The Boy I Hate

One. (Rewritten)

It's not easy to remember that beauty is pain while Deborah tugs my blonde locks into a familiar ponytail. Luckily, when I wince, she's here to remind me, "beauty is pain, Amabel."

I nod in agreement, accidentally yanking my hair from her manicured grasp. She huffs and begins again.

"Sorry," I mumble.

"Quit mumbling," she orders.

I nod in compliance. She huffs and begins again.

I'd bet I'm too old for this. Most girls stop letting their mothers style their hair at eight, let alone eighteen. Then again, most mothers aren't Deborah Abram. I couldn't keep her from detaching my scalp and skull if I tried, not that I would. It's best to bite my tongue and enjoy my silicone existence.

As unpleasant as it is whenever she pulls and prods me to perfection, it's the only time we spend together that I don't silently detest, and hardly. It's easier - in vanity lighting, sat by my childhood piggy bank - to remember a time when I was positive my mom was perfect.

"Voilà," she exclaims, pressing her rosy cheek to mine. Our reflections remind me of how alike we look with the same dull blue eyes and upturned noses. "Beautiful hair, fit for a beautiful birthday girl," she gushes, but she scurries out of my bedroom before pride finds her features. On her way out, she adds, "the early bird catches the worm! I'll send Richard to fetch you shortly."

My mother considers it practice for my debutante ball that my boyfriend escorts me from my bedroom to the back patio. As such, I'm meant to remain locked in my tower until he arrives; anything to avoid helping set up, I suppose. I'm only pacing the hardwood for a few minutes before I hear the familiar hum of his Porsche, anyway. Then I'm bounding towards my bay window to get a good look at him.

He's as handsome as ever from three stories up, his light brown hair appearing golden in the evening sun. I try catching his attention by tapping the glass, but he's preoccupied greeting my mother, who'd run out as soon as he pulled in. I can only watch as she ushers him inside and then listen to his footsteps ascend the grand staircase. He can't beat me to my bedroom door; I swing it open before he even knocks, and there he is - the boy I love.

I become something of a rabid animal at the sight of him, gripping his wrists to drag him inside. Deborah would scold me for slamming the door closed, but sometimes it's imperative you attack your boyfriend with your mouth.

He chuckles as I peck his face all over, leaving behind pink lipstick. "If I walk out of here with a hickey, your mom's gonna murder me dead."

"She might even cancel the party! Quick, let me at you," I kid, nuzzling my nose into the curve of his neck. In turn, he wraps his arms around my frame tightly and lifts me just enough to waddle us over to my bed, which we collapse into, him on top. I assume he's interested in messing around until he rolls onto his back. Then I adjust my dress, embarrassed by the expectation.

Rich reaches for something inside of his suit jacket, "wanna open my present early?"

"Don't ask stupid questions," I sit up excitedly.

He sits up too, unveiling a small, velvet box.

"It's just as I feared," I joke, "Deborah's bullied you into proposing."

He rolls his eyes and reveals a ring not so different from the engagement kind I was merely kidding about. Rather than a diamond, this ring features a cross engraved into a silver band, along with the words True Love Waits. "Not exactly," he responds, "but she did approve a promise ring."

I wonder, just how dissimilar are promise rings and engagement rings? If to be engaged is to be betrothed, then surely promising to be engaged is - by proxy - also to be betrothed. Regardless, is Richard's gift really a promise ring or a chastity ring? It's not like True Love Waits is a sentiment he coined; it's the name of an abstinence-promoting, Christian organization that helms booths at half of our Catholic school's functions.