Envy/Emmy
One of One
I wanted to be the one everyone envied. Instead, I ended up envious of my former self. I missed the long lost me, the one that dreamed of super-stardom before bedtime. I was always hidden behind the other girls much prettier than me; I was always the perfect friend to pick out your outfit for the date with the boy I wanted.
The summer before high school I lost what was apparently an unnecessary 20 pounds and shrunk down to a size 2. Suddenly those boys started looking at me while holding the hand of what used to be the prettiest girl in the grade: my best friend Hannah. Seemingly overnight I had been deemed ‘dateable’ and was no longer ‘awkward Emily’. I was Emmy, and that even sounded confident.
Hannah picked out my outfit on September 17. It was the second Friday in the school year, and someone thought I was pretty enough to take on my first date. I walked downstairs and Hannah’s mother, my second Mom, screamed and held me close. Hannah snarled behind me as her mother fawned and said ‘Oh Emmy, you belong in a magazine!’
I wish I had ripped off those clothes right then and there and ran back to my sweatpants and t-shirts. I didn’t belong in 3-inch heels and I didn’t know what I was supposed to put in a purse. This wasn’t me, this wasn’t me, this wasn’t me.
But it was me. This was Emmy, and her wish already came true. She wanted eyes to turn green when they saw her and she wanted people to want her.
I wasn’t the best worker, but I tried hard and got what was coming to me. I did what I was told to get the so-called ‘benefits’—because what girl in her right mind doesn’t want goody baskets and free manicures? I guess I haven’t been in my right mind for quite some time.
I was a commercial model for two and a half months. I learned to smile with my eyes and what poses crossed into the scandalous category of ‘men’s magazine’. I learned more about myself, or at least about Emmy in those two and a half months than I had the rest of my 15 years.
I think the headlines will be funny, if they even exist. ‘Model Found Dead—Suicide Suspected?’ That has a nice ring to it, but I’m not quite important enough yet. I’ll probably get an article on page five, next to a picture my mother selected and a story of my life my father worked on for weeks, scratching out words to add synonyms, trying not to douse the fresh ink, because my father only worked in pen, with tears.
I hope in that write-up my father doesn’t mention that the only thing I had ever known was envy. Emily envied girls like Emmy because Emmy had it all, she had the boys and she had the smile and she just had it, the ever-elusive entity that Emily was searching for.
But Emily had a soul. Emily knew right from wrong, and Emily had a real family and real friends. If it was a lonely feeling in the pit of her stomach and an aching feeling at the bottom of her heart, then Emmy had it, and she would give it to anyone for any sort of bid.
So what am I now? I am a crumpled mess on a bathroom floor, a sprinkle of Ambien tossed across the tile and an even bigger dosage making its way down my windpipe, assisted by a glass of watermelon vodka and sprite. The sugary taste remained in my mouth and I giggled a little, just because it might be the last thing I ever heard.
I wouldn’t have chosen the bathroom if it didn’t have this scenery. I left the window open and sat on the counter opposite, staring at the buds on the trees. I had to leave before it got too green.
Emily may be envious, and Emmy may be envious, but as for me—I haven’t quite worked that out yet.
It might be too late.
The summer before high school I lost what was apparently an unnecessary 20 pounds and shrunk down to a size 2. Suddenly those boys started looking at me while holding the hand of what used to be the prettiest girl in the grade: my best friend Hannah. Seemingly overnight I had been deemed ‘dateable’ and was no longer ‘awkward Emily’. I was Emmy, and that even sounded confident.
Hannah picked out my outfit on September 17. It was the second Friday in the school year, and someone thought I was pretty enough to take on my first date. I walked downstairs and Hannah’s mother, my second Mom, screamed and held me close. Hannah snarled behind me as her mother fawned and said ‘Oh Emmy, you belong in a magazine!’
I wish I had ripped off those clothes right then and there and ran back to my sweatpants and t-shirts. I didn’t belong in 3-inch heels and I didn’t know what I was supposed to put in a purse. This wasn’t me, this wasn’t me, this wasn’t me.
But it was me. This was Emmy, and her wish already came true. She wanted eyes to turn green when they saw her and she wanted people to want her.
I wasn’t the best worker, but I tried hard and got what was coming to me. I did what I was told to get the so-called ‘benefits’—because what girl in her right mind doesn’t want goody baskets and free manicures? I guess I haven’t been in my right mind for quite some time.
I was a commercial model for two and a half months. I learned to smile with my eyes and what poses crossed into the scandalous category of ‘men’s magazine’. I learned more about myself, or at least about Emmy in those two and a half months than I had the rest of my 15 years.
I think the headlines will be funny, if they even exist. ‘Model Found Dead—Suicide Suspected?’ That has a nice ring to it, but I’m not quite important enough yet. I’ll probably get an article on page five, next to a picture my mother selected and a story of my life my father worked on for weeks, scratching out words to add synonyms, trying not to douse the fresh ink, because my father only worked in pen, with tears.
I hope in that write-up my father doesn’t mention that the only thing I had ever known was envy. Emily envied girls like Emmy because Emmy had it all, she had the boys and she had the smile and she just had it, the ever-elusive entity that Emily was searching for.
But Emily had a soul. Emily knew right from wrong, and Emily had a real family and real friends. If it was a lonely feeling in the pit of her stomach and an aching feeling at the bottom of her heart, then Emmy had it, and she would give it to anyone for any sort of bid.
So what am I now? I am a crumpled mess on a bathroom floor, a sprinkle of Ambien tossed across the tile and an even bigger dosage making its way down my windpipe, assisted by a glass of watermelon vodka and sprite. The sugary taste remained in my mouth and I giggled a little, just because it might be the last thing I ever heard.
I wouldn’t have chosen the bathroom if it didn’t have this scenery. I left the window open and sat on the counter opposite, staring at the buds on the trees. I had to leave before it got too green.
Emily may be envious, and Emmy may be envious, but as for me—I haven’t quite worked that out yet.
It might be too late.