She glanced at my reflection.
“That color looks beautiful on you.”
“Thank you.”
Ten years had changed her.
“I’m Betty.”
“I know.”
She smiled and returned to her lipstick.
“Everyone knows everyone tonight, I suppose.”
“Something like that.”
She capped the lipstick.
“I’m Betty.”
“It’s strange, though. People walk in with new hair or clothes and expect us to forget who they were.”
“People change.”
“Not that much.”
I met her eyes in the mirror.
“Maybe they want a fresh start.”
Betty laughed softly.
“People change.”
“You can’t erase the past.”
“No,” I said. “You can’t.”
That was when she noticed my name tag.
***
Now, she was crying behind a locked stall door.
The old Leah would’ve rushed over. She would’ve knocked three times, apologized, and asked what she’d done wrong.
“You can’t erase the past.”
This Leah turned on the faucet and washed her hands.
“Betty?”
“Please leave.”
“No.”
“Leah, I can’t do this.”
“You’re the one who ran into a stall.”
I faced the door.
“Please leave.”
“I’m not going to ask three times. You can tell me, or I can leave.”
“Wait.”
I stayed where I was.
The lock clicked.
Betty stepped out with mascara smudged beneath her eyes.
“My daughter is going through what I put you through.”
For a moment, I said nothing.
The lock clicked.
“Your daughter?”
“Layla. She’s nine.”
Betty gripped the sink until her knuckles paled.
“She has a thyroid condition. Her doctors are still adjusting her treatment, and her body changed before she understood what was happening.”
“Your daughter?”
“What happened at school?”
“Two girls started whispering whenever she walked past. Then someone edited her face onto a picture and sent it around.”
Betty wiped beneath her eyes.
“Last week, I found her cutting herself out of a class photo.”
My anger shifted, but it didn’t disappear.
“What happened at school?”
“What did you tell her?”
“That those girls were jealous and probably insecure.”
“You don’t believe that.”
Betty stared at me. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you weren’t cruel to me because you hated yourself.”
Her mouth tightened.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Maybe you were insecure,” I continued. “But you kept doing it because people laughed.”
She looked away.
“Every laugh gave you attention, approval, and a place at the center.”
Betty’s shoulders dropped. “I never meant to ruin your life.”
“You didn’t ruin it.”
She looked up.
“I never meant to ruin your life.”
“But you made parts of it miserable.”
“Do you hate me?”
“I did.”
She flinched.
“Then I got tired of giving you that much space.”
Betty reached for a tissue.
“Do you hate me?”
“When Layla asked whether I’d ever treated someone that way, I lied.”
“What did you tell her?”
