A bleak grey sky stretches past my car window, a watercolor splotch of a day. My legs ache. The radio has been on for so long we've heard repeats.

Mom doesn't mind, hums along to Bon Jovi like he's live in concert. Suits her, this lack of concern or worries. She's prettier like this, her eyes look brighter.

My shoulders feel smaller, cramped and rounded, like the world is shrinking around me. The world is only as big as Mom's two-door car.

My eyes feel light without sparkling eyeshadow. My lips feel naked without glossy lipstick. My waist feels unsteady in Dad's old Radiohead T-Shirt instead of a tight dress.

I spread my toes out against the carpet of the car, the crumbs from breakfast-lunch-and-dinner crunching beneath my bare foot. I hated high heels.

"We're almost there, look." Mom nudges me, smiling so hard I can see laugh lines like tattoos on her face, "a new life just waiting for us."

A newer, better life in CaterTown... that's what the welcoming sign says, anyways.

Moving into the new house is a blur, like the bleak skies that moved past my window. Diner is a blur, sleep is a blur, waking up is a blur.

Life becomes a watercolor, melting into itself until glitter and lights fade and I'm not a queen or a princess but an outsider to my own skin...

I tug at my cheek, naked without blush. Poke at my eyelid, pressing purple spots into my vision.

My mirror reflects a healthy young girl with average grades and a great smile, but it misses the insides. My insides are twisted up and constricting like a python.

No makeup to hide the desolation in my eyes.

There's a knock at our door. Mom can't answer it, she's out with... who is it today? Steve?

Mom is busy trying to forget dad's affair by sleeping her way through CaperTown. It's ok, we all have our own way of dealing with loss.

I press my fingernail into my plump bottom lip, trying to flush the blood to make it red. Mom threw out all my makeup, said I didn't need it anymore. Who am I if not a pretty face and a tight dress?

Another knock. They won't go away. If it's a cookie scout girl I'm going to rip my hair out. I can't have sugar, I need to keep my figure.

But it's not a cookie scout, or a girl. It's a boy. About my age, shaggy hair and an apple pie smile.

"Hey, I'm your next door neighbor." I blink at him, regretting my oversized shirt and boxers. "My mom held me at gunpoint to make me give this to you. It's a pineapple cake. We wanted you to feel welcomed to our neighborhood, and to never be shy to ask for sugar or milk if you need some. We have a lot, my Mom never stops baking, our house smells like a bakery. Hold up, are you ok darlin'?"

It's a pineapple cake. My favorite fruit is pineapple, use to eat so much my tongue would be raw for days. It's a cake, though. The last time I had cake was my fourteenth birthday, couldn't have sugar after that.

"Hey, did I say something wrong? Was it the gun point thing?" He shifts the cake, the yellow glaze catching the light, "Shit, I knew I shouldn't have said that. Y'all are from up north, probably ain't use to gun talk. I'm sorry darlin."

His voice is soothing, young and naive and sweet. Just like I was before I had to squeeze into a size 0 at fifteen. Without thought, chest light and giddy, I reach out. My finger tip catches the glaze, a tiny chunk of pineapple coming with it.

I suck my finger clean, a laugh smashing into my chest. It's so good, so sweet and forbidden and god, life could be filled with pineapple cakes and adorable southern boys.

No more makeup, no more hiding the imperfections.

"Ok, yeah, you wanna' check if it's good. I get that." He laughs, head tilted like he's trying to figure me out, "Do you want it?"

I giggle, throwing my head back as a bigger laugh slams into me. He joins in, confused but happy to play along with my sunny breakdown.

"Yes, yes I want the cake." I grab the platter, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt, "I want a sweeter life."