Plain Jane

It all started when my grandmother died.

If being average was an Olympic sport, I’d win gold. It’s like, a superpower for me. Hell, my name is Jane. 

I’ve been average all my life, and not for lack of trying to break out. I’ve got an average voice. It can carry a tune, but it won’t turn heads. I’ve got average skills in pretty much anything I try. Which, to be fair, means that I can try anything and become average at it, but after a while, the novelty wears off. You get tired of constantly trying to be better, and constantly failing. 

But the worst thing about being average is my beauty. 

Or lack thereof.

I won’t sugarcoat it; we live in a society that objectifies, judges, and demeans women based on their looks. It’s awful, especially growing up as an average girl. 

I grew up reading books in which the main character “wasn’t pretty.” Sure, she has perfect hair and perfect skin, but she’s not pretty. Of course not. 

Worse are the books that feature a beautiful protagonist that doesn’t want to be beautiful. 

She doesn’t want the attention. She wants to be true to herself. 

Or whatever other crap. 

It always seemed selfish to me. Do you know how many girls, like me, would kill to look beautiful? The least these girls can do is appreciate themselves. 

Things started to change when I was around fifteen or sixteen. That was the year my grandmother passed. 

I loved her, I did, but I didn’t really know her. She wasn’t lucid very often, and even when she was, she didn’t think or reason clearly. She’d been in a nursing home for most of my life, and when my mother would go visit her after church on Sundays, I’d often beg homework and stay home. 

Now, of course, I wish I’d visited her more often. Maybe she could have given me some advice, some wisdom that would stop me from jumping into my backyard pool with a 100 pound weight around my ankle. After all, it’s her that got me into this in the first place.

She’d slipped into a coma, and my entire family and I were sitting by her bedside. 

Waiting? Hoping? Praying? No one could say. No one would say. 

Waiting for her to wake up. Hoping that she would. Praying to the dear Lord above that He wouldn’t take her away from us. 

He did, and I’m not sure I believe in Him anymore. 

Why were we sitting there? Maybe it was because we all wanted to be there when she went. Maybe we were holding on to the unrealistic sliver of hope that she might wake up, if only for a minute. Or maybe we just wanted, needed each other’s company as we faced the inevitable. 

But no one wanted to say the biggest reason, the real reason. Not out loud. 

Because the real reason was that we hadn’t spent enough time with her when she was alive. 

Now, we felt guilty. 

Now, we were spending what little time we had left with her next to her.

Not that it counted. She wasn’t even conscious. 

I was in the chair next to her bed. I was holding her hand, I was whispering to her, telling her I loved her, I cared about her, I wished we had more time together, all the things I should have said when she was awake to hear it. 

I was about to get up to let someone else sit next to her when her eyes flew open. She gripped my hand, keeping me from pulling away. She tugged me close to her, until her wild eyes were just inches away. 

“You can change anything. Anything. You can change anything, if you only want to hard enough.” With that, her eyes rolled back, her hand went limp, and she was unconscious once more. 

Everyone sat in silence, stunned. The nurse rushed over to her side, checking her vitals. “She doesn’t have much time left,” the nurse warned us. 

Outside, I saw the flash of headlights and a familiar car parking. It was my older sister, late to the party as usual. I figured I should warn her to come quickly. I needed to get out of the room anyways.

I caught her in the lobby, and together, we raced down the hallway to my grandmother’s room. 

We were too late.

Later that night, I sat at my bedroom vanity, eyes dry. I couldn’t feel anything. No pain. No sadness. No loss. No grief. Not even guilt.

Nothing but numbness and a sneaky bit of curiosity. 

I didn’t know how to feel that her last words were to me. ‘You can change anything.’ Bit late for the pep talk, wasn’t it, Grams? 

I focused on my reflection. “Change anything,” I muttered. I wished. Blue eyes. Blue eyes. Blue eyes. 

And before my very own, very brown eyes, my irises changed to blue. 

I wish I could say I was shocked, or scared, but no. I was only mildly curious. What else could I do? 

Fuller lips. Fuller lips. Fuller lips. 

My lips grew, turned lush and pink. 

Okay. Cheekbones next. 

Over the next hour and a half, I changed my appearance, bit by bit. I changed my frizzy, dirty blonde hair to a rich, smooth, chocolatey brown. I made it longer, made it thicker and wavy. I sharpened my cheekbones and tanned my skin. Lengthened my lashes and widened my eyes. Smoothed my skin, narrowed my waist. When I was done, I barely recognized myself. 

At school the next morning, no one commented on my drastic change. They acted as if I was normal, as if I’d always been beautiful, but I could hear the whispers. 

“Has she always been this pretty?”

“I’ve never even noticed her before.”

“God, I wish I had her hair!” 

More people talked to me. More people asked me for help. More people complimented me. 

And I liked it.

God, did I like it.

It came with downsides; I was catcalled at least three times. My teachers gave me dirty looks, like they expected me to not be paying attention, and were disappointed when I was. One uncomfortably old man stopped me on the street to hit on me, and I got cards from at least two modeling agencies. 

So, I reasoned later that night, if I could change my appearance, what else about myself could I change?

I started by singing scales, and willing my voice to be more beautiful. My efforts were fruitful. The next morning, I auditioned for the school musical, and got the lead. 

Now, I had the power to improve. Now, whatever I touched was average, but I could make it better. I could be better. 

The problem with that was, I could always be better. 

My nightly sessions at my vanity started taking up more and more time. I spent hours poring over my appearance, vocalizing, changing. I was obsessed. 

I loved the attention, I hated the stress, the toll it took on me. I freaked out over every wrinkle, every bag, every dark circle. Every slip-up, every mistake. 

My temperament became volatile. How dare my fingers betray me at the piano? How dare my feet trip? How dare my skin rebel against me? 

And yet, I knew I wasn’t me. Not really. My body was not what I had been given at birth. My voice was not the same it had been a few months ago. I had evolved, but not naturally. 

And what was wrong with that? People dye their hair, they go on diets, they pierce their ears and noses and lips. They change themselves just like I did, it just takes them longer. 

So why did everything feel so wrong? 

My parents found it harder and harder to deal with me. My teachers started to hate me, for real. My friends distanced themselves from me, but I could hear the whispers.

“Shallow.”

“Fake.”

“Psychotic.”

“Fake.”

“Bitch.”

“Fake.”

“Self-obsessed.”

“Fake.”

Fake, fake, fake. 

But I wasn’t! Each change I made to myself was permanent! I can’t take it back!

So why did I feel like a fake? 

My moods turned from stormy to worse. I stopped going to school. I stayed in my bedroom all day. My parents didn’t care; they figured it was just part of having a teenager. 

They didn’t notice me sneak out tonight.

They didn’t notice the back door open and close.

They don’t notice me standing by the pool.

They won’t hear me scream.

I should have visited my grandmother more often. I should have paid attention to her. It’s her fault I’m here, after all.

I just wish she had given me more than those faux-inspiring, life-altering, horrible, horrible words. 

I understand those girls in the books a little bit more now. 

And so, here I am, at the edge of my ten-foot pool, glowing ominously in the dark. 

Wishing. 

Hoping. 

Praying. 

Wishing I could change my mind. 

Hoping that I’ll see sense. 

Praying to the dear Lord above that he’ll stop me.

But I don’t believe in God anymore.