Идеальная внешность не спасает от унижения: история школьницы, которая поняла, что красота не защищает от боли

Chrissy Collins was one of those girls who was born lucky. Her father had a job. Her mother had a college degree and worked at a bank, so they had money. Chrissy’s parents drove her thirty minutes to Greenville to buy clothes at stores like The Fashion Bug or Deb. She wore real Guess jeans from Woodland Mall in Grand Rapids, a whole hour’s drive from town. The rest of us wore Palmetto’s or, if we were lucky, we’d score some old Guess jeans at a thrift store, carefully cut the triangular label off the back pocket, sew it onto a pair of hand-me-down jeans, and pray no one noticed the stitching. Everyone said Chrissy was naturally brunette. But her mother took her to the beauty shop on Main Street to make her blonde. Her bangs curled stiff across her forehead while the rest of her hair was teased high and pinned back with a barrette. Golden curls fell down her back, but the week she came to school with chestnut brown hair, the hallways buzzed. “Oh my God! Did you see Chrissy’s hair?” the girls asked. “Is she hotter blonde or brunette?” the boys debated. “Quite the look on that Chrissy Collins, isn’t it?” teachers remarked over coffee in the lounge. I didn't envy the attention itself. Even when I cut my own bangs and began experimenting with a curling iron, I knew my brown skin and unruly, frizzy hair would never look like hers. But I envied what I imagined stiff bangs, blonde hair and skin the color of buttermilk promised. Besides expensive clothes and gold necklaces with matching earrings, Chrissy wore Maybelline mascara that made her brown eyes doll-like. She kept her pink lips glossed. She was tall. But not too tall. Thin. But not too thin. By eighth grade, Chrissy already had the kind of body boys talked about in locker rooms. Her boyfriend, Jarrod, held her hand and ate lunch with her every day at the junior’s table even though she was only a freshman. By sophomore year, Chrissy was one of the best athletes in school. She still loved Jarrod and everyone still loved her. That year, I was lucky enough to have gym class with Chrissy. That meant I got to jog laps next to her while taking in the scent of the Dewberry body spray warming on her skin. The highlight of the year was the day we had a substitute teacher who let us sit in the bleachers and talk the whole period. Chrissy chose a seat midway up, and all of us girls gathered around her. She pulled out a nail file and although she rarely talked to me, I somehow found myself in conversation with her. “I could file your nails for you,” I offered. She allowed me the privilege. Eagerly I took her sandy brown Emery board, held her hand and began sawing back and forth on her index finger.  “What are you doing?” she shrieked, jerking her hand away. “Uh, I was filing,” I stammered.  “No. You only go in one direction. Like this,” she said, pulling the file along in a long swoop. I began again, and delicately drew the Emery board across her nails, each one coated in clear polish. “That’s better,” she nodded approvingly as I glowed under her gaze and made a mental note to find out where I could buy clear nail polish. Weeks passed. I never forgot the feeling of Chrissy’s fingers resting in my hands. When the boys in our class started talking about Jarrod’s fingers, the ones that held Chrissy’s manicured hands, I wondered what made them so special. Jarrod was a senior then and getting a whiff of his fingers after lunch was the most coveted moment for freshman and sophomore boys. There were rumors that Jarrod even charged for a thirty-second sniff. Could it really be true that Chrissy actually let him put his fingers inside her? In both holes, as they reported? How could he do that to Chrissy with the Guess jeans, glossy hair, and big boobs? Our junior year, Jarrod with the stinky pinky had graduated and there was a new boy in our class. Caleb was a born again Christian who didn’t know a thing about Jarrod. He treated Chrissy right. He was polite, respectful and brought her to church. I knew Chrissy didn’t consider me a friend, but seeing her on a pew holding Caleb’s hand pleased me. I was glad to know she had given her life to Jesus and was dating a good Christian guy who loved and respected her. A born again virgin. It pleased me to hear that Caleb promised never to have sex with her like Jarrod did. It pleased me until the day I heard she let him put it in her butt, because according to Caleb, and apparently Jesus, that didn’t count. I had spent years believing girls like Chrissy lived above the rest of us. I thought perfection like hers meant no suffering, no pain. It never occurred to me that beauty couldn’t protect her from humiliation. I was still learning that beauty could make a girl easier to worship, but not harder to hurt.