You Own Me (Owned 1)

Lissie muttered, “That's what I'm going to school for.”

“You are so hot!” Zoe said, and jumped on top of Lissie.

Lissie squealed in delight. I watched them happily wrestle for a few moments, lost in their bliss, before I cleared my throat.

“Guys, I hate to interrupt your nauseating love fest, but unless you're going to invite me to join, will one of you please help?”

“What do, ah!, you, ah! need-help-with?” Lissie screamed out as Zoe tickled her. They looked like a happy couple.

I envied their happiness. I'm pretty sure my skin was turning green.

“I need help with this year's graphics. The logos, the web promos, you know. All that fun stuff that I have zero experience or know-how with. I can paint a stick-figure on MS Paint. So there’s that,” Continuing, I explained my problem. “Most legitimate designers need more than three weeks’ notice. Go figure.” I ended bitterly. Bethany had told me all of her designers needed more than three weeks. When I asked what the hell I was supposed to do, she just shrugged.

“I can do that,” Lissie wheezed as Zoe gave her a break. “Just give me your guidelines and ideas and I'll have some mockups ready for you by tomorrow.”

“Really?” I practically squealed.

Lissie answered, equally as excited, “Yup!”

“Awesome! Well I'll leave my notes here,” I said, placing my notes on one of Zoe's tables, “and you guys can get back to boning each other.”

Lissie laughed, but Zoe groaned at me to get out.

“You know where I am if you need a third,” I offered in my sleaziest voice.

Simultaneously they yelled: “Get out!” My ass was shoved out as Zoe bolted the door behind me.

I don’t have a bad body; I’m just not in shape like the rest of the world, or at least like the people on TV. The people on TV are the rest of the world, right? I turned around in front of my mirror examining my body. Objectively speaking . . . well, I can't speak objectively. My tits are too small. My ass is too big. I have fat where I shouldn't. I’ve got no muscle tone. A mess.

I shouldn’t complain. The majority of hotties worked for their bodies. I didn't work for my body. It always fell low on my priorities. First it was a math degree and then when I didn’t want that, it was a career in event planning—now it was hiding from Dean. My appearance never stood a chance. I would rather eat a jar of Nutella while binge-watching The Office than go to the gym.

Do you know that people go to the gym every day? Every day. It's insane, but they do look hot because of it. They don't look like me. Flabby and in between: not fat, but not skinny just like billions of other people on the planet. Nothing special to see here, folks, move along.

Vic was special. Vic is special.

It doesn't take a psychiatrist to figure out why I'm being so hard on myself today. I have an ex-boyfriend who cheated on me every night and beat me up during the day. Now, as I'm trying to move on, I've inaugurated myself with yet another man who doesn't want me; at least he doesn’t beat me.

If I was confident, if I was full of esteem, perhaps I could say “fuck ‘em!” But I'm not. The tiny voices in my head have been granted megaphones. “Is it me?” I ask. And the voices shout back, “Yes!”

I ran my

fingers through my hair. Right now it's red. Naturally, it’s blonde. I think. I still have all of my natural highlights and lowlights, so I've got that going for me. I might have a weird body, but I have kickass hair. I have a complexion that allows me to wear whatever hair color I want. Unfortunately, I have one of those personalities that gets restless easily—I've been dying my hair since junior high. If it weren't for pictures, I'd have no idea what my natural hair color was.

During my punk phase, I wore it multicolored: blue, pink, green, and purple. Thank God I grew out of that. Not because it didn't look fucking awesome, but because it was a bitch to maintain. When I was with Dean, I was a brunette. Now that I'm on the run, I've changed the color to obscure what I looked like in Seattle. Honestly though, it’s because the idea of having anything remotely reminding me of Dean makes me sick. Even hair color.

It's stupid and weak, the fact that I have to change myself because of what Dean did. I wish I was strong enough to not be affected.

Before everything got so fucked up, there was a Mexican food franchise that Dean and I used to eat at. Dean didn't even care about it, but it was my favorite place to eat.

Of course, now I tremble even looking at it.

I try to rationalize my fear, but that's the thing: fear isn't rational. It's a gut instinct. It's physical. I walk up to Ranchorito, open the door, and then cold sweats overtake me and my vision narrows to pinpricks. Next thing I know, I'm down the street dry heaving. I must look like such an idiot when that happens. I sure as shit feel like one.

How do you overcome something when it hijacks your body like that?

“Boo,” I said aloud, kicking my closet shut with a thud. I think that was enough masochism for the day. Lissie is working on the designs for Regal, so that only left . . . well, everything else. I turned on my stereo and let the thrumming bass guitar of the Toadies’s motivate me. Time to get to work.

This is perfect. It wasn't famously haunted, but, then again, the only “famously” haunted place in Santa Barbara was an old mission. An old mission didn't exactly scream sexy, and it definitely wasn't “Old Hollywood,” the official theme of the party.