WHISPERED TEMPTATIONS

「 ✦ Halsey's POV ✦ 」 As kids, we sketch our futures with crayons and construction paper, coloring in the blank spaces with dreams. Jimmy Martinez from my next door strutted around in a plastic firefighter helmet, while Robbie Chen collected toy police cars, lining them up in perfect rows. Annabelle Wilson, with her glossy pigtails and frilly socks, would cradle her dolls during recess, announcing to anyone who'd listen that she'd be a mommy just like hers—one who wore lilac perfume and silk dresses that rustled when she walked. But my drawings were always simpler: just me, surrounded by smiling faces, their arms reaching toward me instead of away. ✦────────────────✦────────────────✦────────────────✦────────────────✦ For as long as I could remember, I was always the fat and ugly Meadows sister. My older sister Halo was the beautiful one, with her glossy black hair that fell to her waist in loose curls, that curling irons could only dream of achieving. Her skin a creamy warm brown, similar to milky coffee, a soft willowy figure, all sharp collarbones and delicate wrists, from years of soccer and watching her figure. Her eyes were the exact shade of amber as my father's—like fresh wildflower honey held up to the late afternoon sunlight streaming through kitchen windows—framed by lashes so thick and dark they cast tiny crescent-moon shadows on the high curve of her cheekbones whenever she looked down. When she looked at you head-on, those same lashes gave her that perpetual model-like smize, the kind that made varsity boys stumble mid-stride in the crowded hallway between periods, their mouths half-open with forgotten sentences as they got lost in the golden-brown depths. My sister Hazel was the quintessential adorable younger sister, my dad's twin, down to the dimple that appeared in her left cheek when she smiled. Her glossy dark curls tumbled past her shoulders in wild spirals, catching the light like polished mahogany when she tilted her head just so, framing a face that was all wide eyes and mischief, the kind of face that made strangers stop my mother in grocery stores just so they could coo over my sister. Her eyes—hazel just like her name—the perfect combination of forest green like Mom's eyes and amber like Dad's, rimmed in a golden ring that seemed to glow when she laughed. Her skin was a light caramel, smooth as warm syrup, and when she sang, her voice soared with a crystalline purity that could put Mariah Carey's five-octave range to shame, even at just eleven years old. Tall for her age, she'd inherited our dad's height, already towering over her classmates, but her frame remained delicate and willowy like Mom's—all elegant angles and graceful movements. Then there was me. Halsey Lee Meadows, middle child and living up to that stigma—at least that's what everyone told me. Some days I believed them. Compared to my sisters, I was of the short, fat, mousy variety. My sisters towered over me, willowy and graceful, while I stopped growing at 5'2" in the 7th grade, and never saw another centimeter of growth after that. My long brown hair hung like limp seaweed around my face, the frizz creating a halo in the humidity that no amount of product could tame, though Mom swore it caught the light "just beautifully" when I bothered to brush it. I was also the darkest of my sisters, but having spent much of my time indoors hunched over books and screens, my once pretty brown skin had taken on the sallow tint of library fluorescents and no amount of make-up could fix the dark bags under my eyes from stress and sleepless nights. But unlike my sisters, I'd inherited my mother's green eyes, except mine were the pale shade of sea glass worn smooth by the tide —"like jade," Dad once said, — years of bullying and loneliness had washed away their vibrancy until they were barely noticeable behind my oversized black frames that slid perpetually off my small and delicate nose that didn't match my chubby face. But no matter how different I looked, or even when I felt like I didn't belong, my family wrapped me up in a blanket of unconditional acceptance and love. Dad, with his handsome chiseled features and calloused hands —rough from years of work and weekend carpentry projects— deep umber skin that crinkled at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, and a laugh that seemed to shake the floorboards and vibrate through the walls whenever he laughed, was my biggest supporter and best friend. Every Saturday morning, while he worked from his home office, hunched over spreadsheets and muttering calculations under his breath, I'd curl into the overstuffed green armchair. The chair he'd driven three hours to find at an estate sale all because "it matched my eyes."  The chair sat perfectly positioned by the bay window where I could see Mom's hydrangeas nodding in the breeze as I turned the pages of whatever book I was reading, in comfortable silence. Occasionally, whenever I’d glance up from my book, I’d catch Dad watching me instead of his computer, his eyes smiling, but I could see the sadness within their amber depths. But he always hid it with a smile and a quick “I love you Kiddo” before focusing back on his work. My mom with her kind green eyes carried the warm scent of cinnamon rolls fresh from Sunday morning ovens, vanilla and her favorite dark-roast coffee. To this day, she always reminds me of a fairytale princess from the leather-bound books she read to me at bedtime as a little girl— with her cloud of soft platinum curls and sweet smile and otherworldly beauty. She taught me to hold my chin high even when my eyes brimmed with tears, setting the tone for what a woman should be, never allowing her own spine to bend under pressure. But there were times when I caught the worry in her eyes when she thought I wasn't looking, her graceful composure slipping just enough to reveal her concern for me. My sisters, despite the age gaps between all of us – Halo was 4 years older than me, while Hazel was 3 years younger - formed the scaffolding that kept me upright through those hollow years. They left Post-its with hand-drawn hearts on my mirror when I couldn't stand to look at my reflection anymore, brought me tea in their signature mugs when I couldn’t leave my bed, and sat silently beside me when words were too heavy to carry. They couldn't see the full depth of the pit I'd fallen into, but their hands never stopped reaching down into the darkness for mine. Without the warmth of their fingers interlaced with my own, I might have let go of the ledge entirely at some point. Without my family, I never would have been able to get up off that sticky, confetti-strewn school gym floor 5 years ago —my once-white dress plastered to my skin with viscous green pickle juice that burned my eyes and nostrils, surrounded by the jeers and laughter of my peers, as my world came crashing down in the most brutal of ways.