We Were Beautiful

by Heather Hepler

  We work for about half an hour. Mostly me handing stacks of tiles up to Cooper and telling him whether Crazy About Carrots is a better choice than 24 Carrots.

  I call Veronica and tell her I’m going to be a tiny bit late, but I won’t walk home alone. She tells me to be careful and then, just before she hangs up, tells me to have fun. Cooper and I walk over a couple of streets to a place with a giant plastic ice cream cone hanging out over the sidewalk. When we walk up to the window to order, the girl behind the counter makes a face at me, but grins at Cooper. She looks at his mouth for a moment, but it’s not even close to being enough to turn her off. She actually bats her eyes at him.

  “Hey there,” she says. “What can I get for you?”

  “You first, Mia,” he says, completely ignoring the flirting. I get mint chocolate chip. Cooper gets strawberry. Apparently, I make a face when he orders his cone.

  “What’s wrong with strawberry?” he asks as we wait for our cones.

  “It’s not chocolate,” I say.

  “Well, technically yours isn’t chocolate either,” he says. “It’s mint.”

  “With chocolate,” I insist.

  “What if I got strawberry with chocolate?” he asks.

  “I would feel sorry for you.” This makes him laugh. A guy brings our order to the window, and I immediately take a bite of my ice cream, leaving a divot in the front.

  “Truth or dare?” Cooper asks as we start making our way back toward Veronica’s.

  “Dare,” I say without pausing.

  “A risk-taker,” Cooper says. We stop and watch a flock of pigeons fighting over a discarded hot dog bun. “You have to eat your ice cream without stopping for one full minute.”

  “Alright,” I say. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk to show that I’m serious.

  Cooper looks at his watch. “Go.” I start licking, but Cooper begins protesting immediately. “Eat, not lick.” He looks back at his watch. “Go. Again.” I start taking bites out of my ice cream until it looks like a giant green-and-brown golf ball. After only a dozen bites or so, I start to feel that pressure between my eyes.

  I press my free hand to my forehead. “Ow.” I close my eyes. “Brain freeze.” I squint at Cooper, who looks half concerned and half amused. The pain is gone as quickly as it started, but lesson learned. “How’d I do?” I ask.

  “Twenty-eight seconds.” I frown. “You have to train for these things, Mia.” His voice is serious, but his eyes are teasing. “You know what this means.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “You have to answer my question.” I nod, hoping my face isn’t giving away what I’m thinking. “Truthfully.”

  “I got that part,” I say, trying to make my voice lighter than I feel. Truth scares me. I start walking again, thinking that if I have to tell him the truth, I’d rather do it while in motion.

  Cooper walks beside me, taking small bites from his cone. “What made you move here?” he asks.

  This is an easy one. “My dad’s down in Florida this summer at dive school. He works for the state of Maine doing search and rescue. Essentially, he’s a water policeman,” I say.

  Cooper nods, and I wince inside. The very last thing I want to do is lie to Cooper. No, that’s not exactly right. The last thing I want to do is tell the whole truth to Cooper. What I said isn’t a lie, but it’s not exactly the truth either. Or at least not all of it.

  “So, you’re headed home at the end of the summer?” he asks.

  I don’t know how to answer that. I’m not even sure I still have a home to head back to. Suddenly the ice cream seems too sweet. We turn onto Veronica’s street and start making our way to her building. A guy in a suit stands on the corner playing soft jazz music on his saxophone.

  “I thought I only had to answer one question,” I say, trying hard to make that ache in my chest go away.

  Cooper looks at me, and I have that same feeling. Like he knows me. Like he can see inside me. “Fair enough,” he says, finally. “Your turn.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Truth or dare?”

  “Truth,” Cooper says. He says it so quickly that it makes the ache in my chest even worse.

  “When we picked up Waffles the other day and I asked if you lived in that apartment, you told me it was complicated.” I pause, trying to work out what I’m trying to ask.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to phrase your question in the form of a question,” Cooper says. He takes another bite of his cone, but it’s sort of halfhearted.

  “Where do you live?” I ask.

  “Sarah and I live there,” he says. “Legally.”

  “What about actually?” I ask.

  Cooper shrugs. “Most nights I crash at Sebastian’s, and Sarah stays with Fig. Our grandmother is not always a very reliable guardian,” he says. I wait for more, but he doesn’t offer an explanation. “This is you, right?” he asks. I look up, surprised to see that we’re already at Veronica’s building.

  “Yeah,” I say. “But wait.” I dip my hand into my bag and pull out my camera. “I want to take a picture.”

  I hand Cooper my half-eaten ice cream and aim the camera at the man with the saxophone. He’s backlit against the park lights. But I don’t take pictures of him. I glance over at Cooper, who is looking across the street. His face is half in shadows. I turn my camera on him and zoom in close. Click. I shift back to the music man just as Cooper looks over, then turn off my camera and slip it back into my bag.

  “All finished?” he asks. I nod and accept my quickly melting ice cream cone from him. “I know you have to get up early,” he says.

  I nod, even though what I want to say is, I’m fine. Let’s just sit here and eat ice cream and listen to music and—

  “I should get going,” he says. I nod again. He pauses for a moment, like he’d rather stay too, but then he turns and walks back the way we came and I’m left standing there, with melted ice cream dripping down my arm and a crazy smile on my face.

  “Good evening, Miss Mia,” the doorman says when I head inside.

  “Definitely,” I say.

  Chapter Twelve

  I barely have my apron on before Fig starts peppering me with questions. “You had ice cream?” Fig asks.

  I swear, if she keeps wagging her eyebrows like that, she’s going to make her forehead cramp up.

  “Was it awesome?” she asks. We walk over to the counter, where Nonna has a pile of cinnamon roll dough waiting.

  “It was okay,” I say, looking intently into the mixing bowl, which is filled with brown sugar and cinnamon.

  Fig turns and looks at me. “Mia Hopkins,” she says. “Did you or did you not have ice cream with Cooper?”

  “Did,” I say.

  “Are you or are you not smitten with Cooper?”

  I squint at her. “Smitten?”

  Fig waves her hand at me. “Crushing. Besotted. Infatuated.”

  “What was the question?” I ask. I use a fork to break up the clumps of brown sugar for the cinnamon roll filling.

  Fig rolls her eyes at me. “Is there pining?”

  “Pining?”

  “You know, do you think about him? Do you try to figure out ways to see him again?” She leans toward me and lowers her voice. “Are you falling for him?”

  “It’s complicated,” I say. And that is the truth. It’s been a really long time since I’ve trusted anyone.

  Fig flips her fingers in the air again as if waving away my words. “It’s not that complicated, Mia. You’re smitten with him.”

  I start to protest, but she just holds her hand up. “He’s smitten with you.”

  “What?” She grins at me and her eyebrows start wagging again. “Did he tell you that?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. I look back down at the bowl in front of me. “But I can tell.”

  “How?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “You remember how I told you Cooper was hard to get to know? Closed?” I nod, still looking in the bowl. “He’s less so now.
”

  “Less?” I ask.

  “Since he met you,” she says. “Definitely less.” I use my fork to trace patterns in the sugar. Circle. Star. Heart. “Trust me,” Fig says. It seems like a lot of people want me to trust them.

  Nonna pushes into the kitchen and glares at Joey, who is cleaning the meat slicer.

  “That better shine when you’re finished!” she yells. He bobs his head and keeps working. “Who put this here?” she asks, kicking at a bucket filled with hand towels.

  “Don’t make eye contact,” Fig whispers.

  I keep stirring the sugar. “What’s wrong?” I whisper.

  Fig shrugs. “I’m not sure, but clearly—” Nonna steps over and looks over my shoulder, silencing Fig.

  I can actually feel her standing there. She reaches past me and starts smashing the butter into the sugar and cinnamon to make the filling. I step back to avoid the flying ingredients and elbows.

  “So, Nonna—” Fig begins.

  Nonna shoots her a look, which silences her. Nonna keeps working the sugar, then moves on to the dough, rolling and flouring and punching until the whole counter is covered with a huge sheet of dough.

  “Butter,” she says. Fig jumps at the word, then hands her a block of butter, which Nonna drops onto the dough. “Have you talked to your mother?” At first, I’m not sure whether she means me or Fig, but then she looks at Fig.

  “No,” Fig says. “Why?”

  Nonna starts smearing butter all over the dough. She’s so aggressive that her fingers push straight through at one point. She curses. The whole kitchen goes silent, but Nonna doesn’t seem to notice. She keeps buttering, and then starts sugaring.

  “You talk to your mother,” Nonna says, jabbing a sugary finger at Fig. She rolls the dough into a long log, pinching it shut. She grabs a big chef’s knife as she says, “You talk to her or I will.”

  Nonna gives the dough a hard whack, cutting it clear through the middle. We stand clear as she single-handedly finishes the rolls and puts them into the pans to rise. She grabs a side towel and heads into her office, shutting the door with such force, I’m surprised the glass window doesn’t break.

  “Listen,” Fig says to me, “you’d better head over without me.” Sebastian is entered in an eating contest, which Fig swears will be fun to watch.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. Fig shrugs. It’s not only Nonna who is acting alien-possessed. Joey has finished cleaning the meat slicer and is now smashing potatoes like they are the enemy. Grace is grinding enough coffee beans to last a year. “I can wait,” I say. I’m not that anxious to go anyway.

  Fig shakes her head. “Go. With my mother, there’s no telling how long it’s going to take to talk to her. I’ll come over after we’re through.” I grab my bag from under the counter and start to pull my hair out of the ponytail I have to wear at work. Fig touches my arm. “You should leave your hair up,” she says. “It looks nice that way.”

  I snort. “Maybe my hair looks nice when it’s up, but not my face.” I yank the elastic free and feel my hair fall across my cheek.

  “Mia,” Fig says, “how long did you notice Cooper’s mouth?” I think back to the first day I met him and how I was shocked at first, but after seeing his artwork and talking to him, I simply didn’t notice his mouth anymore. Fig nods like she can read what I’m thinking. “It’s the same thing with you, you know.”

  “It’s not,” I say, and I don’t just mean what my face looks like; it’s what it represents. How my face is the outside view of the ugliness inside.

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Mia,” Fig says. “The first time I saw you, all I could see was that side of your face.” She points to the right side. The ruined side. “But after about three minutes, I totally forgot about it. In fact, the only time I even notice it is when you point it out.” I look at her. Either she’s an excellent liar or else she really is telling the truth.

  “It’s not just this,” I say, pointing to my scar.

  “Then what is it?” she asks. I bite my lip and shake my head. “Listen,” Fig says. “Whatever it is—you can tell me.”

  “Not here,” I say.

  Fig shakes her head, a faint smile touching her mouth. “No, here’s probably not the best place.” Gina comes in at that moment and freezes when she sees Fig. “We’ll talk later,” Fig says to me.

  She turns toward Gina, who is trying to slide back through the door. “Mom,” Fig says, “Nonna says we should talk. Tell me what’s going on.” Gina goes white, then starts crying. “Mom!” Fig says, loudly. “Stop with the theatrics. Tell me.”

  I’m shocked at how Fig is talking to her mom, knowing I would never consider talking to either one of my parents like that. But with Gina, it seems to do the trick, because she stops crying like she just shut off a faucet. She heads toward the office.

  Fig follows her and starts to close the door behind them, but then she stops and looks at me. “We’ll talk later,” she repeats in a serious tone. I nod. I am definitely not about to disagree with Fig right now. Then Fig smiles. “I’ll meet you when I’m done.” She starts to close the door, then stops again. “Say hi to Cooper for me.” She grins at me, then shuts the door.

  I slip my hair elastic onto my wrist. Despite what Fig says, I’m not ready to walk around as the girl with half a face. I make my way through the front, where everyone seems frozen in place. They all talk in half-whispers, their eyes darting over to Nonna, who has reemerged from her office. Only Grace says goodbye to me as I leave. That is perhaps more disturbing than the silence from everyone else.

  I slide my sunglasses on as I move onto the sidewalk, wondering what is going on in that office and why everyone is acting like someone just died.

  I walk over to the park only a couple of blocks away. Having to get to work so early stinks, but at least it means I have all afternoon to myself. People crowd the sidewalk, positioned behind ribbon barriers strung between signs advertising Joe’s Kosher Franks. I see Sarah standing to one side under a tree, and she waves and grins when she spots me. She doesn’t say anything, only nods, when I tell her Fig is going to come by after she talks to her mom.

  “Eating contests seem more like a weekend event,” I say. “I mean, who wants to go back to work after horking down two dozen hot dogs?”

  “No one,” Sarah agrees. “But apparently there was some controversy over the last contest.” I make a face, which causes her to laugh. “Seriously. Some guy was shoving hot dogs into his shirt. So they had to rerun it.” She wags her head toward the front. “Come on,” she says.

  We weave through the crowd, trying to find an empty spot. Sarah leads us off to one side, telling me we shouldn’t stand in the first few rows. “There’s a lot of food that goes flying,” she says. I grimace, and she nods. “I got hit in the head with a half-eaten hot wing last month.”

  I’ve never been to an eating contest, or, as Sebastian calls it, a gastronomical competition. There’s a long table set up on a stage. Behind it are at least twenty people. Sebastian is way down on one end.

  “How many of these has he done?” I ask, pointing toward the stage where Sebastian is listening as one of the judges reads the rules.

  “A bunch,” Sarah says, shrugging. “I’ve only been to a couple of them. The wing one and a watermelon one last summer. Fig’s been to all of them, though.”

  A couple of women in too-tight shorts and tank tops start passing out platters of hot dogs. Sebastian stares at the mound of hot dogs placed in front of him. “He looks nervous,” Sarah says.

  “I would be,” I say, glancing at the hundreds of people around us. “This is a big crowd.”

  “This is one of the pre-qualifiers for the Nathan’s contest on the Fourth of July. If he makes it in, he’ll be the youngest competitor ever.”

  “How many does he have to eat?” I ask.

  “This one is a timed contest, so he just has to eat as many as he can in two minutes.” I look at the mound of hot dogs in front of him,
glad I don’t have to eat them all.

  “I could eat three,” I say.

  Sarah smiles. “Me too. Maybe.”

  I nod in agreement. I look around at the people pushing in on all sides. Two news crews have their cameras trained on the competitors. The judge steps away from the tables, and the competitors start getting antsy as a bunch of photographers step forward to take pictures. I pull out my camera too and aim it straight at Sebastian.

  Once I’m confident I have a good angle, I turn to Sarah. “I didn’t get to tell you last week but your song was really amazing.”

  “Thanks,” Sarah says, blushing.

  “I mean it. You should try to get it recorded.”

  “Maybe.” Sarah looks down at the ground. “Cooper says the same thing, but I don’t know.” She looks at me for a moment. “That song was hard for me to write. I’m not sure I’m ready to share it with the whole world.”

  A man steps up to the front of the stage holding a bullhorn. “On your mark.”

  The competitors all lean over the table, their hands clasped behind them.

  “Get set.”

  In the pause, the whole crowd goes silent, then a voice behind me yells, “Go Sebastian!” and everyone laughs. Sebastian tries for a smile, but he just looks vaguely ill. I look in the direction of the voice and see Cooper, who is standing on the edge of the fountain so he can see over the tops of everyone’s heads.

  “Go!” the announcer yells.

  All the competitors fall on the piles of hot dogs. I take one close-up of Sebastian just before he bites into his first hot dog. Then I take several others, thinking Fig might want to see them. I watch, horrified, as one guy shoves four hot dogs into his mouth at once. Sarah was right; bits of bun and chunks of hot dogs are flying all over anyone within ten feet of the table. I peek at the hands of a big clock set off to one side, which spin as the two minutes tick off.