Bella

New apartments smell like freshly cleaned floors, pine, and empty rooms. That's how mine smells, till the mover, a guy with arms of tattoos, comes up with my three boxes. He looks around, the boxes piled in his hands like they weigh nothing, then looks at me.

“Where you want me to put these?”

“Um.” I say. “Anywhere is good.”

He puts them down where he's standing, right at the door, and points at the window. “That's a nice view.” I give him a polite smile and a five dollar tip; he leaves, and then I'm the only person in my too-white apartment.

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When I was ten, Mom signed me and Bella up for the chess club. I didn't know how to play, so for an hour after school, I would sit in the corner bathroom stall, the one farthest from the door and closest to the wall, with my knees hunched up on the toilet, till Mom picked me up. I'd open the car door and she'd say, “How was chess?”

I would tell her it was great, that I won a few games, and she'd smile with no teeth like that was what she expected. Every car ride back from school, I waited with a stone-filled stomach for her to tell me she found out, but she never did, and Bella never told.

The stall had had a broken toilet and cork-like walls, and I came to know the shape of every tile on the floor. On the last day of school, I took a pen and wrote in teeny tiny letters, in the place where the walls met and formed an L, Katherine was here. It looked so boring and small and alone. With a thumping heart, I added in even smaller letters, F**K. Mom never found that out either.

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My new home feels like that—the corner bathroom stall. I don't know why. Maybe it's the harsh lights, the cold floor, the oddly shaped toilet in the bathroom.

I look at the window the mover pointed at. It's a ceiling-to-floor pane of glass, crystal clear, bordered by grim black curtains. I can see the whole city, stretched out before me like a satellite map, and moving black dots and pinpricks of light peeking from windows. I look straight and see buildings stretching into the sky, competing to be the tallest building.

The mover was wrong. It wasn't a nice view. I draw the curtains shut.

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My phone rings at seven, the exact time she told me she'd call. I swipe up to accept it, and her face fills my screen. Oh. A video call.

“Hi, Mom.” I say.

I watch as she turns her had back and forth, looking at herself on her screen. She traces a line down the side of her slashed mouth, where wrinkles are starting to form. “Does this lighting make me look old, Katherine?”

“No.”

She pulls back, clamps her lips together. She's holding the camera below her face, making her look severe, and exaggerating her long features. “Katherine.” She says. “I want to see your apartment. Show it to me.”

Of course, Mom. Of course.

I start out at the front door, like I'm giving a tour, and hold my phone in front of me so she can see. I show her the maroon welcome mat, the shiny floors, the ceilings that loom over me. There's the kitchen, where everything is marble white and stainless steel. The counters are a sleek pattern of granite and marble, and Mom oohs and ahs, says its stunning. I've only used the microwave, to heat up frozen food, but I don't tell her that. Instead I say that the oven works amazing, the water pressure is fantastic, and did you see the cabinets?

I show her my room, the white linen with the high thread count, the queen-sized bed that could fit five of me, the walk-in closet. “You need more clothes.” She says. “You have to dress to impress.”

“OK.”

She looks up, then back at me, down her long long nose. “Tomorrow. You need nice suits. I''ll travel into the city, and tell you what to get.”

“OK.” I say. “OK.” Then I say, “Mom, have you spoken to Bella?”

Mom's face goes still. I think maybe my screen froze, but then she says, “No. Katherine, of course not. She’s worthless. Bella is nothing. Don’t even talk about her.”

“OK.” I hold the phone farther away from me. “Do you want to see the view from the window?” I pull back the thick black curtains, and point the camera out the window. Her lips part, and her eyes go wide. “Wow.” She says. “Good view.” Then she says, “The walls though. They're terrible, so empty.”

The camera is still pointing at the window, and I don't turn it to face me. I say, “What should I put on them?”

“Your diploma. It should've been the first thing you took out of your boxes. Put it in the center, where it'd get the most lighting.”

I set the phone down, and go get my diploma. I had unpacked it, but hadn't thought to hang it up. Mom gives me instructions from the phone, her voice ringing out in the almost empty room.

“More to the left... too much... a little ba—PERFECT!”

I step back and look. The glass is a little smudged. The gaudy gold frame clashes against the white of the room, but Mom is beaming.

“Perfect.” She say. “Its perfect. Right in the center, where everyone could see it. Perfect.” She tells me to show her the bathroom, and I do. I show her the big bathtub, the mosaic walls, the heavily framed mirror hanging over the sink.

“Perfect. Perfect. Make sure to keep your diploma clean.”

I nod.

“And, Katherine, I found the perfect guy for you. He's a little older, but he got hair transplants, so he's not gonna be bald. Alright?”

“OK.”

“I'll send you a picture of him, but I told him all about you. He's hooked.” She leans forward, and the ball of her nose fills the screen. “He'll jump off a roof for you.”

“OK.”

“He's—“

I press the off button, and the screen goes black. I stare down at it, then up at the wall. It's so white. I think I like it white. I cover the diploma with one hand, and it looks even whiter, but I leave it there for everyone to see.

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The bathroom is my favorite room in the whole apartment. It's the least cavernous, with colored walls and lights that can be dimmed. Mom loved the kitchen, and I don't understand why; it makes me think of a nuclear laboratory, where everything is cold to touch and sterile and spotless and dangerous.

The mirror is still hanging above the white-ish sink, reflecting the light coming from the walled bulbs. I take it down without looking at it, lean it against the colorful tiles on the wall and drape a towel over it's leering surface.

Much better.

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The clock hanging above the TV is small, with black roman numerals. The hour hand is pointing at II, and the minute hand at VII. Its 2:35. I should be sleeping now, but I've just put frozen pizza in the microwave. Mom says I should watch what I'm eating. I'm skinny fat—my belly sags only a little and I can't run up a flight of steps.

The second hand glides smoothly across the clock, moving in circles. It doesn't make a ticking sound. I watch it, and the minute hand moves an inch, then another. Why doesn't it tick?

The microwave beeps, at the same time my phone pings. I reach for my phone. There's a gray notification on the top of the screen, and the blue and white Facebook symbol in the corner.

Bella_Chicks has updated her profile.

I click on it. I'm signed into my Facebook account, which I keep anonymous. Everyone sees me as Kat388. I press the x on an advertisement for watches that pop up, her profile appears and I see the picture.

Bella has gray eyes that pop under purple eyeshadow and glittering eyeliner. Her nose is long and proud; her narrow lips are colored in a pretty brownish pink. She's sitting on the hood of a chipping silver car, a guitar resting against her legs, her arms around a black haired guy sitting too close to her. She's smiling the way people do when they're happy—with crinkled eyes and lots of teeth. There's more people in the picture, but Bella has edited it so that they're all dim and fade into the background.

I stare at her. Her skirt is spread out underneath her, and it rides up a little, showing skin the color of mine. I zoom up on the picture to look for a dog, but there's none, even though her profile said she was a part time dog walker now. The caption on the picture says Everything I need, with three heart emojis.

My stomach clenches. I zoom up on the picture again, up close to her hand. Her finger is bare. There's no ring. I don't know how that makes me feel.

There's an acrid burnt taste to the air, and too late I remember the pizza. I go to the kitchen and take it out. Only the edges are burnt; the rest is like all microwave food, floppy and cheesy and fake. I press the pedal on the garbage can, the lid flies up, and I dump the pizza in.

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I'm in the bathroom again, with a chocolate bar in one hand. Outside the window, the million streetlights make it light as day. I draw the blinds down and take a bite of the chocolate, chew slowly and thoughtfully.

The mirror is still covered, and I bend down. I hesitate, briefly. People always say to rip band-aids off quickly, but I peel the towel away slowly. The chocolate makes my mouth sticky and hot.

I stare down at the mirror. Looking back at me is Bella_Chicks, without her loud makeup and pretty boyfriend. I say, “Hello, Bella.” The person in the mirror mouths with me, “Hello, Bella.”

My nose is long, my eyes are dull. We have such similar features, a mix of Mom and Dad, but we look so different. I can't stop staring. Is that me? We have such pale skin and narrow lips, such a weak round jaw.

I remember the picture, and I stand up and get my makeup bag, spill it out on the burning cold floor: a brown pencil eyeliner, a eyeshadow palette, two tubes of mascara, foundation. I pick up the mascara and put it down. I remember the purple eyeshadow and pick up the palette. There are ten colors lined up, neat pans of eyeshadow, but I've only ever used three; all varying shades of brown. I've never touched the other colors.

I dip a brush into the most purple shade there is and rub it across my eyelids.

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I pile the makeup back into the bag. My face feels odd and stiff with so much makeup. I blink, and my lashes stick together. When I look in the mirror, I see Bella_Chicks. I trace my nose and tilt my head to see how the winged liner looks. I smile like I saw her smile in the picture, but when I do, I don't look like her. I look like I'm being held at gunpoint. I stop smiling.

I get up and go to my closet, get some clothes I think she would wear; a white top with a low neck and flared jeans. I stand in front of the mirror and suck in my stomach. I stand with my legs apart and my head thrown back, showing all my teeth. I think of calling Mom and pretending I'm Bella, but I don't.

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My phone says its 3:42. I've been in the bathroom for more than an hour. I pick up the towel from the floor. I yawn, close the lights, then go back to cover the mirror.

Goodbye, Bella.