Paint Me Beautiful

I don't want to look at it, but I don't want Marlena to think anything is wrong. Once she fixates on something, it's almost impossible to get her to stop. For example, when she found out that my mom's favorite lipstick – a brand she's used for ten years – was tested on animals, Marlena launched this big mouthed campaign about it, taking it far beyond my mother and out into the world. I didn't bother to follow up on what happened, but she doesn't talk about it anymore, so I'm guessing she got her way. Marlena always gets her way.
    When I hear her coming up the stairs, I throw on a baggy pink sweater and trade out my skinny jeans for gray sweatpants. I saw the way my dad looked at me earlier, like something was just not quite right with me. If Marlena sees whatever it was that he saw, I am so screwed.
    I open the door before she has a chance to pick the lock.
    “ What?” I ask as she enters my room without asking and glances around like she's looking for something. She always does that though, no matter where we are. It could be an Olive Garden or PetSmart or a Kohl's; Marlena is always looking for something. My mom says it's because she's so smart, but I think she has a disorder or something. Maybe OCD or whatever?
    “ Mom said you've been kind of down lately. What's going on?”
    “ Straight to the chase, no bullshit, Marlena Morgan Simone, the one and only,” I say as I shake my hands in the air and flop down onto the edge of my bed. “She never beats around the bush, never cuts corners, and always gets straight to the point.” Marlena immediately moves over to my mirror and grabs the jacket, taking it straight to the closet and hanging it up. I catch a brief look at myself in the baggy clothes and feel sick to my stomach. I look huge. I glance away.
    “ I'll tell her you seem okay,” she says as she closes my closet doors and turns around with a smile. “If you're willing to poke fun at me right off the bat, you can't be knocking down depression's door.”
    “ That's not a real saying,” I tell her defiantly, meeting her blue eyes with my gray ones. She smiles and sweeps her gaze over the glossy photos that hang above my dresser, the ones that belong to bodies that I envy, that I'd die to emulate. All the girls on my wall found success, broke down the steel walls of the fashion industry and stomped in on stilettos and pumps, kicked aside the competition and made something of themselves. Their faces are everywhere: at the grocery store, on billboards, in magazines, online. Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. I want to be just like them. When I grow up, I want to be seen.
    “ It doesn't have to be,” Marlena tells me as she plants her hands on her hips and spins in a slow circle. She's wearing a charcoal suit that's tailored to perfection, highlighting the curves that she's oh so proud of, showing the world that she doesn't care that she's a size ten, that she's beautiful just the way she is. I wish I was like her. I wish I could be the 'fat sister' and not care, that I could go into the store and ask for a large or an extra-large and not care that the clerk is laughing behind my back. But I can't. I won't. I will never be Marlena and she will never be me. We are so different, she and I. Sisters, yes, but kindred spirits, no.
    Marlena comes around full circle and pauses with her eyes on my face again. She's like our dad in that her gaze is piercing, but she doesn't have his special skill. I can lie right to her face and she'll believe me because she wants to. First sign that things are otherwise though and she'll be on it like a bloodhound, sniffing down the trail for her next clue.
    “ So you had another casting call this morning? What was this one about?”
    “ I don't want to talk about it,” I say as I fall back onto the bed and stare up at the ceiling. The woman that looks down at me is nude, not because I'm into girls, but because she embodies perfection. Somehow, I feel that if I look at her long enough, some of that pretty will wear off onto me.
    “ I can understand that,” Marlena says, nodding and touching her hair, just to make sure it's still free of frizz, teased into perfect waves that glimmer like rubies. She's so proud of bright, red birthright and me, I cover it up with bleach. I did some research once and it said that blondes are thirteen percent more likely to be picked up by an agency. I don't know if it's true or not, but I figured it couldn't hurt. “Why don't you come