You're Even Pretty When You Cry

“You’re even pretty when you cry.” She let it escape softly and slowly, like a scientist making observations under her breath in a lab. I was home from college, sitting across from her on her parents’ couch, lamenting something my dad had said to me. She tilted her head, furrowed her brow, and narrowed her eyes. I was sobbing, actually. I blinked and took a rattling breath. The moment hung suspended for a frame. I’m not good at taking a compliment, so my brain began whirring for a response. Then suddenly she smiled wryly and shook her head, as if to say, “you rascally rapscallion! How do you do it?” We both laughed, moment forgotten. Only later would I realize her comment was not a reassurance, but an accusation. Looking back I think that was the first time her resentment pricked us, though I didn’t know that’s what it was at the time; a thorny weed that would eventually wrap itself around our throats. This time it didn’t even draw blood, except at the edge of my subconscious. A few years down the line she would tell me that every time she met a new guy she liked she would pull up my Facebook, show them my pictures, and say, “isn’t she pretty? Isn’t she pretty?” The ones who said no became her boyfriends. The ones who said yes regretted it. She told me this nonchalantly, as if it was funny or flattering. I was appalled. She knew my entire adolescent identity was developed by my aversion to being seen solely as an object by men. But I was “the pretty one” and she wouldn’t let me forget it. I’ve always had problems with men: my father, my brothers, my peers. Men either like me too much or too little. I only like the ones who like me too little, and I don’t trust any of them to like me enough. Yet I am always being accused of trying to steal people’s boyfriends. Apparently people’s boyfriends like me too much. But before all of this, our friendship formed around being each other’s safe havens. We built our 20-year sanctuary with bricks made of midnight stargazing, caring for our Neopets like “real” parents, marathon Sims mansion-construction, and nights of blockbuster, delivery pizza, and laughing until we passed out. But the problem with a house you build when you’re young is that one day your knees start knocking against each other when you try to move, and one day your heads start hitting the ceiling when you try to stand up. I wasn’t blameless. At times I was as cruel as any sisters can be to each other. Straight-A student, scientist parents; I was not only “the pretty one,” but “the smart one.” So she put herself in the “dumb” category and at times I tried to keep her there. But even after I thought we had reshuffled our roles in adulthood, learned to see each other with new eyes and new hearts, apparently the damage for her was already done. Our friendship ended when we were 27. She was telling me she was breaking our lease to move in with her boyfriend immediately. Blindsided, I asked “why?” over and over. Finally she uttered, “I’ve resented you for a long time.” I was sobbing. She tilted her head, furrowed her brow, and narrowed her eyes. In that instant I knew she was thinking, “You’re even pretty when you cry.”