short stories

Scuttled

August 22, 2022 in SUGAR & VICE

Scuttled

One Saturday during elementary school, my sister and I accompanied my mom on her errands. I use the word accompanied, but let’s be serious. We were young and didn’t have a choice. On our way home, my mom stopped to get gas and told us we could come inside and each pick out one thing from the gas station. I wouldn’t say this was necessarily a rare occurrence, but now that I’m older I have a feeling my mom had witnessed a lot of other kids having absolute meltdowns during those aforementioned errands and wanted to treat us for not being little terrors. OR maybe it was a bribe. Either way, it was exciting. To kids, gas stations are magical little shops with bright lights, tons of candy, and an ICEE machine. It’s paradise. (As I write this, I’m realizing parents spent far too much money on having kids birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese when they probably could have just driven us to Circle K and told us to go wild. Add some balloons and I would have been quite content.)

So my sister and I walk into the gas station and immediately turn down the junk food aisle. We both bypassed the chips and pretzels and such (we weren’t amateurs. This was no time to play with savory treats) and made a beeline for the candy. Airheads, Fun Dip, Twix bars, Snickers- our little eyes could barely process the seemingly limitless amount of choices. Pretty much everything was fair game except bubble gum (thanks to an unfortunate incident regarding me, my mom’s velour car upholstery, and bubblicious watermelon wave.)

Jessica picked something like Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups- an amateur move no doubt. Why you ask? Because while delicious, Reese’s is essentially only two pieces of candy. She’d be done with that in under a minute. I, on the other hand, went with Skittles. Its bright red bag promising at least five to ten minutes of chewy, sugary goodness. I was nothing if not a rational person.

Back in the car, my prediction came true. Jessica was quickly out of candy. (I may have laughed.) What I did not anticipate was the possibility of a hostile takeover. Obviously embarrassed by her poor candy choice, Jessica retaliated by attempting to take mine. (I think she even tried to use the word “share” as if that made it less ridiculous.) Unfortunately for her, when it came to candy, I fought back.

Unfortunately for me, my mom had long arms. Long arms which she used to reach into the backseat and grab my Skittles, before proceeding to throw them out of the car window onto Skinner Mill Road. “If you girls can’t behave, then you don’t get candy!”

“MOM! THOSE WERE MINE! JESSICA ALREADY ATE HERS!”

I recognized the look in my mom’s eyes- the look of “sh*t. I made a mistake.” But it was the 90’s and unless you were in a Nickelodeon sitcom, parents did not admit making mistakes. That showed weakness. Plus it was my parents’ date night, so she wasn’t about to turn around to go buy me more Skittles so she just turned up the radio and told us to quiet down.

Fuming, I looked over at my sister, who just smiled and then looked out the window. Content and full of Reese’s.

Last Day Of Play

August 22, 2022 in SUGAR & VICE

Courtney Khail Athens, Georgia contemporary watercolor artist - Sugar & Vice Collection — Courtney Khail “Last Day Of Play” Original painting, 18”x24”, watercolors, inks, and graphite on paper. Part of the 2022 Sugar & Vice Collection

Last Day of Play

For his tenth birthday, my friend Andrew had a slumber party.

Andrew and I had been friends for as long as I could remember. We went to Pre-K together, then elementary school- arranging our red and blue mats side by side for naptime and challenging each other to four square battles at recess. He was apparently my first kiss- outside our K-4 classroom back when kisses invoked nothing besides a fear of catching cooties. (I say apparently because neither of us could recall if it actually happened, or if it was just a repeated story told by our parents until it became accepted family folklore.)

I was the only girl invited to the party, a guest list primarily made up of boys from our fourth grade class. We played tag, ate cake, and trampled in and out of his house on Johns Road. Around dinner time, my mom came to pick me up. The invitation for me to stay over was extended, but my mom declined. (In the car she ended any further discussion stating it wouldn’t be appropriate because I was a girl.)

Summer break started soon after and by the following school year I felt everything had changed. I was no longer “one of the boys,” dropped from the world of freeze tag and double dog dares right into the unfamiliar world of butterfly clips and glitter lip gloss.

If I would have known that would be my real last day of play, I wouldn’t have let go so easily.

Shadowboxer

August 22, 2022 in SUGAR & VICE

Courtney Khail Sugar and Vice Collection, purple and green watercolor painting, Southern contemporary Artist — Courtney Khail “Shadowboxer” Original painting, 18”x24”, watercolors, inks, and graphite on paper. Part of the 2022 Sugar & Vice Collection

Shadowboxer

I am not a good dancer. I have the love and enthusiasm for dancing, but I lack the ability to effortlessly glide from one movement into the next. Instead, my dancing looks a bit like those embellished wooden toys; the ones where you push the button under the pedestal and the animal collapses into a clumsy collection of legs and arms before popping right back to its original rigid pose.

So what possessed me to sign up to dance in the class talent show I am not 100% sure. Even more befuddling was why I chose to perform an original dance to Fiona Apple’s “Shadowboxer.” I’ll blame it on the simple fact that I was ten years old and had- as my husband calls it- the unearned confidence of youth.

Whatever the reason, it was a very bad idea. At this point in my life I hadn’t yet experienced the shame and embarrassment school can hold and therefore did not realize the full extent of viciousness and cruelty a pack of 5th grade girls could administer to someone doing anything they deemed “different.” Had I known, I might have saved myself a lot of pain.

Unfortunately, as I said, I was still innocent to those realities, which is how I found myself waiting in the hallway to perform what could only be described as a failed attempt at modern interpretive dance.

You’ll be relieved to know that some level of self preservation eventually kicked in and allowed me to completely block out that three minute performance from my memory. Which is for the best because if the class mean girls’ reactions were indicative of anything, I have a strong feeling that it closely resembled the dance one does when they walk through a spider's web.

(If by chance you’re thinking this taught me to never perform dance in public again, you would be correct, but sadly I attended a fine arts school so I was subjected to that particular horror for many more years. I tried to think of it as character building as opposed to context for future therapy.)

Balloon Animals

August 22, 2022 in SUGAR & VICE

Courtney Khail, Sugar & Vice In Process Photo

Balloon Animals

In 7th grade I went to the birthday party for a girl from class.

As you could imagine, it was an awkward setting; various groups of kids mostly separated by gender, all standing around trying to seem cooler and less insecure than they actually were.

I remember not knowing if I should hang out inside the house or if I should stay outside. It was a small house so inside felt oddly intimate and I wasn’t really that close to the birthday girl, but outside felt a bit feral. Almost like we were a box of stray cats left on the doorstep. But not cute little kittens, no- full grown alley cats. All skittish and confused and kind of in heat. (I would argue that this description applies to all middle school functions if we are being honest.)

I picked outside.

A few hours passed before one by one kids started to disappear into their arriving parent’s cars. To pass the time before we all were picked up, an impromptu game of “don’t let the balloon touch the ground” started. While not the most thrilling or creative game, it checked the two most important boxes- something to do with your hands and limited eye contact. Eventually my own mom pulled up and I jumped into the front seat holding one of the remaining balloons.

“What’s that?” she asked.

Oh my poor mom. If only she could have known where that question would bring us. I’m guessing she thought it was straight forward. Maybe even a way to break the ice and get me to talk about the party. She was in no way prepared for my response.

“My friend Rebecca* called it a dildo balloon.”

I should make it clear that I had absolutely no clue what that word meant, but as anyone who has ever survived middle school will tell you- you do not ask questions. Questions mean you do not know something and not knowing makes you weak and vulnerable. Of course, not asking questions can backfire. For example, you might find your 12 year old self in the front seat of your mom’s Oldsmobile using the word “dildo” as casually as if you’d asked “what’s for dinner?”

Some of you may be thinking “what a great segway into talking about sex and feminism and choice” but let me stop you right there. Gentle parenting wasn’t a thing yet and Georgia was a red state.

No, instead a look of shame, shock, and disgust overcame my mother’s face.

“We do not use that word.”

That response brought far more questions than answers, but the combination of her tone and facial expression (the same ones used when talking about “those girls”) confirmed the conversation was over and I would have to come up with those conclusions on my own. Here’s where I landed:

I was totally right not to admit ignorance in front of my friends because they obviously possessed information I couldn’t even begin to comprehend.
Never use real names in your stories. People will remember them and not allow them to come over anymore.
Dildos are bad.

Surprisingly, even after all these years, I find that one of those lessons still serves me well today.

*names have been changed to protect the innocent

No Intermission

August 22, 2022 in SUGAR & VICE

No Intermission

When it comes to “becoming a woman,” I always wished to be a late bloomer. I’d heard the stories about girls who didn’t get their periods until they were seventeen or older, but they all seemed to be gymnasts and seeing how I’d gotten kicked out of gymnastics when I wasn’t able to do a back handspring, that path seemed unlikely. (The YMCA doesn’t use the words “kicked out” but I’m pretty sure that is exactly what “unable to be promoted to the next class” means.)

Regardless, I still held out hope that somehow my genes and my hormones would come together and decide that after braces, and breakouts, and glasses, I had obviously suffered enough and they could afford to grant me a slight reprieve.

But genes are stubborn and hormones are jerks, so they completely ignored my request. More accurately, they waited just long enough to make me think my request had been granted before ruining my life five months after I turned fourteen.

By that time, I’d naively let myself believe that I would escape the curse for another school year and pushed the thought to the back of my mind. Which is exactly why I found myself sitting in the bathroom, rage-reading Tampax’s instructional pamphlet while my sister shouted up to me that we were going to be late to school.

I was vastly unprepared- both for the physical acrobatics I managed to accomplish that morning, but also for the feelings of utter disappointment over my own body’s betrayal.

Was there seriously no warning? No intermission? No last hurrah for girlhood?

Nope. Just the realization that before that moment I could wear white jeans with reckless abandonment and now, for one week a month, three months out of every year, I would join every other woman in having to act like everything was fine, while in reality I teetered precipitously between screaming and crying, popped ibuprofen like it was candy, and had the distinct feeling that despite what anyone said to the contrary, my uterus was in fact trying to kill me from the inside out. Or at the very least, it was trying to escape.

I should have just learned to do the damn back handspring.

Boys Will Be Boys

August 22, 2022 in SUGAR & VICE

Courtney Khail Southern contemporary watercolor artist Sugar & Vice — Courtney Khail “Boys Will Be Boys” Original painting, 18”x24”, watercolors, inks, and graphite on paper. Part of the 2022 Sugar & Vice Collection

Boys Will Be Boys

It never made sense to me why adults would say if a boy from school was mean to me, it meant that he liked me. That is a terrible lesson that only normalizes bad behavior.

The only thing it means when a boy is being mean to someone is that they are emotionally immature assholes (and are probably being raised by them as well.)

You know how boys showed me they liked me in elementary school? They didn’t make fun of me or push me down, no, they bought me presents.

Take for example Benjamin from my second grade class. Once a week for about a month, Benjamin brought me a candy bar. And not just any candy bar, a full sized cookies and mint Hershey bar.

This wasn’t just some leftover Halloween candy he scrounged up. He actually had to ask his mom to buy this specifically from the grocery store.

This showed that Benjamin was not an asshole. That he knew to be nice and thoughtful to the people he liked. And what does that say about his parents?

Correct.

That they were dentists and had effectively found a way to drum up business at our elementary school.

The lesson here? It’s never too early to have your kids bring in new clients for the family business. (Also that if someone likes you, they will be nice to you.)

Stories People Tell

August 22, 2022 in SUGAR & VICE

Stories People Tell

My first sexual experience was the rumor you spread about me. First about a boy, then a teacher. Vile and malicious and calculated; hurtful for nothing but the sake of hurting.

I was only eleven years old.

Only eleven when I learned to distrust girlfriends. To build up walls, never to open up, to hide any vulnerabilities.

I was only eleven, but to this day I’m still haunted by the memory of how it feels walking into a room where you had just been the topic of conversation. The unnatural silence, the chill, the lack of eye contact.

While I may not have had the sex you claimed I did, I lost my innocence nonetheless.

Skorts, Shorts, and Mini Skirts

August 22, 2022 in SUGAR & VICE

Courtney Khail contemporary watercolor artist _ Sugar and Vice — Courtney Khail “Skorts, Shorts, and Mini Skirts” Original painting, 18”x24”, watercolors, inks, and graphite on paper. Part of the 2022 Sugar & Vice Collection

Skorts, Shorts, and Miniskirts

I was thirty years old when you suggested I might be too old to wear a mini skirt. (Note, I was wearing a mini skirt at the time of that comment.) A bigger person might have let that go, but for the next year I took extra care to ensure I was always wearing a mini skirt (or at least shorts) whenever I knew you would see me. Call it delayed teenage rebellion, but with each shortened hemline I protested years of frustration over hypocrisy.

Because no one told the boys to cross their legs;

To brush their hair or dress their age.

They didn’t stress that the boys be home by eleven,

Or taught them to walk with their keys between their fingers like Wolverine,

To check their backseat, or under the car.

To always park by a light, but never by a van.

They didn’t tell the boys to behave

Or even to look away

Instead they made us cover up (as if our shoulders were some sort of moral kryptonite.)

They told us no one buys the cow when they can get the milk for free,

But never once told the boys not to expect free milk.

(Or better yet, that we weren’t cows.)

Instead y’all told us to behave

To bite our tongues and sit up straight.

To always smile, to never be late.

Said to be confident, but not too pushy

Be smart, but not intimidating

Be funny, but not too loud

Be sexy, but not a slut.

But I’m tired of the double standards. Of living in fear of being too much.

So I’ll wear the skirt or dye my hair. And speak my mind and do as I dare.

Gold Star Dependent

August 22, 2022 in SUGAR & VICE

Gold Star Dependent

My parents gifted me pearls for my college graduation.

Beautiful and elegant, pearls often mark momentous occasions for Southern women. There was only one problem though- I hate pearls. While some women could make wearing pearls seem effortless, or even trendy, they made me feel like I was playing dress up- acting out a role that never really fit.

Growing up, I’d been a people pleaser- the straight A student, the teacher’s pet, the kid deemed “mature for their age.” Oftentimes my life felt chaotic and I had learned it was easier to placate those around me than create waves. And nothing placated adults quite like “being the best.” With every gold star, or ribbon, or accomplishment I earned, I was showered with praise. So much so that eventually being an overachiever became my de facto personality.

That is until the summer of 2006 when I studied abroad in Italy. Thousands of miles away from most everyone who knew me, my true self began to emerge. I began recognizing all of the compromises I’d made in order to live up to others expectations. How often I sacrificed my own happiness and wants, in order to do what seemed right, or smart, or mature. How often I adopted other people's opinions simply because I mistakenly believed they knew better than me. At first I was ticked off. Infuriated with myself for not seeing it sooner. For not fighting back more.

But then I wouldn’t have been me, right? Without the pressure and discomfort, without the growth and self reflection, I never would have made it to that moment of clarity.

It was this thought that crossed my mind a full year later as I was looking at those pearls. How a random speck, something not part of the plan, had been transformed into something so beautiful. How it happened time and time again to create enough pearls to even form this necklace. And more importantly, just how similar that felt to my own story and transformation.
Of course I didn’t say any of that when I opened the gift because that may have made me sound crazy, or worse, have been misconstrued as ingratitude, so I simply said “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”