Tiffany Scandal - Jigsaw Youth

“My mother tried to commit suicide the day she found out she was pregnant.”

Red lips curling into a smile. Pale hand gently tucking jet black hair behind an ear. Black nail polish, slightly chipped. She seemed nervous, of course, it was the first time she’d let me in. This was Hope, twenty-one and broken. I was twenty-four, much the same.

She’d entered my life at a time where all I could do was sleep, I was so angry at everything. I’d wake some nights and cry myself back under. Everything like a bad dream. It was winter, and she seemed so beautiful and warm.

We were out for coffee, sitting by a large window and listening to freezing rain. We laughed each time people slipped on the ice. Hours feeling like minutes, the mugs warm in our hands. In the middle of the story, she stopped, smirked at me and stared, mouthing, “You’re going to be in trouble. .”

Hope reached across the table and took my hand, and led me to the restroom. She locked the door, and I understood the trouble she meant. Her hand tracing up my skirt, pulling down my leggings. Mouth on mine before I could make a sound. She smelled like vanilla. I leaned my head back.

Someone knocked at the door.

She pulled her hand away. Lipstick smeared on both our faces through the mirror. She licked her fingers.

“You should come over.”

I was in heaven for one month.

“You’re fucking boring,” Hope hissing from the corner of the room.

She slumped into a chair, crossed her arms to her chest, pouting. Her studio reeked. I had started on the mountain of dishes overflowing the sink. She wanted to go out. Islands of mold in half-empty mugs. She always wanted to go out.

There was an open bottle of Two Buck Chuck on the counter. I reached for it, wanting to pour out the remnant. A small cloud of fruit flies escaped. Even at arms length, the wine smelled of pure vinegar.

“Hey!”

Hope tripped over discarded clothing on the floor, and went after the bottle in my hand.

“You probably shouldn’t drink—”

She took a swig. Dark reddish-violet fluid dripped from the sides of her mouth, down her chin. She made a bitter face, then smiled, picking something off her tongue.

“Mmmm. I love Merlot.”

She walked off with the bottle and set it beside her chair.

I finished the dishes. She changed into a slinky dress, faux-fur coat, big boots — everything black. She applied a thick layer of red to her lips and kissed the mirror. Took her purse and keys.

“I left you a note,” she said, gently scratching my shoulder before walking out the door.

I shook my head and went over to the vanity.

I love you in lipstick.

The first time she told me that, she’d been crying. We were sitting in Mount Calvary Cemetery watching the city lights shine like stars. Distant traffic buzz, the occasional horn. Feeling like gods watching the universe twist.

We held each other for warmth and drank from a bottle of whiskey.

She talked about her dreams. How she wanted to move to France, write a book, be a mother. I listened and imagined her doing these things, and welcomed silence that followed.

She turned to me, tearing up, and said it. I love you.

I kissed her forehead and held her closer. I didn’t say anything back.

We’d known each other less than a week.

Back at her apartment, I listened to my Riot Grrrl playlist and cleaned.

Dishes washed and scrubbed. Laundry cycled and folded.

I cleaned the floors and the bathroom. I made her bed. Tidied the vanity, dusted the Siouxsie Sioux shrine, lit incense to mask the odor.

Two AM: Hope still wasn’t home. I tucked myself into her bed and waited.

Some time later, I woke to the door unlocking. Keys, purse, coat tossed on the floor. She stumbled and dropped onto the bed, her arm landing heavily on my side.

“It smells good in here. .”

But she smelled like booze and a perfume that wasn’t her own. I looked at the clock. Five AM. I wondered where she’d gone after last call.

Over coffee the next morning, she told me about how she’d given her first blowjob at the age of eleven. That was how she thought she could get boys to tell her she was pretty. All she ever wanted was to be pretty. Hope looked at the table a moment. She asked me if I thought she was pretty. I told her she wasn’t pretty. . she was beautiful.

“I want to have babies with you.” Hope held my hand, leading me through the mall.

We went sometimes, to complain about how awful everything and everyone shopping was. We drank shitty bubble tea and watched a father point and tell his young daughter how wrong it was for us to be so close. It made me think about how hate is taught at such a young age. I wondered if she’d resist her father’s lecturing, form her own mind. We’d intended to look for records, but Hope wanted to look at shops I haven’t stepped foot in since high school. The shops still seemed the same, just occupied by a younger crowd. I felt older than I was. I didn’t want to be here anymore.

I started to notice things that didn’t belong to either of us when I’d clean the house. There started to be more activity on her phone. She would go out, rarely asking if I wanted to come along. And when I’d bring it up, she’d hold me close and tell me she loved me, and we’d fuck until the sun rose. But one night. .

“My friend from Los Angeles is coming in tonight. We’re going out.”

“How fun! What are you guys going to do?”

I could see reservation in her eyes. “Um. Probably just go to a bar or something.”

I nodded, sensing an invitation wasn’t going to be extended. Hope sent a text message and sighed. “Did you want to go? It could be fun.”

I went. It wasn’t.

We went to three different strip clubs. Throughout the night, Hope seemed more and more distant. She drank so much she could barely stand. The cigarette breaks with her friend got longer. I felt foolish, and I chose to ignore it.

We were there with a group of friends. Each time Hope and Los Angeles got up, the others would shoot me a glance. I don’t know if they actually looked sad, or if I just saw them that way. I looked away at the stage. Fake blonde. Fake tits. Fake face. The dancer flirted with the audience. I imagined her smiling that same forced smile, perfect teeth, carving “I hate everything” into my skull.

When they came back, Hope and Los Angeles were giggling and holding hands. I tried to focus on another conversation in the group. They sat, leaning into each other. Los Angeles whispered in her ear. Cold blue eyes locking on mine. Los Angeles mouthed the word “ugly.” Then they stopped whispering, and she told Hope I was fat and unattractive, and that she needed to ditch the zero. I was watching them, now. Hope finally looked at me and laughed, resting her head on Los Angeles’ shoulder. Hand on her thigh. Hope cracked a shit-faced smile.

I imagined carving “I hate everything” into their skulls. Like a mantra or a curse.

The woman on stage stopped dancing. She stared at me, through me, past me. I became deaf to the sound. Everyone stopped talking, as if frozen in place. Shades of red, smoke filling the room. I walked to the stage and reached into my pocket and held out a ten-dollar bill for the lady. She crouched and took it, knees cracking. Face inches from mine. She had heavy bags of disappointment under eyes that looked like they lived several hard lives. Lines of her face obscured by the lights of the club. I told her she was pretty. She touched my cheek and mouthed Thank You.