I'll Be Here

old. 
                I continue to stare at the mirror, familiarizing myself with this new girl. 
                She stares back and tilts her head to one side frowning like she’s confused.
    I am the odd man out in my little family.  Where Aaron and our mother are cute and petite and blonde, I am not.  I inherited my dad’s milky complexion and a mass of thick, unruly hair that has the unfabulous distinction of not really being able to be called blonde, brown or red.  It falls into some murky category in the middle I refer to as “mud.”  Now I’ve got mud bangs as well. 
    I’m big for a girl.  Not fat big— tall big.  Tall and lanky, with arms and legs that dangle loosely from my body like they were never properly attached.  I know this because I’ve watched a video of myself dancing at a wedding.  Trust me, it’s not pretty.  My version of “dancing” may, in fact, be outlawed in some states. 
    Way back when, my dad had high hopes that my height advantage would make me an athlete.  One game into my basketball career it became very clear that long limbs and a few inches couldn’t make up for a complete lack of hand-eye coordination and an absurd tendency to trip over my own feet.
    Mom used to call me “yarn doll.”  She acted like it was a sweet thing—a term of endearment, but she stopped in the sixth grade when she called me that in front of some kids from school and I cried in the car on the way home.  I remember that her face looked like she’d been slapped. 
    “I don’t understand why you’re so self-conscious Willow.”  She said.  Her eyes were clear and blue in the thin sliver of the rearview mirror.  “You’re beautiful.  Tall and lean like a model or a ballerina.  There are tons of girls that would give their left foot to look the way that you do. ” 
    “Just stop mom.  Seriously.  Stop.  I don’t want anyone to give their left anything.”
    “Laney?”  Mom plied for support.  My best friend Laney was sitting next to me in the back seat and her hand grasped mine and she didn’t say anything but I could tell by the way that her fingers squeezed me that she understood.  She wanted my mom to shut up as much as I did. 
    Taking a shaky breath, I stick some bobby pins that I find clumped on the bottom of my nail polish bin into my hair to keep the new bangs off my forehead for awhile and I go crawl back under my covers.  Yes, I’m aware that staying in bed all day is such a pathetically ordinary reaction to a break up and there’s this part of me that wants to break the mold and skip around my neighborhood whistling show tunes, but she’s grossly overshadowed by the lovelorn teenager that can’t do much other than mope and settle deeper into the mattress.   
    Ferdinand, our dark grey cat hops up on the bed next to me and begins to nose the covers and my ribs.  This is his signal for wanting pets.  I oblige.  The thing about Ferdinand is that it’s dangerous not to.  He’s been known to sink his teeth into an unsuspecting hand or two when he doesn’t get his way. 
    As Ferdinand purrs and massages my side with his paws, his nails digging into the patterned duvet, I start to think about the things that Dustin said to me and one thing in particular.  I thought you knew . 
    Should I have known?  We’d made plans.  Lots of them.  Plans for today actually.  Plans for summer.  Plans for next year.  Plans for the college that we’d chosen together.  Dustin would major in finance.  I would major in Art History because he casually suggested that a fine arts degree wouldn’t be useful to me down the road.  He thought Art History was a tad more civilized.  We’d be busy with classes but we’d meet every day for lunch in the student union and then take a jog together in the last of the afternoon light. 
    When we visited campus a few months ago we measured the distance from my dorm to his.  608 yards.  1734 steps.
    Does that sound like a couple on the verge of a break up?
    Ugh.  I scrape up the ashes of my shame and wrap myself like a sausage inside the duvet.  Ferdinand jumps from the bed and scatters from my room.  Maybe my mom and Aaron are home.  Jake is due back from his trip tonight and I remember mom’s warning of dinner and “family” time.  She’ll use the guise that it’s a welcome home dinner for my stepdad who has been on a business trip for the last eight days, but really it’s just a way to