Best of Miami Portfolios 2001 - Units.muohio.edu

A Short Story or Narrative—Nicole DiNardo
Beautiful Muddle
Sometimes, when I lie on my back in the solitude of my room and the carpet bristles my
skin, the ridges in the ceiling spread like daddy-long-legs in port-o-potties. Sometimes, when I lie
in bed in the hush of the night and the moon is precisely angled outside my window, the global light
streaks across my pillowcase like tadpoles in silver ponds. Sometimes, when my mind wanders…
I’m fearless and flawless.
And sometimes, at these dreamy times, I am not an eighteen-year-old prom junkie standing
in the middle of my floor, facing my mirror, and whispering to the butter-fairies in my stomach to
buzz someplace else. I am not spending thirty agonizing minutes shaping one frizzed curl with half
a bottle of Green Tea Styling Gel or obsessing over which shade of plum lip gloss best accents my
eyes. I am not, as my ex-boyfriend used to say, “acting like a girl.”
Instead, I am already twirling on the dance floor, my auburn-fried hair bouncing with
charming confidence as I transcend all muddied doubts of myself. I am effortlessly and naturally
beautiful. I am—
“Don’t forget to pluck the hair from between your eyebrows,” my mom’s brassy voice of
reality plummets me back to my Mary-Kay dungeon of anxiety.
“Mom, pl-ea-se stop. I do not need you telling me what to do.” I innocently crank up the
volume two notches on my stereo in hope that River Cuomo’s electric guitar can silence her
motherly concerns and rattle away my “I don’t want to go anymores.” While the beat vibrates and
I lather my legs with freshly scented cucumber lotion, I begin to sway with forced excitement. “I’m
going to have fun tonight,” I tell my stuffed dog, Douglass. But his vacant eyes seem as convinced
as my crackling voice. However, when I slip into my olive chenille dress and brush my hands down
the velvety material, I am contentedly satisfied. Turning sideways and forward and sideways again
in front of the mirror above my dresser, I hunt for flaws, but my dress, an exact fit, complements
my figure.
Yet just when my jitters begin to fizzle away, my mom hollers from the bottom of the stairs,
“Nicole, did you remember to put mints in your purse?”
I don’t respond. Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone.
“Nicole, did you—
“Yes, mother. I filled the gray box with wintergreen Altoids ten minutes ago,” I croon
sarcastically while gracefully stomping down the steps in my bronze high heels. Well, I wouldn’t
quite call them high heels. I didn’t want to tower over my date.
“You look gorgeous,” my mom breathes as I approach the last step. Intently searching her
eyes, I recognize her sincere love, and my muscles immediately relax. She is impossible to stay
angry at for an extended amount of time. I ask a mental prayer of forgiveness—she never deserves
the venom of my frustrations. My younger brother breezes by us with an amused, self-assured
smirk, his silver bracelet tinkling as he flips a sports coat over his shoulders.
I open the refrigerator and pull out the standard cream-colored boutonniere from Dandy’s
Flowers and turn to practice pinning the roses on my brother’s lapel. My mom has always done the
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