Hand-me-down Girl

Mom drops a full garbage bag at the foot of my bed. "Alice. Here are your new clothes," she says, voice sharp and brisk.

I stifle a groan. New clothes. In a garbage bag. They're hand me downs. New to me, but old to someone else. Tossed out because they don't want them. Then passed to me. And I'm expected to be grateful.

Instead, I want to cry. I want to hurl the bag out the window.

I can't though. Mom works so hard to provide for Matty and I.

So I smile and take the bag.

Mom does look tired. Crows feet creep in at the edges of her worn-out eyes.

A bolt of hatred toward the man I used to look up to hits me square in the chest. How could Dad leave Mom? How could he leave his pregnant wife and his ten-year-old daughter to fend for themselves? It was so cruel and thoughtless.

I smile again and nod at Mom in thanks. She nods back and exits the room.

I tear into the garbage bag and shuffle through the clothing. The urge to cry returns. All the jeans are low rise. I hate low rise jeans. Either they barely cover your hips or they're digging into your crotch. I twist a pair of ripped olive-green jeans into a ball and shake it violently before throwing it into the door.

The shirts are all baggy band shirts that are way too big for me. I've never even listened to Metallica.

None of these clothes are me.

At the bottom of the bag, I find some underwear and want to break down crying. We're so poor that I can't get fresh brassieres and panties from the store.

I strip off my shirt and the single bra I own and try one of the new bras on. I know before I slip it over my head that it is too big. It hangs off my shoulders, the large cup size doing nothing for my meager breasts. I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut, barely holding back the tears, but it's too much. I sob into an Aerosmith shirt, pounding the bed with my fists.

The shirt radiates a fresh, flowery scent. Just another reminder that these clothes belonged to someone else. Sobbing furiously, I grab my only bottle of perfume- cheap vanilla fragrance. I'm lucky to have even this. A girl gave it to me after gym class out of pity for the way I stank.

I spray the clothes until they stink of fake vanilla and alcohol, rather than the sweet cherry blossom of another girl's perfume. Maybe now, I can pretend that these are mine.

...

I wake up in the morning and tear through my clothes again, searching for something I could possibly wear. I can't wear my old clothes. They're too tight. I utter a rapid prayer of thanks when I come across a huge, heavy gray jacket and black sweats. I have something to wear at least.

Underneath my shirt, I wear one of the new bras. I pinned it in the back so that it doesn't hang against my skin so uselessly. I cut out the stupid padding to keep the bra from jutting out of my shirt.

Now I have... something of an outfit. The jacket hangs down to my mid-thigh and the sweatpants are so loose I have to re-tie the drawstrings. The fabric still swishes around my ankles. I would tuck it into my socks, but my "outfit" is tacky enough as it is.

I grab my bright pink Minnie Mouse backpack (another hand-me-down) on the way out of the house. Mom has already dropped Matty off at daycare and gone to work by now, so I don't even bother trying to find her and say goodbye.

The walk to school is short. We are fortunate to live so close to the school- only fifteen minutes away. I almost want to drag it out, make it so that I can avoid interacting with my peers for longer. But I can't hide forever, so I push on.

When I reach my first period, my eyes fall on Claire Daniels. When I scan her outfit, I expect to see her classic band-tee and dark, ripped jeans, but it's been replaced by a white shirt and light blue skinny jeans. The lacy ruffles of her shirt brushes her throat and shoulders like eagle wings. It's stylish- something I dearly wish I could wear. But why isnt Claire wearing her old clothes?

Slowly, it dawns on me. Band tees. Ripped jeans. Like the ones I have at home.

The clothes I have on... belonged to Claire.

She meets my gaze and looks up and down at my outfit. Then she snickers something to a neighbor, who scans my clothes and giggles as well. My cheeks grow hot. I all but know what she said.

I sprint through the halls, my whole body shriveling up with shame. Mimic. Thief. Desperate. Poor.

Hand-me-down girl.

Tears stream down my cheeks. I stumble and trip in front of the office. One of the kind old ladies with magenta lipstick and gray hair comes out, eyes wide with concern behind her green-framed glasses.

"Honey, are you alri-?"

I take off before she can finish. Before she can lay a caring, but unwanted, hand on my shoulder. I don't need, or want, anymore pity.

The streets blur, my tears a lens distorting the world. My black hair streams out behind me as I throw myself at the door to my apartment and yank the door open. I fall onto the couch, curl up into a ball, and cry.

I blink my eyes closed, drowning in shame. Why is the world so awful?

At some point, I fell asleep, though I don't remember trying, and the next thing I know, the keys jangle in the door, ringing through the darkness of my dreams. I blink my eyes open.

"Alice?" Mom's voice. I groan and cover my head with my hands. "Alice, the school called me. What happened?"

The recollection slams into me as if I ran into a brick wall. I open my eyes as tears swell behind my eyelids.

"The world is so cruel," I whisper. "Everyone knows these are hand-me-downs, and everyone knows where I got them."

I swallow a lump in my throat and choke out, "I'm a hand-me-down girl."

...

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