When Marikit first unwrapped the Christmas-themed wrapping paper, the Barbie that she found peeking from inside the box seemed to shine. Compared to her dollar store and Goodwill dolls and stuffed animals, Barbie was beautiful. The light bounced off the doll’s blonde hair and smooth body, her pink glittering princess dress showing off her figure. Barbie even came with accessories—a pale pink tiara, plastic jewelry, and a small heart-shaped hairbrush. The cardboard box displayed a colorful, summery scene with a castle in the background and the title of the latest Barbie movie all her female classmates wanted to see.
Barbie looked like all the pretty ladies on TV, the ones with handsome boyfriends and husbands. Barbie looked like her classmates, the ones with big houses and laughing families.
She didn’t look like Marikit.
“What do you say, anak?” Mama said, patting Marikit’s shoulder.
She looked up from Barbie, glancing first to Mama, dressed in a deep red dress she got from Goodwill, then to Mrs. Angela, the mom of her classmate Neveah and the one who organized the school’s annual Christmas fundraiser dinner. Mrs. Angela smiled down at Marikit, nude-painted lips matching her long, champagne gold dress.
Marikit looked back down at Barbie, taking in her pink-painted smile. Mama said that girls were prettiest when they smiled.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling.
*
In their apartment’s small kitchen, Marikit heard Mama sigh. Peeking from over the worn couch, Marikit saw Mama leaning over the kitchen counter. Her dark hair fell gracelessly from her bun, tickling the shoulders of the scrubs she had yet to change out of. If Marikit moved a little to the left, she would be able to spot the bit of vomit still staining Mama’s shirt, which she got from a client at the care home.
Mama shuffled some papers and bills, rubbing at her dull, paint-less face as she spoke with Tita Meldy over the phone. Although Marikit couldn’t hear what Tita Meldy was saying, she could guess by Mama’s response and frustrated paper shuffling.
I sent money this month to help pay for ‘tay’s medical expenses, and the next balikbayan box will be on its way soon.
*
On the TV, a commercial came on. Another Barbie-lady appeared in what looked like a clean white bathroom. She almost looked like Mama, with a similar face shape and features, but with paler skin and shiny light brown hair. Behind her were white walls with colorful paintings, and beside her a white granite countertop with a deep, spotless sink. It reminded Marikit of the bathroom she saw when she was invited to Neveah’s house for her birthday party—the one with the tub that felt so large she was sure she could swim in it.
The Barbie-lady looked to the camera from over her shoulder, her body turned to face the sink and mirror. She smiled, pink-painted lips promising some sort of secret, like how Neveah would turn to the other girls in their class during break or recess, standing in the corner of the playground, away from everyone else playing kickball or tag.
Sorry, Mary-kit, Neveah would say, enunciating the harsh a and r the way everyone knew annoyed Marikit, the way Marikit was too tired to keep correcting. She would put on a smile Marikit knew was fake, the kind adults only showed to little kids when they thought the kids wouldn’t understand something.
Only pretty girls get to know.
In the commercial, the Barbie-lady turned to face her reflection in the mirror, but kept her eyes on the camera. Here, she seemed to say, bringing out a small opaque tub. She unscrewed the top, revealing a white cream, and brought the opened tub next to her face. Her light brown, bouncing hair framed her sharp jawline and accentuated her rosy cheeks and big, bright eyes.
Using two fingers, she dabbed some of the white cream and rubbed it onto her already white, shiny skin in gentle circular motions.
Do this, Barbie said, smiling. Be beautiful.
*
When the next rainy day came, Marikit brought Barbie to school. Whenever it rained, they would have their break indoors during the afterschool extended care, and she remembered Neveah and the other girls would bring their own Barbies to play with. They would play together, exchanging clothes and accessories, performing fantasies with princesses and fairies and someone falling in love with one of the girl’s Ken dolls (which the girls named Eric, after the most popular boy in the class). Of course, it was always Neveah’s Barbie that Eric-Ken would fall in love with, because Neveah always had the prettiest and newest Barbie. She would always take the prettiest and flashiest clothes and accessories before the other girls could blink.
Usually, Marikit wasn’t allowed to join them—only girls with Barbies of their own could join. There weren’t enough Barbies to go around, of course. But now Marikit had her own Barbie, one of the newest ones, too, not some knock-off from the dollar store or something dirty and used from Goodwill. Neveah would have to let her join.
Once snack time was over and they were transitioning into break, everyone rushed to their backpacks hanging along the side wall to grab their toys and hand-held game consoles. Usually, Marikit would borrow a book from the shelves in the back corner and read silently, but this time she joined the throng of students bustling about their bags. After unzipping her second-hand backpack, she carefully took out Barbie and walked over to the other side of the room where Neveah and her friends began another fantasy romance.
“Hey, Neveah,” Marikit said, standing beside the circle of girls. They all turned to look at her, Neveah’s face pinching distastefully.
“What, Mary-kit?”
“Can I play with you guys?”
“We don’t have enough Barbies.”
One of the other girls laughed. “That’s right.”
“It’s not fair for you to play if you don’t have a Barbie,” someone else said. “You need to get a Barbie first.”
“But I have a Barbie,” Marikit said, holding out her Barbie for the other girls to see. They all looked at Marikit’s Barbie, dumbstruck.
“That’s the newest princess Barbie!” one of the girls exclaimed, cueing all of them to crowd around Marikit. “Even Neveah doesn’t have this Barbie yet.”
“So, what,” Neveah said, scoffing. She broke through the group and grabbed Marikit’s Barbie, holding the doll away from Marikit. “I didn’t even want this one. It’s not as pretty as my Barbies.”
“Hey!” Marikit tried to reach for her Barbie. “Give it back.”
“You’re right,” one of the other girls said, taking the Barbie before Marikit could grab it. “Mary-kit’s looks like a copy-cat.”
“That’s because Mary-kit is a copy-cat!” They laughed at the joke, passing around the Barbie and keeping it away from Marikit.
“Mary-kit’s Barbie looks cheaper and uglier than our Barbies.”
“Like Mary-kit!”
“Yeah!”
“She doesn’t even look like a real Barbie.”
“She shouldn’t get to play with Barbie.”
“We should make her Barbie look like her,” Neveah said, Barbie back in her hands. She ran to her bag while the other girls crowded around, shielding her from Marikit, who kept begging the blonde girl to give her back her Barbie.
Neveah took out her pink plastic pencil case and grabbed some markers. Using an orange marker, she colored all over Barbie’s face, turning the doll’s pale skin into an ugly false tan. She then used a black marker, coloring in Barbie’s eyes and drawing over her eyelids, pointing the outside ends up in mock squints. Finally, she grabbed a purple marker and drew Barbie’s pink-painted smile into a sad, flat, purple line.
“There,” Neveah said, smiling triumphantly. She threw the vandalized Barbie back at Marikit’s feet as the other girls laughed around her. “Now Mary-kit actually looks like Barbie.”
*
In the bathroom, Marikit’s hands shook as she held her defaced Barbie. One of the teenage extended care volunteers, Miss Bea, stood beside her. After Neveah had thrown her Barbie to the floor, Mrs. Lauren, the lady in charge of the extended care, had rushed over to find out why they were being so loud. With one glance at Marikit’s Barbie and face, she called over Miss Bea to take Marikit to the bathroom while she scolded Neveah and the other girls.
“Are you okay, Marikit?” Miss Bea asked, bending down to inspect Marikit’s distraught face. She gently brushed a hand through the younger girl’s curls to keep them from sticking to her tear-streaked cheeks.
Marikit shook her head, refusing to look anywhere except at the dirty turquoise tiles lining the floor. “Neveah ruined my Barbie.”
“I’m so sorry,” Miss Bea said, voice sincere. “Is it all right if I take a look at Barbie?”
The younger girl shook her head again. She didn’t want anyone to see how ugly her Barbie became. “She’s not pretty anymore.”
“Maybe I can make Barbie pretty again?”
“How?”
Miss Bea held out her hand, smiling softly to Marikit. “Can I show you?”
Marikit looked at Miss Bea’s hand and smile. Like Neveah and the ladies on TV, Miss Bea had pale skin, but her hair and eyes were dark like Marikit’s. What could Miss Bea do to make Barbie pretty again?
She hesitantly handed Barbie to Miss Bea. She watched silently as the young woman used a dampened strip of paper towel, mixed in a drop of soap, and gently dabbed at Barbie’s marker-stained face. It reminded Marikit of the commercial she saw on TV, the one of the brunette Barbie-lady and the white cream. Steadily, the marker ink began to rub off, and Barbie’s pale skin, blue eyes, and pink-painted smile peaked through.
“See?” Miss Bea said, handing Barbie back to Marikit after patting the doll’s face dry. “Thankfully, Neveah used washable markers. Now, Barbie’s pretty again.”
Marikit stared at her newly cleaned and once again pretty Barbie.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling.
*
Mrs. Lauren had told all the girls’ parents and guardians what had happened. Mama was one of the last to be told since Marikit was one of the last of the children to be picked up from extended care. As she had stood next to Miss Bea, Marikit bit the inside of her cheek, wondering how Mama would react.
She hadn’t expected her to be silent on the way home, quiet over dinner.
Marikit refused to look at Mama, whose eyes she could feel from the kitchen counter across the room. If it wasn’t for her older brother running into the bathroom to take the first shower after their meal, Marikit would’ve already been secured behind the lockable door, away from Mama’s bloodshot eyes. To keep preoccupied, she filled the balikbayan box with cans of SPAM and Vienna Sausage, boxes of Dove soap bars, taped-over bottles of shampoo and conditioner, folded clothes from brands like Nike and Adidas and The North Face that Marikit was too small to fit. If she looked like she was busy, like the dried tears on her cheeks were the last of her crying, then maybe Mama wouldn’t ask her about what happened to Barbie. She didn’t want the frown on Mama’s face to deepen.
“Anak,” Mama said. Marikit paused when she heard the chair screech against the linoleum kitchen floor, but quickly resumed her packing. This balikbayan box would have to leave soon—Mama already promised Tita Meldy and her cousins it was on its way.
“Anak,” Mama tried again, squatting in front of Marikit and the cardboard box. “Please tell me what happened.”
Hearing the sad note in Mama’s voice, Marikit chanced a glance up at Mama. She saw how her dark hair still fell out of her bun and framed her dark, worn face. She saw the defined wrinkles lining her forehead, the dark bags weighing down her slanted eyes, the flat, red-rubbed nose above the deep-set creases emphasizing her unpainted, chapped, frowning mouth.
Marikit couldn’t remember the last time she saw Mama smile.
A click from her right signaled her brother had finished his shower. Before Mama could say anything, Marikit was already locking the bathroom door.
*
Barbie sat on the small beige counter beside the bathroom sink. Marikit stared at the toothpaste-stained mirror, comparing her reflection to Barbie’s. Her dark hair coiled around her face like the Jack in the Box curly fries she ate for dinner. She rubbed at her wide, flat nose and squinted her eyes, the way Neveah drew on Barbie earlier that afternoon.
Marikit couldn’t find any white cream, so she took the soap bar and scrubbed it against her face. Even if it wasn’t cream, it was white—it should have been enough, like the soap Miss Bea used to clean Barbie’s face.
But her face was still dark.
Why wasn’t she beautiful yet?
She kept scrubbing, harder and harder, wanting her skin to dissolve like the marker ink on Barbie’s face, to reveal a paler, prettier, happier Marikit.
Why wasn’t she beautiful yet?
Looking at Barbie, at her reflection, she felt frustration fester in her stomach.
Why wasn’t she beautiful yet?
Her face was still dark. Instead of turning white and pretty and happy, it only stung and turned a deep, ugly red.
She would never be beautiful.
And her stomach burned, the way it did earlier that day when Neveah desecrated Barbie. The way it did weeks ago when she saw the blank look on Mama’s face when Mrs. Angela had first given Marikit Barbie, had told Mama, I know how difficult it can be for people in your situation to balance work and your family’s happiness.
Grabbing Barbie, she gripped her hard until her small brown hand shook white—and slammed the doll into her reflection. She screamed, tears furiously streaking her stinging face, as she slammed Barbie against her reflection, over and over, until the glass cracked and she couldn’t recognize her image anymore—until Barbie’s pink-painted face was dripping red.
The door slammed open, and Mama was taking Marikit’s trembling body into her brown arms and carrying her away from the shards littering the bathroom counter and floor. Marikit pressed her face into Mama’s scrubs, not wanting her to see Marikit’s ugly face.
She saw Mama’s tears, Mama’s forever frown, heard her crying—Bakit? Bakit?—and her stomach burned more. She just wanted to be beautiful for Mama. She just wanted her to smile.