I wanted to see if I could pass as someone who belongs.
Alright, Mariely, Jelly Belly. Pretend you are a person who has friends. You can send this text message. It’s fine. They don’t know you don’t have friends. It’s fine.
This is for a school event. A dinner thing. Auction, wine, the kind of room where the social part is silent but feral. You’re good at silent but feral.
Maybe.
I typed the message, and pressed send.
Mariel: Hey, this is Mariel McCann. Are you guys going to the PTA thing?
Clayton’s Mom: Hey, we are! Are you?
Mariel: Yes! I feel like my outfit is a tiny bit slutty. There is some boob on display.
Can I show you and you tell me if people are going to talk shit about me in the bathroom?
Clayton’s Mom: Yep!!
Clayton’s Mom: Send it over! I am sure you look hot!
I sent her the sixth picture I took of myself, the one where I cut off my head, because what the hell is your face supposed to look like when you show someone an outfit?
Duckface isn’t a thing anymore, right?
It should be.
Life was easier then.
Or maybe I was just thinner.
My outfit was a deep plum mesh top layered over a fitted camisole —low-cut, sheer enough to hint, structured enough to hold.
The sleeves are long and translucent, soft against the skin, but not precious. The top meets a pair of high-waisted, dark-wash jeans with dramatic seams and wide belt loops—structured, unapologetic, and just wrinkled enough to signal real life. A black belt cinched tight at the waist, the kind that says this is intentional.
Well, I hope it says it’s intentional. It might just say slutty. I was about to find out.
Clayton’s Mom: Oh that’s super cute! You are good!
Mariel: Ok cool. Thank you!
Charlotte: I think you look great!
Mariel: Thanks! I never wear real clothes anymore. This will be a trip.
Ok, so that text message conversation went ok. Or maybe they are on a different thread making fun of me and my attempts at being a real person. That could be fun. That could be really fun.
Fuck off Mariel. You’re fine.
Sometimes a bitch just wants to look like she belongs.
Or that she’s not homeless.
Either/Or.
My husband drove us downtown.
Our worst fights have been about parking.
If I can’t find a parking spot, my immediate thought is, well I tried, I guess I’ll go home.
Did that in 12th grade, missed a choir concert downtown, the same downtown, because I couldn’t find a place to park my 1984 Oldsmobile, whatever it was.
My classmates said they saw me driving while they were in the skywalks. I didn’t see them.
Good. Then I would’ve felt guilty and tried harder.
Not something I needed in my life that day.
I didn’t like that choir teacher.
He took the seniors out to breakfast at the end of the year, wanted to pay for everyone. I refused to order anything.
I was eighteen and would never be indebted to a person I didn’t like.
Not even something as simple as breakfast.
I miss that girl’s hardness.
She thought she knew things.
Maybe she did.
Maybe I’ve just forgotten over the years.
My husband Aaron drove around downtown looking for a spot and I sat quietly pretending that it didn’t bother me we’d be walking one million miles.
One million miles exactly.
Something about my outfit made me revert into an eighth grader waiting for the bus. Coats are not cool. Why wear a cute outfit if you are just going to cover it with a coat.
Fuck coats.
Not really though, because I immediately regretted that decision. Walking one million miles, pretending you’re not shivering is something I’d like to think I pulled off.
Probably didn’t.
But my self-esteem needs me to tell it I did.
So that’s what I do.
Before I got out of the car, I texted my sisters: “Nervous.”
Just that.
I didn’t want advice. Just a reply.
It was raining. He gave me the umbrella. I tried to share it.
He waved me away.
I have a good one.
Outside a restaurant a woman was screaming.
Mentally ill.
Felt guilt that I couldn’t help her.
I could be her, if I didn’t have a support system.
Mental health in Iowa blows.
We walked in and all the PTA moms know my husband. He’s the treasurer, has been for a few years.
He’s the golden retriever in the relationship.
I’m the black cat.
It’s a good pairing.
I think my husband likes that I hate most people.
Makes him feel special.
The PTA moms lit up when he walked in.
They gave me curious looks. I haven’t been around school as much as Aaron.
Two years of not getting out of bed will make getting dressed and going somewhere feel like a battle.
And I prepped for this one. Got the outfit right.
Reviewed my Joe Navarro body language books.
Took a Klonopin.
I spent over two years avoiding people because I wanted to die every day.
Spravato helps.
“Look who it is!” Ashley beamed, “You want to come work behind the table?”
I looked at my husband like “Whatever you want honey, I’ll be fine.”
But he knows me.
And didn’t want to die.
He politely declined.
Samantha tried to get me to wear a name tag.
I know it makes me an absolute dick bag, but I really didn’t want to.
I decided not to wear heels.
I used to be able to run a mile in them.
But I know who I am now.
No-heel Mariel. That’s what they call me.
I kept my hand out of my hair—didn’t want to look like I was trying to be attractive.
My drink hand stayed at my hip.
Left hand resting lightly on my pocket.
Shoulders checked every five minutes.
Too high = anxious.
There’s no right posture. Just one that gets read slower.
I know it’s ludicrous to pay so much attention to body language.
Writing will do that to you. Make you a creeper.
It’s embarrassing, sometimes, how much I mean what I say.
Being earnest is probably the worst thing about me.
Which is to say, the most noticeable
My company uses this place for events all the time. I kept half-expecting to see a coworker.
If I had to pick someone to appear, it would’ve been Celia.
She’s the nicest. And so fucking smart.
A few weeks earlier I’d emailed the CEO—just emailed him, out of nowhere. We have 2,200 employees. I told him Celia was the reason I’d stayed. That she’s brilliant. That we’re lucky she works here.
He thanked her on the company site. She teared up.
People asked me if I was scared.
I laughed. Said no. Truthfully, I didn’t think much about it.
When my husband went to get something from the car, I didn’t want to sit in the corner alone. So, I walked to the other side of the room, looked out a window, and pretended to be on the phone.
Like I was giving someone directions.
To this room. That I was already in.
I wanted to feel a part of something.
I never got there.
I started talking to a PTA dad.
He was nice.
Made sure my feet were pointed towards him.
Showing interest.
He was wearing beautiful shoes with no socks—tan leather, slightly smug.
At least it looked like he never wore socks. Maybe the invisible kind.
I hope not. A man in nice shoes with no socks is a choice. The little fake sock things just feel like cheating.
I notice people’s ankles. Men, women, doesn’t matter.
Probably because I don’t have them. Not real ones. Not good ones.
My father’s fucking ankles.
Nice shoe dad was friendly, easy to talk to. I asked if I could meet his wife. I wasn’t sure which one she was.
He pointed her out. I walked over like I already knew. Pretended I had all along. That was the first time I met Sasha.
Her husband introduced us.
I ruined it.
“We should be friends,” I said, because the worst thing about me is being earnest.
“Wow,” she shifted backwards, “You’re very direct.”
I smiled like I didn’t care.
That’s the trick—keep your posture open, your voice calm.
Inside, it landed.
Not like an insult.
More like a reminder.
I decided to take that as a compliment.
Sasha said, “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just go up to people like in elementary school and ask to be friends?”
Umm. We can. Just did.
Press on that bruise, Sasha.
The one on my heart.
Mostly purple.
With that slow-burn red along the edge—like it was angrier yesterday but now it’s embarrassed. Shaped like a map of something I don’t remember doing.
Out loud I said, “Only way to make friends at our age.”
She smiled, but didn’t really respond. Sipped her wine.
Looked for a way out.
Apparently, I’m aggressive.
That’s what they call me—Too-Direct Mariel.
I know when I’m not wanted.
Side effect of writing a manipulative character in a novel—had to study micro expressions and body language.
I can clock a polite dodge from ten feet.
In general: trust your gut.
If you’re paying attention, the body usually matches.
Fuck me for wanting friends.
Should have said that out loud.
That would have been ballsy as fuck.
Not the road to go down if you actually want friends, Mariely Jelly Belly.
Two years away, time to get back into the game.
My therapist said it’s good for me
Her husband was friends with my husband in middle school. Haven’t told her that. Don’t
want to be weird.
I gave Sasha one last look and thought—
You should be nice. I’ve already done you a solid.
You almost had to explain to your kid how to help a friend whose mom killed herself.
You’re welcome.
PTA reminded me of high school.
They all looked so stressed.
I wanted to give them each a pot gummy and tell them it was going to be okay.
Except Sasha.
People don’t usually stop to talk to me.
I’ve never been the kind of person eyes light up for when I walk into a room.
I tell myself that’s okay. And mostly it is.
But sometimes—it’s kind of not.
I should’ve left.
But I didn’t.
Scooted to a new group.
When people ask who my kids are, I say Stone.
Then I say, “He’s named after his great-grandfather.”
Technically third great-grandfather. But I feel like saying that makes it worse.
I just want people to know he’s named after a person, not a rock. Even if that person’s name was Stone.
Which, yes. I realize doesn’t help.
My second is Thomas. After his grandfather.
His middle name is Steele, after my great-grandmother.
People said I should’ve just named him Steele.
But I couldn’t imagine yelling “Stone” and “Steele” across a playground.
I don’t have that kind of confidence.
I kept my phone in my back pocket.
Didn’t want to be the person clutching it, scrolling in the corner.
I wanted to look like I was here on purpose.
I didn’t eat. I never eat when I’m nervous.
Food feels like commitment.
Clayton’s mom arrived.
We chatted for a few minutes with our fifth grader’s teacher.
Mrs. Williams gave me a pretty pointed look. Boobs.
I got the message.
Girl—they’re not going to be cute for much longer. Let me live.
I hadn’t left yet. That was something.
Ten points to me.
Clayton’s mom is magnetic and has a husband who knows she’s pretty. He never
looks surprised when people like her.
My poor husband.
We ended up standing with three couples, parents of my kid’s friends.
Knew the moms, hadn’t really met the dads.
Clayton’s mom is the kind of woman women walked behind.
And I love her. Truly. But I made a choice.
Mariel McCann does not follow people around.
At least—not anymore. It’s a new thing I’m trying.
I do this thing. I know it makes me a dick bag.
In the group of three men, and their wives. I drop: “Men are trash.”
Then I watch. If they look insulted, we’re probably not going to vibe.
The good ones—the ones I might actually talk to later—just nod. Or say, “Yeah. Sorry.”
Not one of them blinked. The good ones never do.
Just saved me months of field work.
I allowed myself a quick check of my phone.
No texts from my sisters.
Ouch.
Auction started.
Nice shoes enjoyed it.
He raised the bid with a scotch in his hand.
Fire truck ride to school.
A thousand bucks.
Last year he paid five grand for his kid to be principal for a day.
It’s a flex. But honestly—it’s a good one.
Public schools need money.
Someone started talking about gymnastics.
My son does gymnastics. I was a gymnast.
You know when you’re pretty sure you could still land something—but now there’s like a 60% chance of hospitalization?
But how cool if you landed it.
I’m 36. I’ve hung up the trampoline tricks.
Not because I can’t. Just… maybe not the best idea.
My dad used to say that, watching me flip off the back deck as a teenager.
“I could still do that,” he’d say. “It’d just hurt my knees.”
Sure, Dad.
The night moved on. I hadn’t left yet.
Now I’m in the mom group chat.
I don’t know which one.
Did I make the real chat?
Or the side chat, they make for sympathy.
I am the one who usually texts first.
That’s probably the answer.
I made a movie poster of our son’s playing soccer against velociraptors —
Jurassic Game Day.
Directed by Spielberg, obviously.
Photoshop is my friend.
Kids liked them.
Mrs. Williams looked at my boobs again the next week.
That’s what they call me—Mariel with the boobs.
I didn’t belong.
But I didn’t vanish either.
