Where Do We Go From Here?

There wasn’t much that could be said about being the ugly friend or the ugly sister, other than it really sucked. Overlooked and unnoticed for most of my life, I grew accustomed to the idea that I wasn’t anything special. I wasn’t a superhero in disguise that had super powers, I wasn’t the ugly duckling who would transform into a swan, I wasn’t obnoxiously rich or had some greater talent, I was just me—something that seemed to be unnoticeably ordinary.

My mother knew that I wasn’t as beautiful as my older sister Veronica or as outgoing as my older brother Jason. She knew that I was the daughter who would have to rely on my brains and humor to make it through life—not that it ever bothered me, I liked being smart. But it would have been great to have the ability to bring a chatty room quiet as I walked through it because my beauty was strikingly intimidating. However, I wasn’t living in a cliché teen movie. I was living in the suburban area of San Diego where beauty trumps brains.

I guess I could start from the beginning, when the realization of not being beautiful hit me. I was six and my sister was nine. It was Christmas and my mother had dressed the both of us identically—white dresses, with red ribbons in our hair. We even had on those ridiculous shiny black shoes on with the silver buckles on the strap. I felt like I had step out from a scene in the Shining; however, at the time I felt angelic. My brother wasn’t necessarily happy with his outfit either. He wore starched pants and a white button up shirt with a red vest over it. His hair was gelled to perfection, but his smile never held for more than a second. We took pictures upon picture until I felt like smile would soon fall off. Those were the days before subtle insecurities would sink into my flesh and capture my smile. Those were the days when innocence was high and you looked at the world with no prejudice. However on that Christmas, a single comment would change how I view myself and the world forever. I wasn’t supposed to hear the comment, but I did.

“Veronica is so beautiful, too bad her sister Verity doesn’t compare.” This statement said by my grandmother nearly crushed me. At age six I learned the true meaning of beauty and what people truly thought of it. I realized that with my plump cheeks and extra poundage, I was never going to measure to my sister.

Two years had passed and I finally met my first real best friend, Callie. She had beach blonde waves and blue eyes with a freckles sprinkling across her nose. We were in the same home room, bunched on the four seated table with Frankie Gem and Arnold Grace. Callie sat next to me and commented how she liked the shirt I was wearing—which was an old Nirvana shirt I had found in the attic earlier that summer. I remember smiling at her, and taking the compliment. In return, I said she was pretty. Arnold and Frankie teased us for being too nice, and in return—since I had to grow tough skin at such a young age—I called them stupid.

It was the first time I ever got into trouble at school, and it certainly wasn’t the last. I remember the principal—a snotty lady who sneered at the sight of my shirt—calling my parents to discuss my behavioral problem. You’d think that I would have coward at the thought of my parents having to come in, but I didn’t. At age eight I realized that I was adamantly stubborn. My mother and father came in with disappointment settling in their features, but I was impassive. I explained to them what happened and soon enough Principal Leslie found it in her cold heart to let me off with a warning. The compromise was that I was to never wear another Nirvana shirt to school again. My mother and father jumped into that agreement and walked out of the office with me. I realized that I should have felt sorry, but I didn’t. I remember looking up at my parents with a blank expression.

My father was the first to lean down and say “I’m sure you had reasons for calling those boys that name, but next time try not to.” He kissed my forehead before bounding towards the parking lot.

My mother was next. Since she grew up in the South and had been a debutante I expected something said with a stern voice and a saccharinely sweet smile. However, my mother simply said “I’m so proud of you, sugar.” Her voice still thick with the south.

I remember walking back to class with a thoughtful smile on my face. I realized then that in compensation for my lack of beauty, I could thus be the girl who stands-up for others.

Since then, Callie had stuck with me. I was more verbose than her but still, as years passed, everyone would notice Callie before me. She was the quiet beauty with the talent to sing and have a knack for modeling. She would join the school’s talent show and try-out for the cheer squad, but only because I was the one who would convince her to do so. Some days she’d miss school because the agency she worked for would book her photo shootings that interfered with her school schedule. However, Callie took those jobs. She would always thank me for pushing her out of her shell, in which I would thank her for trying things that would scare her. Callie was still the same girl I met when I was eight years old; the girl who would need me as a backbone every now and then.

I, on the other hand, was the supportive friend who would wait in the background. I would cheer for Callie at every game and tournament. I never really joined sports, but held an impeccable GPA. I was the girl that my eight-year-old self aspired to be since I started small movements that allowed our school to have a LGBT Club, who actively volunteered at animal shelters and homeless shelters, who was an aficionado for human rights. My attempts at being noticed during my first three years at Caliremont High went unsurprisingly overlooked since no one really cares about making a difference—not here anyway. Everyone—both students and teachers—thrive on money and looks. My hobbies weren’t really cool unless you had a thing for partially good written poems and moderately nice art work. I painted, I wrote, I did things that could easily go unnoticed since I was already unnoticed.

Notes

A small introduction for this story.

Hope you like it :)