Elementary school. Religion class. Teacher is talking. I am understanding things like. Religion is a mirror. It reflects. Who we are and we shouldn’t be. Our faults. We always do something wrong. Humans are like erring machines. And the holy book is a collection of cheat sheets.
***
Standing in the middle of the cheap motel room with two beds. About to go to a bar together with my boyfriend and his friend who is staying in our room. I don’t know why. There is no mirror. I use my boyfriend’s eyes. I am wearing one of my mom’s miniskirts. It’s vintage. My boyfriend is asking
Isn’t that skirt too tight?
I don’t think so.
I think it looks alright. (This is his friend.)
Does it look bad?
Sort of.
Why?
I don’t know. I don’t like it.
I do.
I am joking.
No, you aren’t. You mean it.
You look marvelous. Maybe your boyfriend is a little jealous.
He never is. That’s what I like about him. He is cultured. Like bout everything. He’s started doing drugs before everyone else did. As a way of protesting the system, he declared. So, he is like counterculture as well. He eats a lot. Especially when he is high. Mostly sandwiches with charcuterie. Filthy stuff. He doesn’t put on a single gram though. He is quick. Both in speech and on his feet. It is the feeling of not being able to catch him is what keeps me going. With him.
Your belly sticks out.
Is that it?
***
Mom gave me the scan again. Now that she is divorced, she watches everything. Soap operas. Passer-by. My brother’s girlfriends. What I do. What I don’t. What I eat. When I breathe. I bet she also watches what I think. I swear she can do that. Today she has been watching my hips. She says they have become too big.
It is because of the shots for rheumatoid arthritis, doctor said. It’s going to go away when they are over.
But still. You are a young girl now. If you don’t watch out now, they will become permanent.
She wants me to fall into the same traps that she had.
***
I have come from a summer vacation. My first love is in my bedroom. We both have dysfunctional families. Mine is more dysfunctional than his because my parents are already divorced. That’s why we meet in my bedroom. Not his. I have tanned. My mother made me lie in the sun all summer. Or swim. Otherwise, I would sit down in my room and read. She thought I was depressed because of their divorce. Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn’t. The fact is to prevent my depression, Mom would gift me a skin cancer. How would she know? Parents can only attend what is in front of their eyes. Plus, she is practically a single mother because the liberated Dad doesn’t care about any of this.
My first love is peeling the dead skin off my tummy. I am chubby. He likes it.
***
I am learning Arabic prayers. And their meanings in Turkish. What does it even mean? Isn’t belief lost in translation? Mine is. I want to understand religion. Like I want to understand a great many things. But I don’t necessarily want to believe in it. Maybe this is why. Maybe it isn’t in my language.
The religion teacher wants us to get on our desks and show him the movements of a prayer. He has asked us to bring headscarves. But we are still wearing skirts because it is our uniform. I don’t want to do it. In front of everyone. I tell him the reason. It doesn’t translate well. He gives me the look. He makes everyone else do it. He calls me to his desk at the end of the class. I go. He speaks about my mother who goes everywhere in town in a miniskirt. He has a hard time believing in my excuse. Because daughters are like mothers like daughters like mothers and so on.
***
My boyfriend doesn’t know that I modeled for his friend once. Like a live model. I sat in his room. Half-naked. And he made a painting of me, and he titled it “Wine.” Years later he showed me his painting. I wasn’t in it. Neither was wine. Only some colors. Red, green, and yellow. The colors of my skirt that I was wearing that night.
He starts to laugh. My boyfriend. He says he has made a joke. He wants to see how that makes me feel. We three go out. Drink, dance, smoke. I double, triple, and quadruple everything they do. They don’t need it. I do. I have flesh. A lot of it. On my belly. Maybe in other places too. He didn’t tell me because of how over-sensitive I’ve become lately. He says it like my feelings are over-weight too. He hates me. I know it. By the way we make love. It is like two north poles pushing each other away. Maybe it’s not it. Maybe we are distracted by his friend who might come in any minute. Maybe I am worrying too much about my belly. How it is filling in the space where his belly should be.
***
My father storms into the principal’s office. I wish he hasn’t. It makes things worse. I become the enemy. And my mother is still wearing miniskirts. My mother is so beautiful that it is shameful. Dad tells me that no one can tell my mother or me what to wear. Dad is an atheist. But that’s beside the point. I wish he stayed. Dad did. I wouldn’t be so hungry all the time.
***
My boyfriend and his friend are sleeping when I wake up. I go to the patisserie. I buy three crescent cakes. I know my boyfriend will devour his but find me too homely for buying it. I’ll have finished mine before I get back.
***
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