by Laura Preble
I’ve already started carefully sponging on base makeup, trying to get every pore covered evenly so I don’t look blotchy or chalky. As I run the little sponge around the side of my nose, I freeze. I am terrified to turn my head, to investigate my horrendous suspicions. “Becca,” I whisper.
“What?”
“I need a favor. Check the side of my nose. The right side.” She squats down next to me and squints, and then I see her eyes get really big.
“Oh.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
A zit. How could I have a zit on the most important date of my entire life? I turn my head to confirm. I see a volcanic mountain of zittiness. It arches up and over the fold behind my nostril. It is so big it has its own geological designation as a toxic waste site.
“Don’t cry, whatever you do,” Becca says calmly, putting a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Crying is the worst thing you can do for a zit. Then your whole face gets red and it stands out even more.”
“Maybe if my whole face is red, he won’t notice the zit!”
“Right.”
Faced with this crisis, I am eerily calm. I assess the situation, and decide on a plan of action. “I’ll tell him I broke my nose and wear a cast on it.”
“They don’t put casts on your nose. I know, because my mom had a nose job. But believe me, the bandages make you look ten times worse. And trying to cover it with makeup just makes it stand out even more. No. What we need is a strategy.”
She sits on the bed, closes her eyes, and bites her lower lip. After a minute, she jumps up, runs over, and squats down next to me on the side opposite the Land of the Pimple. “Perfect. Here’s what we do. You only sit on his right side. That way, he’ll never see the zit.”
“You can’t see it from there?”
“Nope. You look flawless.”
“What if he tries to kiss me?”
“Kiss sideways. Anyway, if he’s always on your left, he’ll kiss you from the left, and by the time you straighten out your face, he’ll have his eyes closed.”
“What if he’s an open-eyed kisser?”
Becca sighs. “Shelby, there are some things we just have to leave to fate.”
We finish getting ready, and I try to minimize the volcanic eruption on my nose with exceedingly sexy eye makeup and a push-up bra. It’s nearly six-fifteen when we finish the last curl on the last hair, and we approach the moment of truth: the full-length mirror.
Becca goes first: She looks devastating in a black mini, Candies zebra-stripe platforms, and a ’70s-style top that’s the same color as the violet spikes in her hair. Her makeup is a little over the top, I think, but definitely striking. “Your turn,” she says, obviously satisfied.
I start with the shoes. I’m wearing my black lace-up sandals, the ones that look kind of Greek goddess-ish, and Becca has painted my toenails some copper color called Brassy Brass. I’m wearing my olive-velvet poncho thing with the copper beads over a stretchy black lace skirt that’s tight to the knees. From the feet up, I look fantastic. Then I see my face.
“No!” I scream.
“What?”
“Look at the zit! It’s eating my face!”
“You’re exaggerating. C’mon. Look at the eye makeup. It’s stunning. He won’t even notice the zit. And your outfit is great.” She looks at her watch. “Ten minutes. Let’s get downstairs.”
“Wait. Practice with me.”
“Practice what?” She gives me a wary look.
“I know. But just pretend like you’re Anders and you try and kiss me. You don’t have to, really, just do the face thing so I can tell if he can see the zit. Please?”
She rolls her eyes and then stands up really straight, throws her shoulders back, and talks with a very fake Scandinavian accent that sounds a lot like Arnold Schwarzenegger. “Hello, Shelby. You look fantastic tonight.”
“Thanks. Okay, now drop the role play. Just kiss me.”
“Geez, don’t I even get dinner first?”
The doorbell rings. “Ah! Hurry!”
I keep my face sideways to her for as long as I can as she moves in, trying to act like a swaggering guy. She puts her hands on my shoulders, turns me to her, and then screams a bloodcurdling scream. “Oh my God! Something’s eating your face!” I throw a hairbrush at her as she bolts down the stairs.
I take a moment to compose myself, which is barely possible, then follow her. She’s already opened the door, and is kissing Tim lightly on the cheek, very European-style. “Hey. How are you guys?”
“We’re okay,” Tim says, trying to sound old. His voice squeaks a little.
Anders walks in after him, and my heart stops beating.
He has his arm around another girl. A very tall, blond, beautiful girl.
Becca looks back at me, her eyes wide with panic. “Uh, hi. Who’s this?”
“Oh, this is my girlfriend, Ilsa. She’s staying with another family, but I didn’t think you’d mind if she came with us too. Is that all right? Oh, and her English is not so good.”
I am choking on my own internal organs at this point. How is it possible that I so misread the signals? How is it possible that Anders called me and forgot to mention that he has a girlfriend named Ilsa? On the upside, the zit suddenly seems pretty unimportant.
“Yeah, we have a couple of other people in the car too,” Tim says, avoiding Becca’s stare. “My brother’s driving, so he and his two friends are coming with us. Let’s go see the Sith get their butts kicked!”
Outside, a minivan is parked in the driveway. A scraggly-looking guy is in the driver’s seat, rocking out to some heavy metal music. Tim opens the passenger door, and Anders grabs Ilsa by the waist and lifts her into the car as if she were a fine piece of china. He follows, and they take up residence in the backseat. The dark backseat.
Tim bolts around to the front and climbs into the front passenger seat. This leaves Becca, me, and two strange guys in the middle seat. Four people will not fit. I am sure as hell not sitting between Anders and Ilsa.
“Could one of you guys sit in back?” Becca asks politely. The two boys just stare at her. One is kind of small with dark curly hair, and the other is a freckle-faced redhead, kind of muscular, slightly familiar. They look at each other, and do the eyebrow negotiating thing that guys do, then the dark-haired one sighs, gets up, and plops rudely between the Norwegian lovebirds.
I sit carelessly next to the redhead, who I now recognize as the jerk from the bowling alley who was yelling out the car window at me. Great. I am beyond caring about my fate. I don’t even buckle my seat belt. Becca sits timidly next to me, and I feel her checking me. I’m on suicide watch.
“Hi,” the redhead says, extending a hand. “Remember me? Fletcher?” I stare rudely at his hand. “Well, nice to see you.”
“Don’t mind her,” Becca says. “She’s . . . got temporary deaf-mute syndrome.”
“I do not.” I turn to Fletcher, who has really striking green eyes the color of jade, and I say, “I’m Shelby.”
I stick my hand out this time, and he takes it. I squeeze so hard he jumps. I continue pumping his hand until he snatches it back and begins to massage it. “Hey, Shelby. Nice grip. Are you on the wrestling team?”
“Oh, if I wanted to hurt you, believe me, you’d know it.” I face front as Tim’s brother maneuvers the van out of the driveway.
“What Shelby means is that she’s had a lot of martial arts training. She’s a black belt in—”
“The only black belt I have holds up my jeans.” I turn to Fletcher. “I’m just a little bit emotional, that’s all.”
“Oh.” He nods knowingly. “That time of the month.”
That time of the month. Yes, that is the only possible explanation for any female having emotional issues. I look around for something to hit him with, but there is nothing except a San Diego Padres baseball pillow sitting on the floor. I grab it and whack him in the head.
“What was that for?” He grabs
the pillow and hits me back.
“Well, what was that for?” I hit him again.
“I was just trying to be nice—”
“By making some bonehead remark about ‘that time of the month’? I mean, what century are you living in, Cave-boy? Women do have feelings that don’t relate in any way to menstruation—”
He covers his ears. “Don’t say that word.”
“What?” I ask gleefully. “Menstruation? Menstruation. Menstruation! MENSTRUATION!”
“Stop it!” He covers his ears with the Padres pillow.
“Okay, okay.” Becca unlatches her seat belt, gets up, and shoves in between us. “Clearly, you two need to be separated. Move over, Shelby.”
“Is everything all right?” Anders asks from the backseat.
“Just great,” I mutter. Fletcher is looking at me with a mixture of fear and disbelief. I snarl at him, and he immediately turns his attention toward the fascinating scene whirring by outside.
The movie, of course, is a total disaster. If you haven’t seen the last Star Wars movie, Revenge of the Sith, I don’t want to spoil it for you, but let’s just say that love plays an important part. So every time the actor who plays Anakin/Darth Vader comes on, I think of Anders. Anakin, Anders . . . it’s sort of prophetic that he would turn to the Dark Side. I am sitting next to Becca, and I’m on the end of the row, I think mostly because everyone else is afraid to sit next to me. When Fletcher has to get up and use the bathroom, he actually goes the other way to avoid having to step over me. Who knew I had this kind of power?
When the lights come up at the end of the movie, I see that I have shredded a mountain of paper napkins into confetti. Becca just looks at the mound of paper and shakes her head. As we walk out, she whispers, “National Invisible Boy Day. Remember.”
11
ANGER MISMANAGEMENT (or Make Rejection Work for You!)
By the time Tim’s brother drops us off at Becca’s, I am a knot of anger and frustration. Not to mention the fact that I feel like a total idiot. And Anders seems totally unaware of any problem.
When we come in at about ten, Becca’s mom is doing some weird dance in the living room and this Middle Eastern music is blaring throughout the house. “Belly dancing. It’s part of my mom’s workout regimen.” She goes over to the stereo and presses a button, and abruptly the music stops. Thea nearly falls over.
“Well, hi,” she says. “How was your date?”
“Don’t ask. Hey, could you turn down the music a little?”
“Sure.” Thea wipes her forehead with a towel, and sits. “I was almost finished anyway. So, the movie was bad or what?”
“Anders brought a date.” Becca plops down on the couch.
“He brought a date on your date?” Thea looks at me, wide-eyed. “Whoa. That is bad.”
“We’re going upstairs to mourn,” Becca tell her. “We will be eating chocolate, just so you know.”
“That’s an avoidance behavior.”
“Yes, I know. We need to avoid at the moment.” To me, she says, “C’mon.”
In Becca’s room, she opens a cupboard and pulls out a huge, and I do mean huge, satin box of candy.
“Dig in while we plan our revenge.” She peels off her skirt and shoes and sits cross-legged on the floor, then picks out a candy and bites into it. “So good.”
“Where did you get this?” I indicate the house-sized candy box.
She swallows a huge wad of chocolate. “My dad. He feels guilty about the divorce, so he sends me stuff. Go on, dig in.”
“Why not? I guess I don’t have to watch my figure now, huh?” As I reach for a piece of cocoa heaven, she grabs my hand. “What? You said I could have some!”
“Yes, but listen to what you just said. You said it doesn’t matter what you look like because Anders has rejected you.”
“I’m not sure he even rejected me. I don’t think I was even in the running. Not against Ilsa.” I say her name with the same oily nastiness that Elisa Crunch uses to say Anders’s name. Then I bite into a particularly huge butterscotch square and chew it savagely to extract all the chocolate goodness.
“Okay. That was one of the crappiest moves I’ve ever seen, I agree. Maybe in Norway they do things differently.” She picks up her phone. “Should we call and ask him?”
“No!”
“Fine.” Exchanging the phone for more candy, she stuffs two pieces into her mouth and works her jaw around them. As she licks a dribble of butterscotch that has escaped, her phone rings. “Hello?” Her jaw drops, and as she listens, her eyes grow bigger and bigger. “Sure. Yeah. I don’t know. Let me ask her.” She covers the receiver with a teddy bear. It looks like the toy is trying to make out with the phone, but that’s probably just because of my state of mind. “It’s Fletcher.”
“Who?” I reach for more candy.
“The guy from the car. With the pillow.”
“The guy I hit?”
“Yeah.”
“What does he want?”
She puts the phone to her ear. “What do you want?” She listens, nods, and then shakes her head. “Why don’t you tell her yourself?”
She hands the receiver to me, and I stuff two more squares into my mouth before I talk. “Mmmfllfp?” I say.
“Uh . . . Shelby?”
“Yfff.” I keep chewing.
“Yeah, this is Fletcher. From the car? The guy you hit with the pillow?”
“Hmmm. Yfffp.”
Silence. Then he clears his throat and seems to be searching for something to say. I wonder if he called to tell me his dad’s a lawyer and he’s suing me for assault with a deadly cushion. “Tim told me what happened, why you were upset. I . . . I guess I just wanted to call and say—uh—”
“That guys suck?” Motioning to Becca, I say, “More chocolate.”
“No, that’s not what I was going to say.” He sighs heavily, then says, “I just think it was a lame thing for him to do, and I wanted to tell you that I felt bad for you.”
“Oh, so are you calling to offer to comfort me?”
“No, not really. I just wanted to—”
“Thinking maybe since I’ve been brutally rejected I’ll be an easy target?”
“Hey, now, that’s not fair—”
“Thanks for your concern.”
I hand the phone back to Becca. She fumbles with it, then stutters, “Uh . . . uh, Fletcher? Yeah. Thanks for calling. Bye.” To me, she says, “Wow. I’ve never seen you like this.”
“Like?”
“Mean.”
Because the universe likes to really push people’s buttons, my cell phone rings at just this moment. It is, of course, my dad. “Yes?” I say frostily.
“Hi, honey. Are you coming home? It’s getting late.” Dad yawns. “I’m really tired. If you’re staying over at Becca’s, I think I’ll just go to sleep and see you tomorrow. Is that okay?”
“Sure. I’ll just stay over here so you can have a little private love fest, teacher’s pet.”
“Shelby, what happened? Are you okay?”
“All I got out of this date was greasy fingers from stale popcorn and a bruise on my ego.”
“Oh.” He sighs and says quietly, “Okay. We’ll talk tomorrow. Good night.”
All of a sudden, just as I hang up the phone, I feel the need to break something. As I’ve said, I’m not one of those girls who gets all upset over everything any guy does. Why this whole incident is so disturbing is because I’m doing stuff I’ve never done before. I’m obsessing over a guy, and that’s not something I do. I actually cared about him, which is not something I do. And I let him hurt me, which is not something I do. But here I am anyway. There is not enough chocolate on the planet to heal this wound.
Becca can tell I’m at rock bottom. “It’s gonna be okay,” she croons. “Believe me, in a few weeks you won’t even remember Anders or his dumb girlfriend.”
Fat chance, I think. Literally. I’ve plowed through one whole layer in the satin candy box.
Those pounds are going to stay on.
Somehow, I sleep through the night and wake up Saturday morning on Becca’s floor. She has a huge air mattress that’s actually more comfortable than my real bed, so I don’t mind at all. What’s weird is that it’s really early, and Becca is up already, typing on her computer.
“What are you doing up before noon?”
“Hey.” She keeps tapping demonically on the keyboard.
“So? What are you doing?”
She finishes up a word and then turns to me, wearing her rectangular black reading glasses. “After last night, I was inspired to really kick things into high gear.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” I peer over her shoulder and see a huge chunk of text. “Are you writing a research paper or something?”
“No, I’m writing a press release.” She turns back to the bluish glow of the screen, pushes up her glasses, and returns to her document.
“A what?”
“Press release. My parents used to do them all the time on their independent projects. It’s so the newspapers and TV stations can do stories on what we’re doing.”
“What are we doing?”
She sighs impatiently, closes her document, and swivels around in her chair. “Let’s go have coffee. I’ll fill you in.”
We trudge downstairs (okay, I trudge, she sort of skips) and Meredith has already laid out two mugs and two place settings in their breakfast nook, which is bigger than my kitchen and dining room combined. In the center of the table there are fresh-cut flowers, purple and lavender and blue, in a crystal vase the size of my head. Actually, it’s like my head in more ways than one. Transparent, full of water, fragile—
“Have some coffee.” Meredith pours me some, and I decline the cream and sugar. “You girls have fun last night?”
“Can’t say it was fun, exactly,” Becca answers as the woman pours her some of the rich, dark brew. “But it was instructional.”
Becca is, to be honest, sort of scary this morning, and I don’t think it’s just me. She always seems a little manic, a little crazed, but today she has taken manic and crazed to a whole new level; it’s as if she’s supersized her weirdness. Or maybe it’s just the glasses.