Ok, done. It wasn’t too bad. Awkward as usual, but not too bad.

I had survived. I would soon be able to drag my legs out of the stir-ups, put on my underwear, and get the heck out of there. Before I could do that, he rolled his chair back stood slowly, reached back, and gave my legs a simultaneous slap. 

I was free to  close my legs and go.

3 hours later I left with a so-far clean bill of health, a packet of pills, a new respect for the way my mother parented me, and pat on the…legs?

Until next year…