Page 7 of She’s a Doll

It’s fine, I reminded myself as I fumbled with my keys. It’s fine and I’m fine because the party was fine. Totally, completely, extraordinarily fine. A couple of days alone will also be fine.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Everything about my grandma’s house was familiar. The squeaky floorboards, the stink of lavender, the stacks of stuff, tall enough to touch the ceiling in some places. Boxes, cabinets, piles of clothes. A cross-stitch hung on a patch of exposed wallpaper, facing the door. Our house is lived in, it’s not just for show. If you don’t like it, you know where to go! Below those words, stitched with loving care, was a fist with an extended middle finger.

Grandma had a talent for needlework.

“Cookie!” I called out as I hung my jacket up on the hatstand by the door. “Cookie, I’m home!”

Cookie heaved out a half-hearted bark from his spot on the sofa. He was a mastiff, big and droopy with wholemeal-colored fur that went black around his muzzle. Grandma reckoned he deterred thieves. I didn’t think he did much of anything.

I took my hat, bow tie, and boots off before weaving through the piles of stuff toward the sofa.

Cookie thumped his tail against the cushion as I sat beside him.

“Hey, buddy. I guess it’s just going to be you and me this weekend.”

He lifted a paw, presenting his belly. I rubbed it with one hand and reached for the TV remote with the other, my thumb going to the HDMI-input button automatically.

The menu of the last game I’d played appeared, the disc still in the tray.

A wall of flames. An angry, ominous choir. A glowering man who could’ve been the poster child for buccal-fat-removal surgery.

OG God of War.

Perfect.

I picked up the PS2 controller, loaded an old save, and started mashing buttons. On the screen, Kratos, the titular God of War (not that we’d gotten to that part yet), started smashing ceramics. A lot of ceramics. Really, a copious amount of ceramics.

The PlayStation had been a Christmas gift from Auntie Dawn. I assumed she thought it was a new console, something high-tech that she’d somehow managed to get for cheap from eBay. I didn’t tell her that the PS2 was as old as I was. In all honesty, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like I could afford anything better, and there was something comforting about countable polygons.

I kept mashing buttons. Kratos kept smashing ceramics. At my side, Cookie had given up on belly rubs and gone back to snoring, unbothered by the angry, epic music and exaggerated sound effects of the PS2.

I turned it up louder and kept playing.

Then I turned it up louder again.

Then louder.

It didn’t help.

I could still hear the neighbors fighting. I could still hear my own heart beating too loud in my ears. My leg was bouncing like the needle in a sewing machine. There was sweat between my shoulder blades. My jaw was clenched too tight, and my molars hurt down to their roots.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I hit pause, pulled my phone out of my pocket, and opened Instagram.

Back in high school, Ginger used to pepper Instagram with photos from all her parties. St. Patrick’s Day at Ginger’s. A kaleidoscope of green. 1,141 likes. Frightful Fun at the Flower Festival by Ginger. Daisy chains and black lipstick. 1,792 likes. Ginger’s Pool Party. Watermelon slices, beach umbrellas, and heart-shaped sunglasses. 2,099 likes.

Sure enough, there was already a new post sitting in my feed, uploaded fourteen minutes ago. Ginger’s High Tea High School Reunion. My heart was in my throat as I started swiping through the pictures.

It looked even more magical online than it had in real life. Smiling, sparkling, sepia. It was enough to make the most hardcore Pinterester weep. I saw the girl who’d called her dress basic poking her tongue out at the camera, long dark hair hanging around a warm, freckled face. I saw other girls, grinning and laughing. Finally, in the last few photos of the series, I saw myself.

It was bad.

Really bad.

My black hair looked frayed and tangled, my skin red and splotchy without any makeup, and my clothes bulky, badly made, and out of place. In the first photo I was standing awkwardly apart from the group. In the second, I was in the background talking to Ginger’s mum, caught mid-gesture, mouth half open, hands splayed out. The third photo was just of me.

I was leaning back in one of the chairs, feet propped up, top hat pulled low, and teacup sitting empty in my lap.