We Do What We Do in the Dark

by Michelle Hart

The woman spoke about her mother with a tenderness that made Mallory envious.

The best part of having nothing,

Mallory thought, was that it couldn’t be lost.

She got turned on by the sight of herself.

The woman fulfilled so many of Mallory’s wants but left so many wants unfulfilled that the feeling of wanting in and of itself became desirable. There was an untouchable intensity, or an intense untouchability, to keeping a secret, to having a continuous

crush, that Mallory wanted never to lose.

He was smarter, wealthier, older, and a man. In what way, Mallory wondered, was she better than him?

“Shame and pride often feel like the same thing. You begin to want to protect even the most embarrassing parts of your life.”

I was so relieved to have the time to myself, even though I felt very lonely.

It was euphoric to be seen at all.”

I thought that what made me unique was that I was sad.

“No one is lovable at your age.”

“He didn’t hit me or my mom or anything. It was more embarrassing than abusive. He couldn’t go anywhere without being smashed.”

“There’s no such thing as a good man,”

Amen

She was a sad girl, a lonely girl, and, after a lifetime of practice, she had become so good at this that it had become the most appealing thing about her.

This should depress her, she thought, but instead it brought her comfort; at least she was good at something.

a small sin; as an experiment, in passing, looking around to see if anybody notices it—and to make sure that someone does.”

When she thought about the woman, she thought thrillingly about her own self and what she could be.

“we do what we do in the dark and then we deal with it all alone.”

Mallory sometimes imagined she had a twin sister who had died in the womb. The sister would have been the pretty one.

She went into her bedroom to see if there was a book on her own shelf that she would be willing to swap with Hannah; to exchange stories with another girl had been a daydream of hers, though the fantasy had been to have other people read what Mallory told them to read, so that they would understand her more without her having to explicitly tell them.

Still, she became aroused looking at herself, not because she thought she was all that pretty now but because she suspected someday that someone else would see this about her.

Most nights, Mallory had little to do but read at home. She liked doing this, loved it even, but also liked an excuse to do anything else. Whenever she was out, however, she wished she were back in bed by herself with a book.

The stars appeared to her like eyes, as if she specifically was now

worthy of the universe’s attention and care.

“I’m afraid of being alone and afraid that is the only way I know how to be.”

They had never seen one another without makeup. Mallory assumed she looked awful and felt, at first, the anxiety of being seen as ugly by someone she had spent so much time trying to impress.

Mallory began to think that if she had become a cruel person, it was the woman who had made her that way.

I was happy to do all this with someone who seemed important—more important than I was, anyway.”

I had a pretty low opinion of myself then, and being with him made me feel like somebody.

“Pretty much the opposite. I think the me that’s next to you right now is only here because of my relationship with her.”