Nice Girls Can Be Criminals
When you call me a “nice girl,” what you don’t understand is that I’m a criminal. I haven’t been arrested or held accountable, but when I say “I’m a nice girl” out loud, I feel the lie build up against my lips. It burns my tongue.
When I tell you that I’m a criminal, you stroke my hair like a kitten’s. “Okay,” you say. “Whatever you want.”
criminal |ˈkrimənl| n.
1. a person who has committed a crime: these men are dangerous criminals.
2. a person charged with and convicted of crime.
I fall short. Police have searched my car, police have searched my body. But I’m careful. It’s easier to move through life in disguise, to maintain a malleable presentation. To maintain the sort of outer layer on which outsiders can project whomever they’re expecting. Have I committed crimes? Am I dangerous? Why don’t I sit here — why don’t I wait for you to tell me?
Show me the wide scar of your past. Show me the marks you own that are worse than mine. Tell me how good I’ve been. Tell me everything about myself — I’ll style my hair and face, my body, my demeanor, to make it look like I believe you.
3. criminal |ˈkrimənl| adj. Informal (of an action or situation) deplorable and shocking.
What are my crimes? Petty theft, a laissez-faire attitude about your deepest fears, the way I rolled my eyes behind your back when I heard about your latest suicide attempt.
4. criminal |ˈkrimənl| n. a person who commits crimes for a living.
For a living, I brush my hair. I spray rat’s nests with detangler and comb them through with needles. Once in awhile, I meet someone who I think will help me detangle. But I’m always wrong — they build new nests. They show me a mirror; they show me a rat.
5. criminal |ˈkrimənl| adj. of the nature of or involving crime.
I know that my exterior is soft. I don’t look like your muscled friends on parole; I don’t dress like your junkie ex-lovers. I affect docility wonderfully. I am confident in my ability to appear fragile. I dye my hair because blondes put authority figures at ease. I stopped tracing kohl along my waterline because smoky eyes make strangers suspicious.
It’s easy. Scrape an ingénue look off a stranger’s face. Tilt your conversation to expose an off-color scar. Answer a question like you’re opening a vein. Let trust be layered on you, confidence after confidence, until you’re nested in secrets, cocooned, unsuspected.
I’m trying to tell you that it’s on purpose.
I’m trying to tell you that I’m a liar.
I’m trying to make you trust me.
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