Paint Me Beautiful

need to wake up and realize that you are an adult, Claire. I'm not going to make your car payments forever, and the two hundred dollar jeans, those purchases have got to stop.” I don't tell my dad that he's crippling my dreams, that the clothes I wear to my castings need to make a statement. I just walk out the door more determined than ever to meet my goals.
    I will be weightless; I will float away; I will become somebody.
    I get in my car and drive all the way out to that lonely parking lot with the broken glass and spend an hour tramping through the forest looking for that secret hideaway, that little haven of escape and peace.
    I find nothing and end up sitting on the curb and crying. I cry until I feel numb and then I cry some more. Something is wrong with me, and I don't know what it is. Lucky for me, there's someone who does. His name is Emmett Sinclair, and he's going to be at my house in less than three hours. Guess I better find something to wear.

 

    I war with myself for awhile, wondering if I really should dress up for Emmett. I think it's my perfectionist side that gets the better of me and makes the final decision. I can't go downstairs looking like shit. That just isn't going to happen. I need to push him away, but I don't want to. Two completely different sides of me war so hard that I find that my hands are shaking violently as I apply liquid eyeliner very carefully along my upper lids.
    I met a guy two days ago, and despite my best efforts, I can't seem to get rid of him. I still don't believe in that most horrible f-word of all: fate. But what I do know is that Emmett is like a planet of calm, and I am now in orbit. His peaceful, cheerful demeanor calls to my colder side, beckoning me towards warmth. I slam my makeup down on my vanity table and sigh deep and heavy. I let my eyes flutter closed for a moment and try to breathe. I can't let myself get too stressed out or I won't sleep well. Then I'll end up with bags under my eyes and no agency in their right mind will hire a girl with bags under her eyes.
    I open my eyes again and stare at myself in the mirror. I try to look past the fat and find something nice to say. Your dye job still looks nice. I touch my blonde hair, arrange it artfully around my face and pucker my lips. I've got on the softest kiss of pink lipstick and the prettiest dress I own. It's a sleeveless Tibi in white with a square of black leather paneling down the center. I paired it with some three inch T-strap sandals by Saint Laurent and ditched the jewelry. I look clean, pretty, perfect. But still fat.
    I grab another sheet from my closet, a pink one this time, and throw it over my vanity table. I usually just spin this mirror around when I'm not using it, but I think I like the sheets better. There's something vaguely morbid about them, like they're death shrouds or something. It's not that I'm into that kind of thing, but it suits my mood right now.
    I grab my water bottle and carry it downstairs with me. Mom can't be trusted to offer anything but sweet tea to drink, and there's nothing wrong with insisting on water instead. Nobody can fault me for that. I look at the skinny wisp girl on the side and press a gentle kiss against the cold metal. My tummy rumbles as if in protest, but I ignore it. This dress is a size two and I swear, it's way too tight on me. I'm starting to fear I might actually have gained weight from my cheese binge a few days before. I shiver.
    “ Don't you look beautiful,” my mother says when she sees me descend the staircase and pause next to the counter island. “What's the occasion?” she giggles as I stare at her. “Heard about how handsome tonight's dinner guest is, did you?” My hand clenches around my water bottle, and I imagine that it is my sister's throat. That bitch. I decide to go with blunt honesty and maybe, just maybe, Marlena will get bitched at for this instead of me.
    “ Didn't Marlena tell you that she snuck into my room, took my friend's phone number without asking and hired him?” I raise my eyebrows for emphasis, but my mom isn't looking at me. She's got some greasy cheese casserole in her hands and is attempting to fit it in the over next to a foil wrapped something or other.
    “ What are you talking about, hon?” I glance over my shoulder and can practically see Big Bob's ears twitching with curiosity. He folds his paper and sets it in his lap. When he looks over at me, I glance away. I'm angry with him; he's