Elizabeth Lee

Mini-Mini

Mini-Mini, they call her, because she is small (oh so mini!), and because her name is Minhee, which is totally the same, so she takes it as a compliment, the attention and the nickname, and who in their four-year-old mind wouldn’t, under the electric gaze of Amelia Rose?

Amelia Rose of the blonde hair and blue eyes, Amelia Rose of the smattering of freckles she will laser off when she is eighteen only to pencil back in two years later when it’s in vogue, Amelia Rose of the fuzzy ballpoint pens and the monogrammed backpack and the mom in ass-flattering jeans…everyone knows Amelia Rose—or wants to. The Amelia Rose everyone knows turns to Minhee on the first day of kindergarten and demands, “What’s your name?” then announces, “That’s funny because you’re so mini! Mini Minhee!” And in that moment, somewhere in that young, unmolded brain of hers Minhee knows she can either be Mini Minhee

so cute and teeny! or Mini Minhee so dumb and silly, and at the formative age of four years old, she decides her social trajectory.

Mini Minhee, drawn, like all the kids, to Amelia Rose like a fly to a peach, takes pride in accompanying her as an honored guest on the bus ride home. Expelling warm breath on the window, cool to the touch, they press sticky fingers to the fogged pane, trace initials in blocky, newly developed handwriting: AR+MM, encase them in a heart, a glass contract, and as the bus rolls to a stop, add one final abbreviation: “Minhee is too hard to say—I’ll just call you Mini. Mini-Mini!” She lets the name swallow her the way she allows the two-story colonial to ingest her beyond its tall cherry wood door, enveloped in the scent of Yankee Candle Sage and Citrus burning on the marble countertop, inundated with Cosmic Brownies, Polly Pockets, and the perfumed glamor of Amelia Rose’s mother for the first time.

In Amelia Rose’s bedroom, Mini Minhee completes her transformation, donning Mini-Mini alongside dress-up clothes—embraces it, even, the same way she embraces Amelia Rose’s three-pack Lip Smackers (“You can have the Cotton Candy, I don’t like it”), matching fluffy earmuffs more decorative than functional, the “Friends” half of the split pavé heart necklace announcing “Best Friends” like an oath. Week by week, chapstick by chapstick, Mini-Mini renounces afternoons watching Teletubbies beside her drooly baby brother, her mother’s meals of stews and rice, lackluster T-shirts from color-tag sales at Goodwill, opting instead to be the Polly to Amelia Rose’s bedazzled pocket.

Wasn’t it a good idea, Mini-Mini, to link yourself so completely, so inextricably, at so young an age, with Amelia Rose? What tact, what foresight! Everyone loves Amelia Rose, and Mini-Mini by proxy, because Amelia Rose won’t go anywhere without her Mini-Mini, not to ballet class or birthday parties, so over the years Mini-Mini learns to plié and all the variations of “Happy Birthday”; she sits with the popular kids and looks down her peanut butter and jelly sandwich at the sad little peanut-free table, holds court beside Amelia Rose at recess, perches with her on the school bus’s back seat like it’s their throne. But have you considered what happens, Mini-Mini, when Amelia Rose is sick in bed, when Amelia Rose isn’t there to amass the masses, when the recess court falls into recess? Look there, on the periphery of the playground, seven years old and small as ever, Mini-Mini digging her hands in her puffer coat pockets, dragging her light-up tennis shoes through the flaking mulch, wondering, who am I without Amelia Rose?

Don’t worry, Mini-Mini, your time has come to shine…as Sacagawea in the fourth-grade play—the Virgin Mary exoticized, guiding Lewis and Clark through Native lands purchase from France by the U.S. government. Not exactly the role you were born for, but this history unit doesn’t feature Hart-Celler, and how can you complain? Mini-Mini, always cast as Unnamed Tree or Villager Number Three, you are now essential, you are indispensable to the colonial cause. Watch out, though, because Lewis and Clark had no wives on expedition, and when Amelia Rose can’t have the spotlight, she will find a way to take it. Watch out, because Clark

had a soft spot for Sacagawea, and, well, Justin makes a fine Clark, doesn’t he? That’s what Amelia Rose whispers in your ear, like a secret: Isn’t Justin great, isn’t he the perfect Clark, dazzling onstage? Mini-Mini, you hadn’t even considered it, but now you see how Justin dominates the spotlight, how when you hold hands for curtain call, his fingers are soft and warm—“But wait and see,” Amelia Rose whispers backstage after the show, “one day I’m going to marry him.”

Mini-Mini, dumb and pretty, who needs brains when you have boys? Flocking around you like birds to bread, cramming your head with sixth-grade crushes. But soon you learn what “crush” actually means when you realize who they’re really flocking to, when Amelia Rose, true to her name, counts a dozen red blossoms by the final bell on Valentine’s Day (one from Justin among them) while in your fist dangles one thorny yellow bud, compliments of “Amelia Rose,” ever the thoughtful one. And you, Mini-Mini, replete with envy, you are the bad friend.

Just look how Amelia Rose adores you, showers you with boundless love: “I’m not complete without my Mini-Mini,” or, “Mini-Mini, you have such beautiful eyes!” or, “Mini-Mini, I want your skin.” This at age twelve, when Amelia Rose sports an inflamed zit on her

chin, monstrous and nearly sentient, untamable despite layers of concealer. “Mini-Mini, how do you maintain such flawless skin?” How indeed, when beneath that polished exterior she nurses such an ugly bitterness? Although Amelia Rose has traded Lip Smackers for lip gloss, earmuffs for short skirts, she still buys sets of two, and Mini-Mini, clinging to Amelia Rose’s elbow, knows she has no right to hope that chin zit leaves a scar. Mini-Mini, cast off your prejudices, set aside your jealousies—not everyone has the privilege of being as selfless, as generous as Amelia Rose.

By fourteen, Mini-Mini grows boobs, soft and round, and everyone wants those, too. Her full breasts and slim waist and curved thighs—everyone wants a piece of Mini-Mini. She imagines herself carved up like a continent, each peer allocated a portion. Her eyes to Melanie, her skin to Amelia Rose, one boob each to Delilah and Delaney—Mini-Mini, your body isn’t yours; your body only matters when other people covet it.

And covet they do. The girls never satisfied, the boys always craving more, and look: there’s Justin, that perfect Mr. Clark, grown taller and broader and maybe a bit hotter, staring at Sacagawea as if for the first time, as if she is the land and he is charting unexplored territory, as though he is the U.S. government taking her from France—though what claim did France have

over her in the first place? Why does she feel compelled, when Amelia Rose whispers in her ear as Justin passes by, “I think he likes you,” to shake her head in reply, not even trying to claim anything for herself?

“You can tell me the truth,” Amelia Rose wheedles, cajoles. “Come on, Mini my Mini, I won’t be mad.” Because, don’t you know, Mini-Mini, what is yours actually belongs to Amelia Rose; what you have is just a loan she will collect in due time. No hard feelings, and don’t get me wrong—Amelia Rose loves you. But there is love and there is love, and they are not the same. “Mini-Mini, be honest. I bet he’d take you to prom, if I asked him to.” But who is asking who for permission? When you said no, did you think Amelia Rose would listen?

Convincing herself it’s fate, not conspiracy, Mini-Mini says yes when Justin asks her to junior prom, basking in her illicit victory, sweeter than a hundred red roses. Says yes when Amelia Rose, ever generous, lends her a thigh-slitted number; yes to the flask in Justin’s jacket; yes to just one dance—or maybe two or three—as she spies Amelia Rose on the sidelines, preparing to take what’s hers, and suddenly grows greedy; yes to a kiss, the vindictive burn of it as Amelia Rose stands witness; yes to Justin’s breath, whiskey-soaked and hot on her ear: “Do you want to get out of here?” And by the time they reach his little black Audi, it’s too late to say no: no to his hand at the base of her neck, fingers fumbling her zipper; no to the backseat of his car; no to his tongue on her teeth, his tongue in between, his tongue in unexplored territory—no, no, no, but all he hears is oh, oh, oh; all he hears is welcome in and I’ll take your coat and dominate me like a spotlight, take me like a country. Mini-Mini, hands gripping backseat leather, don’t you remember, your body does not belong to you, and how can someone steal from you what was never yours?

Mini-Mini, slim and slutty—“Did you see that dress she wore to prom?”—whispers follow her down the hall. Finding her footing, no elbow to cling to, Mini-Mini confronts Amelia Rose, prepared to accuse, “You told him to take me, you told him I was easy”—but for the first time in thirteen years, Amelia Rose turns up her nose at her dear Mini-Mini, eyes narrowed and calculating, voice like a punchline: “I can’t believe you fucked him.”

Oh, Mini-Mini, didn’t you know? Friendship only lasts when Amelia Rose wants it. Mini-Mini, call it foul play, but we both know you wanted to play the game, though Amelia Rose was playing a longer one. Walking the school halls Mini-Mini thought she once ruled, attentions glance off of her, glance through her, a spectre. Who are you when no one sees you, when you are on the playground but not worth playing? The verdict’s in: cheap ugly whore dumb bitch tacky lying slutty backstabber—I’d tell you not to listen to them, but then how will I make you believe your eyes really are beautiful?

Mini-Mini of the beautiful eyes cries like she didn’t see it coming. Tell me honestly: Did you not see it when they scrapped you for parts; did you not see it when they called it Lewis and Clark; did you not see it, Mini-Mini, when Amelia Rose thrust “Friends” into your face, that fracture-hearted “Best” already dangling from her neck, or even further back, that very first day in kindergarten, when she asked you for your name and turned it into her own?

When you have only been violated, it’s hard to distinguish it from love, and sometimes, though I hate to say it, they’re very nearly the same. Just look at Amelia Rose, on Justin’s arm at last, where she always knew she belonged, and yet—she glances twice when you pass by. Amelia Rose in the school bathroom, age twelve, skin plastered with concealer, presses her mascara wand to your lash line: “Pull it up, like this, so it’ll stand.” Amelia Rose, watching from the wings as you guide Clark to the sea, clutching “Best” at her throat like it will choke her, claps the loudest of all when it’s your turn to bow.

Amelia Rose reigns alone now, seated atop a cafeteria table, forgetting she ever shared the throne with another, while Mini-Mini eats her peanut butter and jelly on a toilet seat in a stall—Does it get better? Will it ever?

Mini-Mini, take it from me: It will and it won’t. The world is full of Amelia Roses and the fact is, you’re lucky you’ve only encountered one. Mini-Mini, out of the millions of Justins, at least this one stopped when you aimed your stiletto at his crotch. Mini-Mini, sometimes you’ll look back on those disposable camera photos of you and Amelia Rose, limbs entwined and laughing, and find that the good outweighed the bad. Other times, you’ll touch your half-hearted “Friends” necklace and wish you never met Amelia Rose in kindergarten, you never heard her question, she never asked it at all.

But believe me, Mini-Mini, your story is just beginning. Because you are me. Mini me. As you grow older, Mini Minhee, you will meet new Amelia Roses and encounter more Justins, but you will start to hesitate when she touches your name, when he reaches for your hand. You will stop shrinking away from the spotlight and start choosing your own roles. And one day, you’ll find that you don’t feel small at all—you know your body like a well-loved map, you know when to say yes and no, and when they demand, “What’s your name?” you pull yourself up, like this. You stand and say, “I’m Minhee.”