Color Me Pretty

by C. M. Stunich

  Up, up, up I was flying/Up and even higher into me until I had climbed too far/To fall and I wished I had never doubted so deep and the sun/Warmed my skin and I took my first breath and in that moment/I had my epiphany.

  Love,/ Me.]

  When it's finished, I flip the page and start to draw again. This only lasts so long as I can keep my shaking hands still, and then I'm up again and attaching buttons and ties and zippers. I bleed a little because I don't hold the needle right, but that's okay, the pain is worth it. The blood is worth it. I forge on and I breathe life into my creation, pulling her out of nothing, twisting her into something.

  When I'm done, or at least when I think I'm done, I pull the dress over my head and march into the bathroom, flicking on the light and pausing to stare at myself.

  It's the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. I have finally colored myself pretty with my own shades, blended my own joy and my own desire into something palpable. Tears race down my face, but I just decide to accept them because they may never stop, and that's okay. That's alright. I touch my hands to the mirror and I look at myself standing there, just a little healthier, just a little heavier, but a whole lot stronger.

  I don't know why I decide to do what I do next. I think it just feels like the most logical course of action to take, like somehow by moving backward a bit, I can move forward. I style my hair the way Kylie recommended, slash clear gloss across my lips, and slip into a pair of Emmett's flip flops. I am not going to do what I'm about to do because I'm looking for sympathy or redemption or anything like that. I am not doing it because I just got engaged last night. I'm doing it because I have to do it to make things right. That's just the way it has to be.

  So I call a cab and sit outside, waiting but not lost in myself. Unlike before, when I went to see her, I am not wrapped in delusions and crippled with ill health. This time when I go to see Miss Lianna Cheung, I am only going there to apologize. She believed in me, and I screwed it up. That's all there is to it.

  The sky outside is gray, but it's not raining, and I'm fairly certain there's a bit of sun trying to peak through those clouds. I pray for its success and then I move on to more personal thoughts, thoughts of Emmett and me and the ring that's sitting on my finger. It's small, like a teardrop frosted over, sitting there nice and pretty in a silver setting. Or at least I think it's silver. I've always been into fashion, but I've never quite gotten into jewelry. I know when something's expensive (and this little ring certainly is), but I couldn't tell you anything about carats or cuts or anything like that. I stare at it, and decide that no matter what, even if it were junk, even if Emmett had paid a quarter for it at the grocery store, I love it. I love it because he gave it to me even though he knows I'm screwed up and he knows I have a long way to go, and he's okay with that.

  Love.

  Did not expect to find it, didn't even know I was searching for it, but now that I've found I can tell you seriously: if it came down to modeling or Emmett, I would choose Emmett. Hands down. I'd choose him over fancy clothes and runways and magazines and makeup.

  I give the ring a kiss and look up as the cab pulls into the driveway. I climb in the back and sit in nervous anticipation, questioning myself with every mile, but knowing that I'm making the right decision. To me, Lianna represents the fashion industry as a whole, like if I can make up with her, I can make up with it and maybe, maybe I can move on and let fate take control. It's been there all along, guiding me, teasing me, tormenting me, but I never listened. After all, we get to choose our own path in life. Fate is just that guiding force behind everything that whispers secrets in your ear. Now, I'm finally listening.

  When we arrive downtown, I give the cabbie all the cash I have left and pause on the sidewalk. I don't think about how I'm going to get back or how I might be perceived. I don't even notice the people walking by, staring at me for real this time. They're looking, but they're not disgusted. Today, they're looking because they want to see. My dress is drawing their eyes, and my face, and even my body because although I'm still skinny, I feel comfortable in this moment, and comfort is everything. You can be beautiful as a size two or a six or sixteen or a six thousand. It doesn't matter. The body is just a byproduct of the mind, and although we can't control everything, we can control a lot. Perception is half the battle.

  The white brick building looms above me, but I don't let it crush me because I am strong, I really am. There is weakness in strength however, and that's what really got me. I was so stubborn and determined that I refused to see what I didn't want to see, refused to believe what I didn't want to believe. I knew I wasn't worthy and that I had to change, I had to suffer. So I did. And then I died and now I'm reborn. I'm one in a million. I don't know that yet, but Emmett does.

  I keep my mouth in a soft smile and my hands relaxed at my sides, marching past the ten foot tall windows and the displays of color and brightness. I must've been really out of it before because now that I'm here, fully lucid and attentive to my surroundings, I can see that Lianna Cheung doesn't discriminate based on sized. There are mannequins in the window that are a size zero and some that are a size ten. She just wanted me to be healthy. If I had been, I'd have booked the job.

  Pain comes then, just as it always does, but I don't let it cripple me. I ride the sensation and I feel it, fully and completely, coursing through my veins. Yes, I made a mistake. I could've been a famous model, really. I had it, but I let it go. I have to accept that.

  I reach out and grab the gold handle of the door, wiping away a stray tear with the back of my other hand. I want Lianna to see me, but I don't want her to see me cry.

  I pause in the front door and listen to the chime of the bell in back. I figure she may not be here, that I might have to leave a message with her assistant, but that's okay. Once these words are out, I'll feel better. I know I will.

  I shift a bit, running my fingers down the frothing waves of skirt at my hips. The royal blue drapes me and flares out, leaving room for me to grow or to stay the same, it doesn't matter. I made this dress fit the person, so the person doesn't have to fit the dress. The skirt falls down and brushes against the tops of my feet, teasing and tickling, while the bodice hugs me tight, cinched in down the back, cupping me, forming against me like a second skin.

  I feel pretty in it. Beautiful. It's the first time in a long time.

  My smile becomes more real.

  And then there she is, black hair draping down her back, snake tattoo on her arm. Lianna Cheung comes rushing out of the back like she's been expecting someone. Whoever it was, it was certainly not me.

  “Miss Cheung,” I begin, and then I have to ask because I have no guarantee that she's going to remember me or not. “Do you remember me? My name's Claire Simone, and I … I had a casting call here just over a month ago.” I don't mention when I returned, drenched, soaked to the bone with makeup running down my face. Lianna looks at me and her face is one, big blank. Her brown eyes take me in from head to toe and then sweep right back over again. I let her look, and I wait, trying to gauge her reaction, trying to see what she thinks of my dress, if anything.

  She looks fantastic, draped in a black gown with silver cranes, just like the ones I saw before. They soar around her like she's the sky itself, like she's vast enough to encompass everything but small enough to understand. It's a good design. A damn good one. I would've been honored to walk her clothes down a runway.

  “Miss Simone,” she says finally, gesturing at the seating area with the back of her hand. “Please, take a seat.” When her assistant peeks her head out, Lianna instructs her to make us some coffee. “I have to admit, I'm not really all that surprised to see you.” She smiles when she says this, so I know she doesn't mean anything harsh by it. “I expected you'd come back, not so soon but eventually.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, settling into a zebra patterned chair and crossing my legs at the knee. I feel more comfortable now because I'm not trying for anything, not striving for tomorrow
. Right now, I'm just existing.

  Lianna adjusts herself and the gold bangles on her arms tinkle like wind chimes. She clasps her hands around her knee and tilts her head to the side.

  “Who designed your dress?” she asks, and I have to actually look down and stare at the sweetheart neckline, the delicate buttons in robin egg blue, the uneven stitching. It's still surreal to me.

  “I did.” Lianna laughs and her voice echoes off the hardwood floors and bounces around the racks of colorful clothing.

  “Of course you did,” she tells me as her assistant whispers in on quiet feet and deposits our coffee in front of us. She disappears just as fast. I stare down at the dark brew and let the rich, earthy scent penetrate my nostrils. I don't hesitate this time, just pick it up and take a sip. “I told you that you reminded me of myself. If you had done any less, I would've been shocked.” Lianna picks up her mug and cradles it in small, delicate looking hands. “Why did you come here today, Miss Simone?” she asks. She's not being judgmental or rude or anything, she merely wants to know. I take several more sips of my coffee, surprised that I've been able to resist for this long and set the cup down.

  “I wanted to thank you,” I tell her, meeting her eyes with mine and wondering why they're twinkling like that. “For believing in me, for giving me a second chance, for remembering my name.” We both smile. “And I wanted to apologize for letting you down.” Lianna's already holding up a hand in protest.

  “Don't apologize to me, Claire Simone.” She points at me with an emerald green fingernail. “The only person you owe an apology to is yourself.” She looks at me, and I think she can tell that I'm already on my way to doing that. I have a few more stops, but I'll get there. “Are you still interested in being a model?” I don't think this question is leading to anything, but I answer as best I can.

  “I don't know,” I tell her, holding up my hand and watching the engagement ring sparkle in the sunshine. Lianna watches me but says nothing. She met Emmett before, and although it was a brief and rather unpleasant meeting, I get the feeling that she knows this is from him. Only a fool would be blind to love we have between us.

  “Well,” she says as the bell chimes again and a girl steps through the door, tentatively, afraid. Her eyes sparkle with hope and her hands shake. She's at least a size eight. She sees me looking and scoops a handful of shimmery, black hair behind her ear. She looks nothing like me yet at the same time looks exactly like me. I can see how bad she wants this, so I just smile and hope that Lianna will give her the same chance she gave me. “When you do decide,” she stands up and leaves her coffee behind, pulling a business card out of a hidden pocket and handing it to me. I actually have to search before I can see anything at all. At first the card appears blank. But when I flip it over, I can see her name and two phone numbers in pale, cream writing. When I tilt the card enough, I can see the word cell faintly but legibly. These are personal numbers. I try not to gape. “Let me know, okay?”

  And then Lianna walks away and leaves me with fresh tears rolling down my stubborn cheeks.

  Three more weeks pass, but I don't call Lianna Cheung. I can't yet. I have to make everything else right first, and that means I have to talk to the people who have been there for me always, find out why they're avoiding me and make things right. I had thought they would come to me, but it never occurred to me that they were waiting for me to come to them. It's Kylie who makes this suggestion as she sits on Emmett's couch and finishes off a plate of cajun chicken and dirty rice, courtesy of yours truly.

  I sit across from her on the love seat with my legs in Emmett's lap and my fork halfway to my mouth. Every bite is a struggle, but it gets easier. One day, I imagine that it won't hurt at all. My goal is to be able to enjoy a massive slice of cake at Emmett's and my wedding. A smile curls the edges of my lips and fades just as quickly at Kylie's words.

  “What have you got to lose?” I want to say everything, but that's not true. I have myself now, and I have Emmett. But I also don't want to lose my family. If I keep avoiding them, I can always pretend there'll be a reconciliation. If I talk to them and they decide they want nothing to do with me … I don't know what I'll do. Some part of me realizes that I'm being irrational, that the problems we have stem from them loving me so much they can't see straight, that they'd never abandon me. I also know they see Emmett as a threat. It's kind of a toss up. The one thing I do know is that no matter what, Emmett stays.

  “I think that I've waited so long to call that it's now in that awkward, weird stage, you know?” I don't add that I was counting on them to be strong for me, to help me through this. Looks like I'm going to be the one helping them. I stare at my phone and try to talk myself into just doing it, getting it over with. But I can't. As soon as my fingers brush the screen, I get angry, and I don't want to be angry. I push my phone off onto the area rug where it bounces once and falls still. “I'm not ready yet,” I say.

  “Just remember that if you wait too long, if you wait until you truly think it's time, it might be too late.” Kylie focuses her energy on polishing off her food and tells us she has to go. Apparently, she's meeting with some counselors at the local university tomorrow, trying to map out a game plan. I still haven't decided what I'm going to do.

  “I don't even know what to say anymore,” I tell Emmett as he closes the door and turns around, leaning back against it and watching the fire crackle and hiss behind me. “I really thought they'd be over here day in and day out, pounding on the door. And instead, I get nothing, not even a phone call.” I look down at my hands, and they don't seem so spindly anymore, and my nails are only blue because I've painted them that way. I want my family to see, but I also don't want them to think I'm desperate. It's a tough call to make.

  “Invite them to the fashion show,” Emmett says, referring to the invitation we got in the mail last week. It was from Lianna Cheung herself, inviting us to a show next month. She sent it along with several guest tickets, more than I could possibly ever use. I think she was trying to make a point though I'm not quite sure what it is. All I know is that I'm going to be there, even if it's only in the audience, even if I have to watch other girls walking my dream. I'm living a different one here with Emmett anyway, sleeping next to him at night, waking up to him in the morning. And the fact that I can get up and run in the morning without passing out and without feeling sick, that's a miracle I'm not going to take for granted.

  Neither of us misses the fact that the purpose of this show is to raise money for teenagers and young adults suffering from depression.

  I doubt I received the invitation by accident.

  “Then you won't have to call them. You can write a note and tuck it in an envelope with an invitation. If they want to see you, they'll come.” Emmett smiles as he moves forward. “And they will come. I know they will.”

  “How?” I ask him, looking up, watching as he walks over to me and climbs onto the couch, dropping his head into my lap, curling onto his side. He looks so cute like this, so soft and vulnerable with his mussy hair and his stubbly jaw and his full lips. I want to kiss him forever, stay locked together and never part. Guess that's why I took the ring. I brush it against his cheek and wait for him to speak.

  “How do I know that?” he asks, cracking one eye and tilting his head to glance up at me. “That they love you? That they're probably grief stricken and lonely without you?” I give him a pair of raised brows. All he does is chuckle. “Because you're one of those people who's hard to forget. Think about Lianna Cheung.”

  “I think about her everyday.”

  “So call her.” He knows I won't, so he leans down and grabs my phone, pulls up the contacts and dials her number.

  “Emmett!” I shout, but it's too late to stop him. She'll see my name on her caller ID. At ten o'clock at night. Shit.

  “Hello?” Lianna doesn't sound sleepy. In fact, she seems wide awake, almost perky.

  “Hi there,” I begin tentatively. “This is Claire Simone … ” I
trail off, hoping no more explanation is needed. It's embarrassing to try and remind somebody of who you are. Fortunately, Emmett must be right because she just laughs.

  “I knew you would call, Claire,” she says, and I hear the rumble of a sewing machine in the background. The sound makes my blood hot, and my fingers itch. I might have to draw again tonight. There's a whole stack of blank books on the counter that are calling my name, courtesy of Emmett Sinclair. “Do you think you could come into the office next Thursday?” I nod, realize she can't see me and murmur a surprised yes. “And bring that dress, if you could. I have plans for you, Miss Simone.” And on that note, she hangs up.

  Surprised wouldn't exactly be the word to describe how I'm feeling. Shocked, maybe? I have no idea what's going on. All I know is that a very, very famous talent agent and soon-to-be designer has asked me to come in, even after everything. And she wants to see my design. To say that this sort of situation is unusual would be an understatement. It doesn't even seem like a possibility.

  “I told you so,” Emmett whispers as I smack him gently on the cheek and then lean over to press an upside down kiss to his perfect mouth. “You're irresistible and unforgettable. One day, you're going to be so famous that you won't even remember the poor schmuck from the Super Smoothie.”

  “You mean my future husband?”

  “That's the guy.”

  “Maybe if he got me a cookie from the cabinet, I could imagine otherwise. I might decide to bring him along for the ride.” Emmett doesn't hesitate, just flings himself to his feet and gets what I've asked. Anything that has to do with food, and he's on it. Neither of us mentions that this is the first dessert item I've had since I moved back in. That piece of chocolate cake waves at me from the recesses of my memory. I tell it to fuck off.

  When Emmett returns and hands me the cookie, I cradle it to my chest for the longest time, pressing it against my heart while he sits down next to me with the rest of the package. I watch as he lifts one to his lips and eats the entire thing in one bite, winking at me as he chews.