text: Megan placed her cup of coffee on the table as it shook slightly. Lately, she had been trying to act as old as she felt. This included a new love for coffee and tea of the sorts, as well as an old brownish-red lipstick she found in the drawer of her teacher’s desk. She didn’t know how to properly apply it, but it was the process and routine that stuck out to her most. She enjoyed sitting in front of the bathroom mirror, carefully taking in every aspect of her face, gently tugging at the corners of her mouth and eyes, mimicking what she watched her mother do before she dropped her off at school every morning. Speaking of her mother, it was almost time to leave and she could hear the loud thumping of her steps in the room above. It was obvious her mother was finally emerging from her room, and it was even more obvious that her mother had found something to be angry about. You see, when Megan’s mother was angry, her steps sounded different. She walked with a purpose, and the purpose was to make sure you could hear her coming. Last week, the incident was an Instagram page she had somehow found. Megan didn’t follow it, and she made sure to block it when it followed her. It was a silly gossip account someone in her grade must have made for the middle school. Something like “Liberty Middle Gossip Girl”. Megan didn’t even watch Gossip Girl. In the early morning, she woke to the sound of her mother’s steps. Louder than usual, practically assaulting the ground she walked on. Megan opened her eyes slowly from her bed, waiting for the moment her mother would burst in. And that she did. She started accusing her of creating the account. Asking her why she would stoop down to that level, why she would try to create drama like this. Asking her how she could be stupid enough to create such a vapid Instagram page. How she failed in parenting a good child. (Megan would argue that her mother would prefer to say “create” the perfect child.) All Megan could do was refute. Explain how she didn’t make the page. Explain how she didn’t care enough about the kids she went to school with to create a whole blog to gossip about them. Convince her that she was the daughter she was proud of. The daughter that she did love and the daughter that was above her classmates. Try to tell her that she was reading the book she assigned her instead, or that she had liked the music she told her to research. She knew this would ease her mother, having her know she was doing as she was told. And all with tears welling in her eyes, but she couldn’t let her see her cry. That would make it worse. She finally calmed down and left. Albeit she slammed the door but at least she left. Megan sat on the edge of her bed as she watched her leave. She sat there for a while, letting her face get wet from crying and her hair snotty from neglecting to properly blow her nose. She pinched her bedsheets as she waited. She pinched the fat of her arms and she picked the dry skin around her nails. Megan finally wiped the tears from her eyes but they were falling a little faster than they were before. She could now get ready for school, she could wear the lipstick she took from her favorite teacher. Hopefully, they would match. Her mother waited for her in the car and the ride was silent except for one exchange. “I’m not a terrible mother.” “I know.” This morning, Megan was anxious to know what she did this time. She made sure to hide her journals the night before and clear the search history on her phone and she began to shake thinking about all the possibilities. Her mother came into the kitchen gripping an old pair of Megan’s jeans. “I need to make sure you still fit in these.” Megan knew what would happen if she didn’t.