Mr. Tatto Wants Me

The car rumbled down the cracked asphalt of Sycamore Street, each bump a dull thud against my already fraying nerves. Ohio blurred past in a watercolor of gray skies and bare trees, a stark contrast to the vibrant promise of Orlando, Florida, that my mom kept painting. Inside the car, she hummed along to a country song on the radio, her eyes fixed on the road, a picture of forced optimism. I stared out the window, my breath fogging the glass, tracing mindless patterns that evaporated as quickly as they formed. At seventeen, I felt too old for goodbyes, too young to carry the weight of my parents’ failures.

“Almost there, sweetie,” my mom said, her voice a little too cheerful. “New beginnings, remember?”

I managed a weak smile. New beginnings felt more like running away. Running away from the whispers that followed me in the hallways, the pitying stares from teachers who thought I didn't notice, and the cruel laughter from boys who thought my body was a public spectacle. I was running from the ghost of my dad’s infidelity, the way he’d looked at my mom like she was a stranger, and the constant, gnawing feeling that I was too much – too loud, too big, just too much for this world to handle.

My hand instinctively went to my wrist, tracing the faint, silvery scars that marked a chapter I desperately wanted to forget, now hidden beneath a stack of colorful beaded bracelets. The scars were a roadmap of my lowest points, a physical record of how much pain I’d inflicted on myself, all because I couldn't bear the weight of the world’s judgment. Each one was a memory of a night spent crying in my room, the sharp sting of the razor a temporary distraction from the dull ache of loneliness. I hadn't cut myself in months, and the urge was finally fading, but the memories lingered, sharp and bitter, a constant reminder of the girl I used to be.

"I know, Mom," I said quietly, my voice barely a whisper.

The car finally pulled into the driveway of a small, pastel-colored house, nestled between palm trees that looked impossibly green against the drab Ohio sky. This was it. My new life. It looked like a dollhouse, something from a storybook, and I felt like an imposter who didn't belong in its cheerful facade.

As we unloaded the car, I caught my reflection in the side mirror. My cheeks were flushed from the car's heater, my brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. I was, as always, acutely aware of my size. Overweight. That's what everyone saw first. It was the first label, the first insult, the first thing they used against me. But I also knew I was pretty, in my own way. I had a full face, big brown eyes that could melt butter, and a smile that could light up a room when I actually felt like using it. And I was "thick," as some boys crudely put it – big boobs, a generous backside, and thick thighs that had earned me more than one demeaning nickname. It was a complicated package, one I was still learning to accept myself, let alone expect anyone else to.

"Aria, come help with this box!" my mom called, interrupting my thoughts.

I sighed and forced a smile, pushing the heavy door open. The air was warm and thick, smelling of salt and damp earth. Time to face the music. Or at least, time to face the unpacking.