Portrait of a Teenage Girl

They don't see her as a person; they see her as some evil thing that ate their daughter. They try to pinpoint when exactly she went wrong, looking for something to blame and hoping its not them, unless it being their fault meant they could fix it. They look at the beautiful beast, clad all in black. The tops of her breasts squeeze out above her little tank top and her tight black pants are a little too tight. They wore worse when they were younger. But if it's their daughter, it's different.

Her mother watches her at the mirror, digging through this drawer and that box, looking for the perfect hair clip or black eyeliner that matches her black lipstick and black nail polish. Her eyes light up, she throws on her blue printed bathrobe, a memory of earlier times, with a look of disgust, and runs down the hall, rummaging around in her purse as she walks back into the room. Her robe is half-open and the smooth black fabric of her bra shows. As she extracts the once-missing makeup from her bag and draws dark swirls around her eyes, her mother sits back and sighs, mourning for her lost daughter who appears to mourn for everything, everywhere, all the time. Not even a smile, just a satisfied look as she fills in her lips the exact same shade of black as everything else.

As they walk to the door of the restaurant, her father glances at her out of the corner of his eye, not wanting her to notice. She seems to relish sticking out and making her family look like fools. In fact, she seems to feed on their disapproval. She smiles as they pass a group of people who stare at her like she's from another planet. At this point, her father agrees. He's given up trying to explain how this monster who clumps around in huge black boots and who doodles pictures of death in her free time took over his baby girl who used to get dressed up to go to a cheesy family restaurant wearing a turquoise skirt, pink lip gloss and "high heels" that only raised her a quarter-inch.

Her brother thinks she's certainly become weird, but still cool. He looks up to her, like he always has, even though he wonders how she can scorn his Britney Spears obsession when a few years ago her walls were constantly covered with the face of some actor or another. He knows she's still the same person she always was. She actually talks to him, and he respects the opinions and insights from her rather unique perspective. He wishes he had the guts to step away from the crowd like she does.

Her aunts think she's weird because she listens to obscure eighties music and spends all her time either on the internet or with her nose in a book. She makes sure to tone down the makeup for them, wouldn't want to cause any spontaneous heart attacks, and she doesn't want them to blame her parents for her quirks.

They never seem to notice the days she dresses normal, the days she was too lazy to do her makeup. Sometimes, although grateful she looked like she always used to look for a change, they felt it was a horrible tease. Every time, it gave them just a touch of hope that everything would go back and their precious little girl would behave like a regular person again instead of the insane artsy demon she had become. They did notice, they just didn't comment anymore. They relished the few times they could go out without being ashamed, and could pretend it was a year or two ago and their kid was just like everyone else's.

She thinks they're all silly. Of course she's the same person. At least her brother has got that part going for him. No one stole her or changed her or hurt her except herself. So what if she drinks peach Snapple and mocha frappuccinos instead of Juicy Juice and traded in her leggings for fishnet tights? They can't expect her to stay ten years old forever. She has learned to do what she feels, not what everyone else thinks is better for her, and not to care what stupid people think. She'll listen to what she wants to hear, dress to fit her mood, kiss who she wants to kiss, and hopefully be who she wants to be.

She only has half a clue who she wants to be. She doesn't know who she is, in the long run, so she might as well try this and see if it works. Maybe she wants everyone to see her, except when she'd be content blending in with the walls. Sometimes, she'd just like to be normal, and make everything simple again. The biggest disaster would be breaking a nail or having the wrong brand of shoes, and idolizing movie stars could once again be the center of her life. She can't do that, though. Once one can see in color, they don't often go back to black and white. Some even re-color their memories. It just makes things a bit more interesting, and sometimes, when the contrast is off, a little more confusing.