PRETTY
By Jim Lodge
“It's not a pretty world, Papa.”
“I've noticed,” my father said softly.
― Chaim Potok, My Name Is Asher Lev
They say I’m ugly.
I often look at myself in the mirror, thinking how wrong they are and how pretty I look - in this pink lacy dress and my curly brown hair, tied in pig-tails.
And then I’ll weep.
“You are beautiful,” I’ll say to the mirror, trying my best to imitate the sweet voice of my mother in between sobs. If only she’s still here to do my hair and wash this dress…
And then I’ll smile.
“You are beautiful,” my late mom would say.
They say I’m ugly.
As always, my father left early for the tannery. No good-byes, no reminders, no kisses on the forehead - just a dollar pinned under a couple of change on the table.
I rinsed a dirty bowl from the unwashed pile on the sink, helped myself on a cereal, and then prepped myself for school.
School. I hate going to school. The kids in my class make fun of me. They tug at my pig-tails, they throw paper-balls at me, they poke my freckles, they call me names, or worse…
They call me ugly.
I looked at my reflection on the school bus’s window, thinking how mean they are and how silly I looked - with this bald patch on my head where I pulled off a lock of my own hair along with the bubble gum that Timmy had stuck on to it.
I closed my eyes.
“You are beautiful,” I mumbled, imagining myself in a sumptuous pink dress, making pirouettes in a palace’s ball as I danced my way to my prince. Everybody applauds.
I smiled.
“You are beautiful,” my prince would say.
They say I’m ugly.
As always, Ms. Hamilton dismissed our Geography class several minutes before the school bell rings. No homeworks, no reminders, no nothing - just several book pages written on the whiteboard: things to be read in advance.
It’s lunch break. At the Cafeteria, Ethan sat by the table in front of me, putting his tray down and catching my stare.
