Fifty-Two

Clara Addas




"Kadre? Kadre?" A voice calls to me. I spring to my feet, follow the sound of the voice. "Kadre."
I stare around me, trying to find where it's coming from. There I am, in the mirror.
"Tell me everything," my reflection says.
I obey. It's voice is impossible to resist.
I say, "I'm a horrible person.
I'm a horrible person.
I deserve to roast away at the stake, like the witch I am. I am a horrible person and I love it. I'm free.
I have not been honest with you. I'm a liar, a world-class manipulative bitch, a title I wear with pride. I have secrets.
Of course I do. I assume all seven billion of us do. I don't mean the Beyonce-is-pregnant-with-twins kind. I mean the I-really-did-put-my-mother-in-a-mental-institution kind.
Now let me start by talking about Katie and Okoh. See, I like balance. I hate change. So about two years ago, before boarding school and everything else that came from that, there was the surprised raccoon incident.
There's no feeling quite as thrilling as being a terrible human being. I would know, I'm the distinct definition of terrible. Google terrible and you ought to find my picture next to the it.
Okay, a tad dramatic there, I'm prone to it.
First things first, allow me to start with the small, not-a-big deal secrets.
A) I use the stock phrase? Abbreviation? LOL every time I answer questions that make me uncomfortable. I'm aware that this response might not be appropriate on most occasions.
While we're on the topic of (LOL), I'll also confess that I have no idea what LOL stands for. Or even what it means.
B) Unlike most teenagers I don't find Edward Cullen sexy. I honestly can't imagine having a sparkling boyfriend. I mean are his diamonds real? I'd sell him. And what about the fact that he's cold as ice? Hello, am I the only girl whose breasts can't tolerate the cold? Which would mean cuddling equals me constantly dangling my tits over the heater. And don't even get me started on his penis, if what Bella says is true, that means Edward's everybody part is as hard as steel? Tree brunch? Who in their right mind would want to be fucked with a sparkling, ice-cold, steel penis? Wouldn't a plastic vibrator be more pleasant? Less comical? Less...hard? Please excuse the irony.
C) All my Jimmy shoes are fake.
D) I weigh exactly one hundred and eight pounds, which means I'm thirty kilograms over weight, not one hundred and ten as I told my family. (Hey, I'm planning to lose some weight ...uh, soon.)
E) My first kiss gave me nightmares. (For the record, I've never kissed anyone again after that. The kiss was weird. Lips hesitant and cold like a dog's nose.)

Now back to Okoh and Katie. When I was fifteen years old, I pushed Katie down the stairs of our previous school. She broke a leg, bruised her face, cracked a rib or two. No big deal. I could've done worse but I let her get away with it, with trying to steal my best friend.
Okoh. I haven't quite forgiven her yet. Of course I spread rumors about her. Made sure no one came within an inch of her. It's so easy to get people to believe me. I do it all the time. See, first I push out my lip, like a pouting, fat kid. Then I work on summoning some tears and from there it's all about great timing, making the voice crack and tremble when it needs to. People are gullible. Bring in the tears and immediately hoodwink them. Sympathy comes easy for them.
I told Cynthia, the irritatingly tall girl from down the street, that Okoh suffers from Feecherea: a very contagious STD you get from sexual relations with dead fish.
Not very creative, I admit but at the time Okoh had a very bad flu and she'd lost some weight through a healthy combination of slimming pills and exercise. All that came to my advantage. She was coughing and sneezing and I'd told Cynthia its an airborne disease and what do you know? The next day the teachers are opening doors and windows as far as they can go and I was sitting there going, alright, Clara, that's smart thinking and as things are, Okoh's social status never recovered.
We were the fat best friends that are best friends with everybody else and then we fight and she's the cute girl guys can't get enough of and I'm still the fat girl but the twist is that nobody wants to be my friend. There's something offish about my face. I'm not pretty nor am I ugly. I'm plain. To fall to the pretty category you have to look at me with searching eyes, eyes that want to find something to like. It doesn't take much to fall on the ugly line, one look and you're like: damn, that's one f'ugly girl.
Daniel swears I'm pretty, not that I let him fool me, he's my twin and we tell each other all kinds of bullshit. I often tell him he doesn't look gay (but of course).
When he tells me there's something in my eye, a troubling evilness in them, I believe him. How can I not? He just sounds so convincing. And Daniel can't lie to me. I know him well.
Once he cocked his head to the side, really studied me and he blurted, "You know Clara, you have your mother's eyes. They're shaped like Papa's but the way they fall on someone, the way they squint, just like Mama's."