Paint Me Beautiful

downstairs and help mom and me roll out the crust for the apple pie?”
    I squinch up my face.
    “ I hate apple pie,” I tell her without sitting up.
    “ Since when?” Marlena scoffs, grabbing my arm and pulling me up. When I stand up fully, I get dizzy for a moment and have to put my hand out against the wall, so Marlena doesn't notice. She's already out the door, my wrist clutched in hers, eyes focused ahead, always ahead. Marlena never misses a step. I'm so tired, and all I want to do is lay down, but maybe if I help them make the pie, I won't have to eat any of it. My mom makes her crust with – you guessed it – lard.
    Marlena lets go of me at the stairs and heads towards her old bedroom. Twenty-six years old and she still keeps clothes here, still spends the night, still brings new boyfriends home to meet dad.
    “ I'm going to change. Why don't you go get started?” she says and disappears. With a sigh, I wrap my hand around the wooden banister and give in to defeat. Already I'm thinking up ways out of this dinner. If I can stop Mom from sweetening the tea, I can drink some of that. I could eat some of the raw apples, too, before she puts sugar on them. Then maybe I can say that I'm full up from that when it's time to sit down.
    “ Glad your sister could talk some sense into you,” my mother says with a wink as I come around the corner and find her a cooking frenzy. She's got spices sprawled across the granite countertop like a battlefield. Some are still standing but most have given in and fallen over, spilling their contents in a sea of scent that makes my nose itch and my stomach grumble. My mother glances up at me, orange ceramic mixing bowl in one hand, whisk in the other. I have no idea what it is that she's making up, but I can only assume based on the empty bag of sugar that's in the trash that it's something I don't want to eat. “If you're hungry, grab a biscuit. They're fresh out of the oven.” She shoves a butter dish towards me and keeps stirring her batter. “Maybe if you dyed your hair back to its natural color?” she begins and I roll my eyes, turning around so that I'm facing the sink and the single window above it instead of her purposely downcast eyes.
    “ Glad to know that you hate me as a blonde. Your opinion has been noted.”
    “ Claire,” my mom says with this no-nonsense tone. “You know that's not what I meant. I just think that God made you a redhead for a reason. Maybe it was to stand out? Honey, these casting calls are very competitive. You know, I read something the other day about – ” I cut my mother off before she can stick her own foot any further into her mouth. It's embarrassing to watch.
    “ There were fifty other redheads in line today,” I tell my mom as I step forward and grab a glass from the cabinet. “And the only girl they spoke to was a brunette.”
    “ I thought you said they'd call?” my dad yells from the living room. I don't answer him. They don't get it, neither of them do.
    “ Bob,” my mom scolds, and I can tell that she's giving him a look. I ignore them both and fill my glass with water, sniff it, and frown at the slight metallic scent. Mom says it's from the copper pipes, but to me, it smells like blood. I promise myself that tomorrow, after my casting, I'm going to the store to buy a water filter or something. I down the whole glass and go back for more. “Nice to see you putting something in your mouth,” my mom says, and I look at her over my shoulder, face twisted with disgust.
    “ Huh?” I ask her as I turn around, water sloshing over the edges of the glass onto my shaking hands. I'm trembling all of a sudden, and I don't know why. I wrap one arm around my waist and put the glass to my lips, relieved beyond belief that I'm swaddled in all of this fabric, hidden from my mother's bright, green eyes.
    “ You haven't been eating much lately,” she says offhandedly, not like she's concerned. Not yet. But she could be. She's taken notice, and if she says something around Marlena then I'm going to have the both of them trying to force feed me like I'm fucking three. I finish my water and set my cup down on the counter next to the bowl of sliced apples. Okay, Claire, this is the best possible solution if you don't want the whole family jumping down your throat. I grab a crescent piece of fruit and stare at it, clutched between French manicured nails, shaking like a leaf over the green tiles of the counter. Fruit makes me