Chapter Four in Caramel Ice Cream

Chapter Four
October 30th, 2017
Today I stopped by Party City and bought a rip-off bride costume. It was $17, which could’ve bought me three weeks’ worth of milk, but I decided that it was worth it. I needed something like this; I needed to distract myself from my problems. It’s worked wonders for my mental health over the years; it’s the only thing keeping me sane. The costume was like a wedding dress. I was going to go as a bride, but I decided that would make me too depressed. Instead I turned the flimsy gown into a costume from one of my favorite movies; The Ring. I don’t own a television, and when I did before 2012 I was too young to watch it, but a teacher showed up drunk one day to school and put on The Ring for her first period class to watch. I saw the whole thing, and loved it. That was two years ago. The teacher was fired.
My costume was of Samara, the girl with the long black hair hanging in front of her face and the bloody, grimey white dress. I poured the last of my ketchup for fake blood, and threw it around in the backyard. Soon it was perfect. I didn’t have enough money for a wig, so I just used my long red hair to represent it. When I put it all together I looked awesome, but only a true fan of The Ring would be able to tell who I was. I took it off again and took a one-minute shower, washing off the dirt and residue that stuck to me from the costume.
I didn’t have any real makeup; just a worn-out mascara that I borrowed - (stole) - from my mom when I was nine. I put that on just for fun, because I hadn’t worn that thing in weeks. It brought back memories. I remembered when I was 6 years old. My sister was 16 years old at the time, and she used to go out on dates; dressing up, putting on makeup, practicing “date talk,” etc. The thing about her was that she always wore this bright red lipstick. It looked beautiful on her with the red hair we both shared. I used to always ask her, “Please, Maari, can I try it on?” and the answer was always no. She was a very possessive teen and refused to let me even touch anything that belonged to her. Anyway, she went out one night and I decided I wanted to try on her lipstick. You know, without her there or knowing. I thought I was a genius. So I snuck into her bathroom and grabbed it. I ran back into my room and hid in the corner in front of my mirror. Mind you, I was six. Obviously I didn’t know how to put on makeup, so I looked in the mirror, rolled up the lipstick all the way… and took a huge bite of it. It tasted horrible, so I spit it out hastily after chewing it for a couple seconds. I hid the ruined lipstick in my room. She came home, stood up, in a rage. She then found her lipstick missing and spent an hour sobbing in her room. I felt bad, so I put her lipstick back in her drawer because I thought she missed it. Apparently she wasn’t crying because of that, it was because she was being bullied and slut-shamed. Boys were asking her out and ghosting her as a joke. Everyone thought it was hilarious. Two stand-ups later, she killed herself.
Now and then I think about Maari. I’m now basically the same age as she was when she committed suicide, and it impacted our family so much. If I were to die at this time, probably nobody would notice. Not my “family,” not the police, not the school. Only Penny. It’s Monday, but we have no school because it’s a “professional growth day” or whatever stupid shit the teachers made up to get off from work. Most likely, though, it was because our principle was arrested this weekend for sexual assault and battery, and the teachers needed to figure out who would take over as principal. Our school is pretty shitty and budgeted, so we don’t even have a vice president.