(no subject)
Laney was not ugly.
She knew many things about herself, many words that could be used to describe herself- chubby, sarcastic, anti-social, stubborn (kind-hearted, well-intentioned, shy, loyal) but ugly was not one of them.
Adversely, neither was she beautiful. Men didn't stop walking on the street to watch her pass, boys didn't stutter through conversation, too nervous to string words together properly. She had never been offered a modeling contract, never been told she was gorgeous, never been kissed.
Laney was entirely unremarkable. She supposed there had to be safety in that, had to be some sort of security in ordinariness, like curveballs were less likely to be thrown if you could blend into the background of life. And blending was something that Laney was remarkably good at.
Charisma wasn't her strong suit. She didn't take up a room with her presence, life and light didn't leave a party when she did. She contributed, sure, but only when she felt like it, when she felt smart and pretty and on her game.
She didn't feel like that often.
Sometimes, she would catch herself in the mirror, see the roundness at her tummy and the thickness of her thighs and the width of her arms, and she would itch. She would feel an itch at the back of her throat that could only be scratched with the nail of her middle finger, could only be assuaged with bile and half-digested food careening past it and into a dirty toilet with an empty, unsatisfying splat.
She would press her short, inelegant hands flat against her soft middle and her curved back, suck in air, feel her chest expand and her stomach retract and the tightness in her ribs started to suffocate her. She felt her shoulders rise and her neck get shorter, and wished that she could hold that position forever, where she was a size smaller and a tad prettier.
She walked around with an emptiness in her chest, in her stomach, metaphorical as always, because she liked food too much, wasn't strong enough to be anorexic, to abstain from something that could bring her so much comfort as well as so much turmoil.
But abstention from other things wasn't so hard.
Boys weren't interested in her round face or her plain, straight hair. They didn't care about baggy sweaters or jeans that were two sizes too big, cinched at the top and pinned at the bottom, unwashed but still presentable. They liked short skirts and processed faces. Laney was more than aware of her inferiority. She didn't need to make a fool of herself by magnifying the undesirable, so baggy sweatshirts worked just fine for her- What was the point in trying?
But Laney knew she had her strong points. She had nice eyes, and she had never been ashamed of her chest. Her smile was okay, even if she didn't show it to many people. Smiles were private, she thought. Special, only to be delivered when someone earns it, when they bring joy to a person's life. That, she thinks, is something remarkable.
Laney also wasn't stupid. She was perfectly alert to the fact that shoving a finger down her throat and letting it come lurching out of her body would not make her beautiful. It wouldn't bring her the perfect body or the perfect life. Losing ten pounds on her short frame would not make people want to be around her- she blew that a long time ago, when she realized that she was on a different wavelength than everybody else. They were thinking in numbers, and she thought in words, sprawling phrases that would come swinging through her minds on a rope swing and leave a path of fire, something to follow until the next bunch of words would show up. She lived from swing to swing, dancing and diving through her own mind like an acrobat. Everyone else had the comfort of numbers, the reliability, the luxury of concrete knowledge. They didn't worry that the next line of fire wouldn't show up.
Her face and body type weren't something that could be fixed, were not something that she cared enough about to really, really try to be fit properly. But when she leaned over and felt the acids sting her mouth and swirl in her stomach, she felt strong. In control, better about herself, like this was trying to be a better person. She knew that was wrong, that delusions of a quick fix could only take over when she had already succumbed to the itching in her throat and the empty weight at the pit of her stomach.
But then this kid sat down next to her outside the school, when rain was drizzling and making her sweater catch small droplets and let them latch onto the fibers that protruded, small enough to be invisible. He smiled like it was going out of style, like if he stopped smiling the world would stop turning, every city would come to a complete halt, and it wouldn't start up again until he bared his teeth and his dimples appeared. He was tall and skinny, had long, shaggy blond hair that he had to keep out of his eyes with frequent hair tosses. He made inappropriate jokes and said things that make Laney blush, the girl who could keep emotions off of her face like she could throw up almost silently (It's a skill that she acquired, and it comes in handy during school hours). He said things that Laney didn't understand, but wanted to, smiled at her like it was especially for her, for her alone, and that no-one else could see that smile.
And one day, he turns to her and pushes the hair out of her face, behind her ear, and smiles. And in that moment, even if it's not true, even if she's still twenty pounds overweight and too plain looking for her own good, she feels beautiful.