That 000000 & ffffff || Matty Healy

She Had A Face Straight Out A Magazine

/ / S H E H A D A F A C E S T R A I G H T O U T A M A G A Z I N E / /

"Is my birthday really on the seventeenth?" I ask Papa quietly. I'm sitting on the kitchen counter as he's doing the dishes. Daddy had invited Matty out with him to run errands and Ari is currently asleep. Part of me worries for Matty, but I'm sure he's in good hands.

Papa passes me a plate and I wipe it with a cloth, swinging my legs back and forth. "Of course it is, Marcy. We didn't pick it out or anything." He hesitates, rinsing his hands and taking the plate from me, placing it in the cupboard. "This is about what Margret said, isn't it?"

I shrug, "Just wondering," I say lightly. Papa stands in front of me and turns so his back is facing to me. He motions for me to hop on and I giggle, complying, like I was a child again. He piggybacks me to the living room, and I hop off. He bends down beside the bookshelf, rummaging through books at the very bottom. I sit cross-legged beside him.

"I know you said you didn't want to know, but," Papa says, grunting a bit when he pulls out a thick album from the middle of the line, "I think you should know. At least some."

"About...my mother?" I ask, the word is almost foreign to me so when I test it out, it's a tad bit odd from my mouth.

Papa smiles a bit and nods his head, flipping through the pages of the photo album. It's from his high school years, so I have to laugh when I see a picture of Daddy with Jheri curls. "He was so handsome," Papa gushes with a sigh, "Sometimes I wonder when he let himself go." I gape at Papa before we erupt in a fit of giggles, "I'm just joking, he's still looking quite dapper."

"What about you, Papa?" I ask, pointing to a picture where he's got his hair done up like Johnny Depp circa de Crybaby. He had on a white t-shirt under a leather jacket and I let out a whistle, "You were a greaser!"

"Greaser is so 50s, Princess," Papa scoffs, "these were the 80s, I was just badass."

"What happened?" I ask, staring at him now, ginger scruff along his face, hair side combed. I suppose if I look hard enough, I can still see traces of Papa's teenage self.

Papa shrugs, "I met your momma and she kind of showed me a glimpse of what my life could have been if I kept up." He flips the page and continues, "It wasn't pretty, Marcy. She was danger, she looked straight out of a magazine; dressed in tube socks and short skirts. I cleaned up my act – kept the style mostly, your daddy loved the styles," he chuckles, "But I stopped hanging out with her." He points to a picture where he's surrounded by a group of people. His finger rests on a girl, blonde hair pulled up in high side ponytail, a tight green skirt settling from high waist, pink kitten heels, a tight white tank top tucked in and a leather jacket draping over her shoulders. She was gorgeous, and as far as eighties fashion went, she looked fairly badass in her neon ensemble. In her hand, a cigarette dangled, in her other, she was pulling a bright red lollipop from her mouth. Her green eyes were graced with bright makeup but they glinted mischievously.

"She looks like me – a really blonde, eighties badass version of me." I say.

Papa touches a lock of my bleached hair, "You're fairly blonde and pretty badass, Marcy," he chuckles.

"I'm terrified of germs," I point out, "I'm so badass."

He laughs, pulling my face to kiss my cheek. "You do look a lot like her," he admits. "It's kind of scary sometimes, but you've only gotten he good from her, and I'm thankful for that."

"Was she...bad?" I ask.

Papa chooses his words carefully, "No, she wasn't. She made bad decisions, I suppose," He hands me the book so I can flip through the photos. "Her name was Heather," he informs me softly. "She was one of my best friends. She helped set your daddy and I up way back when, but she met a boy she tried too hard to impress and fell into some bad habits. She wasn't a bad person, Marcy; she was sweet and kind, but honest and blunt. Strong and hardheaded and it got her in a lot of trouble." He sighs and I don't miss how he talks about her in past tense. It turns my stomach slightly. "She started doing drugs, really strong stuff that got her hooked quick. We lost touch quickly, I couldn't handle her shit and your daddy wasn't too keen of her. I didn't even know when she fell pregnant with you until much later in her pregnancy, and I'm sorry Marcy, but I don't know if she took drugs with you either."