As I head to Denver for the world premiere of SUGARCOATED(!), I wanted to share with you a little piece of a story that was left out of the final draft. I’d say ‘enjoy,’ but if you’ve been reading these, they’re kind of a mixed bag of heartbreak and exhilaration? I’m sorry/you’re welcome!
“In seventh grade, I devote myself to catching up to my peers: I subscribe to Seventeen and YM, bringing a fashionista’s eye to my mom’s biannual shopping trip to Sears. I start watching MTV. I buy No Doubt CDs instead of Pocahontas (okay fine in addition to Pocahontas)—
—and I *visualize.* Every time I close my eyes, I imagine Mariah Carey’s “Always Be My Baby” playing, and that beautiful little butch angel asking moi to dance with her him.
It’s the first dance of the year, and I’ve had my outfit picked out since summertime: a shiny, mixed media button-up shirt with splatters of tie-dye clouds and giant tigerlily blooms. I pair it with a denim skirt (okay fine culottes) and chunky little Payless shoes that long to be Doc Marten creepers, topped off with a cute oversized ball chain necklace that I stole from Claire’s (don’t tell my mom.)
I put my hair up in a spritely ponytail. I feel like Gwen Stefani herself in this outfit; even though I don’t wear makeup, I swab on some frosty lip gloss and stomp down the hallway like the magazine version of myself.
“Do you like it?” I ask my parents, sure they’ll be as impressed as the other seventh graders in my dream scenario.
I expected my dad’s disapproval, but his… worry?
His brow is wrinkled all the wrong way, his voice gentle with pity as he calls me the name he never uses anymore—Peanut—and reaches for my hair, slipping it out of its scrunchy. Gently, he pulls my hair forward, over my shoulders, and smooths it down over the sides of my face, covering the ripe peaches of my cheeks.
“But it’s hot in there, Dad,” I protest.
“But if you wear it down, honey, it thins out your face. You want boys to dance with you, don’t you?”
I do want boys to dance with me. I especially want that pretty boy who looks like a girl to dance with me.
In the dark gym, my hair is down, and it’s getting oily from how much I press it to my cheeks. I’m so hot, the back of my neck won’t stop sweating—but it’s worth it if he doesn’t know I’m fat.
(How does the dance go? I left that part in, so you’ll have to see for yourself! I’m sorry/you’re welcome!)
Don’t forget, I’ve got a fundraiser going for Project HEAL for folks to donate the price of a ticket, if you’d like to show your support but won’t be available to go.
Thank you so much to those of you who have donated—I appreciate your kindness so much, and you’re providing life-saving services and resources to survivors in need!
xx Jen