So this is me.

I think this every time I see my reflection. Not in a Damn, that’s me way, but more like Huh. Okay. What have we got here? I lean in, trying to put the pieces of my face together.

The guy in the mirror isn’t bad-looking—high cheekbones, strong jaw, a mouth that’s hitched up at one corner like he just got done telling a joke. Somewhere in the neighborhood of pretty. The way he tilts his head back and gazes out through half-open eyelids makes it seem like he’s used to looking down on everyone, like he’s smart and he knows he’s smart, and then it hits me that what he really looks like is an asshole. Except for the eyes themselves. They’re too serious and there are circles under them, like he hasn’t slept. He’s wearing the same Superman shirt I’ve been wearing all summer.

What does this mouth (Mom’s) mean with this nose (also Mom’s) and these eyes (a combination of Mom’s and Dad’s)? My eyebrows are darker than my hair but they aren’t as dark as Dad’s. My skin is a kind of middle brown color, not dark like Mom’s, and not light like Dad’s.

The other thing that doesn’t match up here is the hair. It’s this enormous lion’s mane Afro that looks like it’s allowed to do whatever the fuck it wants. If he’s anything like me, the guy in the mirror calculates everything. Even though this hair cannot be contained, he’s grown it for a reason. So he can find himself.

Something about the way these features add up is how people find each other in the world. Something about the combination makes them go, There’s Jack Masselin.

“What’s your identifier?” I say to my reflection, and I mean the real identifier, not this giant lion fro. I’m having a right serious moment, but then I hear a distinct snicker, and a tall, skinny blur goes breezing by. That would be my brother Marcus.

“My name’s Jack and I’m so pretty,” he sings all the way down the stairs.

Top 5 Most Embarrassing Moments of My Life

by Jack Masselin

That time my mom picked me up from kindergarten (after getting her hair cut), and in front of my teacher, the other kids, the other parents, and the principal, I accused her of trying to kidnap me.

That time I joined the pickup (uniform-free) soccer game at Reynolds Park and passed every ball to the opposite team, setting the all-time park record for Most Disastrous and Humiliating Debut Ever.

That time I’d been working with our high school sports therapist because of a shoulder injury, and, in the middle of Walmart, told the man I thought was my baseball coach, I could use another massage, only to discover it was actually Mr. Temple, Mom’s boss.

That time I hit on Jesselle Villegas, and it turned out to be Miss Arbulata, substitute teacher.

That time I made out with Caroline Lushamp and it was actually her cousin.

I don’t have my license, so Dad drives me. One of the many, many things I get to look forward to this school year is driver’s ed. I wait for my father to offer me sage words of advice or a stirring pep talk, but the most he comes up with is “You got this, Libbs. I’ll be here to pick you up when it’s over.” And the way he says it sounds ominous, like we’re in the opening scene of a horror movie. Then he gives me a smile, which is the kind of smile they would teach you in a parenting video. It’s a nervous smile taped up at the corners. I smile back.

What if I get stuck behind a desk? What if I have to eat lunch alone and no one talks to me for the rest of the school year?

My dad is a big, handsome guy. Salt of the earth. Smart (he does IT security for a big-name computer company). Smushy heart. After they freed me from the house, he had a hard time of it. As awful as it was for me, I think it was worse for him, especially the accusations of neglect and abuse. The press couldn’t imagine how else I would have been allowed to get so big. They didn’t know about the doctors he took me to and the diets we tried, even as he was mourning the loss of his wife. They didn’t see the food I hid from him under my bed and deep in the shadows of my closet. They couldn’t know that once I make up my mind about something, I’m going to do it. And I’d made up my mind to eat.

At first, I refused to talk to reporters, but at some point I needed to show the world that I’m okay and that my dad isn’t the villain they made him out to be, stuffing me with candy and cake in an effort to keep me there and dependent on him like those girls from The Virgin Suicides. So against my dad’s wishes I did one interview with a news station out of Chicago, and that interview traveled all the way to Europe and Asia and back again.

You see, my whole world changed when I was ten. My mom died, which was traumatic enough, but then the bullying started. It didn’t help that I developed early and that all at once my body felt too big for me. I’m not saying I blame my classmates. After all, we were kids. But I just want to make it clear that there were multiple factors at work—the bullying coupled with the loss of my most important person, followed by the panic attacks whenever I had to leave my house. Through it all, my dad was the one who stood by me.

I say to my dad now, “Did you know that Pauline Potter, the World’s Heaviest Woman, lost ninety-eight pounds having marathon sex?”

“No sex of any kind for you until you’re thirty.”

I think, We’ll see. After all, miracles happen every day. Which means maybe those kids who were so hateful to me on the playground have grown up and realized the error of their ways. Maybe they’ve actually turned out to be nice. Or maybe they’re even meaner. Every book I read and movie I watch seems to give out the same message: high school is the worst experience you can ever have.