Norma Jean - By Amanda Heath Page 0,1

and black jeans.

My bathroom is tiny with the small hideous wallpaper, in fact it’s all over the damn house. I shimmy out of my pjs before turning on the water for my shower. I pull my long black hair up on top of my head and check the water. After deciding that it isn’t too cold I climb in.

After I’m done with that I towel off and throw on my clothes before stepping in front of the mirror. I don’t even look at my face while putting on my makeup. I go heavy on the eyeliner as usual and then I brush my teeth. Yeah I realize that I do things weird, but that’s me. I’m a total freak. Honestly I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Have you seen my car keys?” I ask my mom who is sitting at her computer desk in the living room probably feeding her addiction to Facebook.

“Did you check your car?” she replies without looking up. Her fingers flow over the keyboard like silk over skin.

I laugh to myself because I honestly didn’t think of looking in my car. “No. I can’t ever remember that if I left them in there.”

Her chestnut colored hair falls over her shoulder when she turns to look at me. I used to have the same color hair. It was long and flowing just like hers, until my appearance became my shield. Her violet colored eyes I still have though. That’s why Grammy named her Elizabeth Taylor. Well at least she got to be called Elizabeth Chambers all her life. Elizabeth is a common enough name. Norma Jean on the other hand is nowhere near common. The only other person I know who was named NJ was Marilyn Monroe which, just so happens, I’m named after.

I do believe it’s an honor to be named after one of the most beautiful women ever. It’s just I could never fill her shoes. I had terrible acne for most of my teens that left serious scars all over my face. Hence the reason I don’t look at my face. Ever. I hide it the best way I know how. My hair is dyed black with extensions of every color of the rainbow hanging about. I style it with bangs that reach my eyes. I like to pull it to the front so people generally look at the colors. I wear a hoop through the piercing in my nose and I also have a Marilyn Monroe. Which is the term for a piercing people get where Marilyn had a beauty mark. I, of course have to have corrective lenses which are huge and an ugly puke color. To top it all off is my ass kicker attitude. Believe me, I know how that sounds but the people I know are assholes. You have to be mean and snobbish to get people to leave you alone around here.

“You’d lose those things if they were in your hands. I don’t know how you could find anything else in this world but your keys.” she shakes her head at me and I smile. I love my mom. She didn’t bat an eyelash when I walked in looking like this a couple of years ago. While some might think that is bad parenting, she just wants me to be me. I had asked her once why she didn’t freak out she simply said “You are you, baby. I love you if you were made of mud. You can be whatever you want to be. Don’t let anyone ever tell you differently.”

“I can’t ever find my phone either. Not that I really use the thing.” I shrug my shoulders. I really do have an issue with losing my keys and my phone. Everything else I can find in 5 seconds flat. It’s a gift really.

I move over to the old grey couch in front of the TV to slip on my lime green converses. Moms best friend and co-worker Stacy has a 1 year old granddaughter that I watch on the weekends. It was really hard to take the job seeing as her son is the reason I’m a social outcast. He bullied me for years and now I have no self-esteem or social skills, well in the boy department anyway.

Chance mother fucking Duncan is the most beautiful boy ever. Rich dark auburn hair that hangs down to his chin. Matching eyebrows that arch over the most amazing hazel eyes ever. Caramel hues mixed in with green swirls.