Sing Me to Sleep

by Angela Morrison

“It’s all uneven.”

  “Layers. Supposed to be stylish. Meadow got us up early, and we went to a salon.”

  “Crap, Beth.” He picks up my hand. “You’re wearing nail polish.”

  “I know. I can’t get it off. You should see my toes.” They waxed my bushy eyebrows to a thin line. I’m not telling where else they waxed. They tried to glue fake eyelashes on me, but after the waxing, I got a bit hysterical, put my foot down.

  “You should get your money back from that haircut.” He guzzles down his carton of milk and eyes my apple.

  “Meadow’s mom paid.” I roll my apple over to him. “She’s the mastermind behind the madness. She got her stylist to fit me in.” He washed, conditioned, hot oiled, relaxed, and dumped an entire bottle of detangler on my hair—like I’m a bag lady who never brushed it. Then he ironed it flat, cut long layers, and a “fringe” that I can’t keep out of my eyes. “Meadow’s mom wanted him to dye it, but they ran out of time.”

  “What color?” Scott takes a big bite of my apple.

  “Maybe blonde.” I shove the bangs out of my eyes, but they fall right back into them. “I stormed out of there in the middle of the debate. I don’t want to be blonde. Can you imagine me blonde?”

  “No.” He reaches over and slides my bangs out of my eyes for me. “Your hair color is nice.”

  “Mousy brown? Kiss it good-bye. How do you think I’ll look with highlights?”

  He puts the apple down, gets serious. “Just like the rest of them.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “But it isn’t you.” He stares hard right into my hyper-magnified eyeballs. “I thought they wanted you.”

  “They want a star. Meadow’s mom says my nose is okay. We don’t have time to change that, anyway.”

  Meadow gave me a bag of bra inserts. Since her surgery, she doesn’t need them anymore. Gross. I’m not using her cast-off inserts. Next Saturday we’re all getting measured for our new performance wardrobe. Then Meadow’s mom, Meadow and I—I begged Leah and Sarah to come along to keep it sane—are going shopping for the perfect push-up bra, designer jeans, and scoop-neck tops that show off my “striking clavicle.”

  Scott puts his hand on my arm. “Will I recognize you when they’re done?”

  “Just look for the tall girl with highlights bumping into things.”

  “No plans to cut your legs off?” He glances down at my jeans.

  “Shhh. She’s got spies everywhere. We don’t want to give her ideas.” My cell buzzes. I jump.

  “Poor Bethie. I’ve never seen you like this. Are you sure it’s worth it?”

  “To sing on the world stage? What do you think?” I pull my cell out of my Levi’s pocket and glance at the screen.

  “Is it her?”

  I nod. “Her mom’s cosmetic team can see me Thursday morning. Want to come? Hold my hand?”

  He takes the cell from me and studies the screen. “What’s this about lasers?”

  “Erases the scars.”

  “You trust these guys?”

  “Meadow’s mom could pass for her sister. They must be pretty good.”

  “You really want me to come?” His hand slips down my arm to squeeze mine. The sweet side of him oozes out. I like it today. I need some honey.

  “No. That would make it worse.” I pull my hand out of his and take back my cell. “They aren’t doing anything drastic. Just the laser treatments on the scars. Something new for the zits. No collagen shots for my lips or anything like that.”

  “Your lips are really beautiful.” He stares at my mouth, kind of hungry. “They are so expressive when you sing.” He traces my lips with the tip of his finger. His voice gets husky. “Don’t let them touch your lips.”

  I’m stunned speechless.

  Scott really needs to get a girlfriend. I should tell him that. He’s a heart melter. Mine is doing strange things. I should encourage him to find somebody, but I don’t want to mess up this moment. I’m sure he doesn’t realize what he’s doing to me. How effective that wispy wave of blond hair over his left eye is.

  I should tell him. He needs to know. He’ll never figure it out on his own, but I’m going to need him over the next few weeks. Something real to hang on to while Meadow’s crazy mother hacks away at the rest of me. If Scott gets involved with a perky short girl, what happens to me? Disgusting. Selfish. I know. He deserves to be happy. Get a little lip action for once in his life. If he pulled this move on any other girl, she’d be making out with him by now.

  But I need him.

  He cares about me. One of the few people who does. He wants to help me—wants to be my friend. Is that using him? Unfair? Don’t I deserve something? Somebody to be my best friend. To know me inside and out and still like me. Everybody else has someone who loves them. All I’m asking for is this nice boy to keep being my friend.

  Until I’m ready to fly.

  Sounds like a pop song, huh? Lift me up until I fly. On your shoulders I’ ll touch the sky.

  A creepy pop song.

  I need to tell Scott he’s a babe. I need to tell Scott not to worry about me. He can have a girlfriend and a girl who is his friend. I need to tell him.

  I don’t.

  I lean over, kiss the top of his head, and clear his tray for him. Least I can do.

  A day later I’m lurking in the shadows, trying to get from the front door of the school to my locker. I tamed my new hair cut with an elastic this morning. We have to wear our hair up when we perform, so the stylist left the layers long enough for updos and ponytails.

  “Hey, Beast.” Colby steps in front of me. “What happened to your mane?”

  I don’t answer, keep my eyes down. I study the new Nikes he’s wearing. They zip. No laces. Hideous, but on Colby they’re cool. Everyone will want a pair.

  “It’s not fair, Beastie.” He pounds a finger into my shoulder. “You shouldn’t make us look at that face. Here.” He shoves something cold and rubbery at me.

  I don’t grasp onto it. The thing falls to the floor. A green witch mask with hairy warts and cracked lips lies at my feet.

  “Put it on.”

  I’ve got to get away. I start to step around the empty mask and Colby’s shoes.

  He blocks me, grabs my arm. “That’s no way to treat my present.”

  I struggle to wrench my arm out of his grip. He squeezes hard. I look up at him. He’s laughing, loving this. His eyes go past me, signaling. Travis and Kurt appear—grab my arms with their clammy hands and pull them back, hold me pinned, smashed against them. I can feel the heat from their bodies, smell their sweat.

  I try to shrink into myself away from them, but I can’t hide. They have me.

  Colby nudges the mask with his toe. “Make her pick it up.”

  Travis and Kurt force me to bend down—hold me there until I open my clenched fist and curl my fingers around the mask. The vinyl is slick and cool—elicits an urge to scream and run. They force me to my feet.

  Colby, who is the only guy in school taller than me, takes the mask from my hand and forces it over my head, knocking my glasses and pinning them crooked underneath it. “Wear it until your hair grows back.”

  I can’t breathe in there. Can’t see. My glasses are jamming into my face. I’m dying to rip the mask off, but my arms are still pinned.

  Colby bends over and whispers, “Perfect,” in my ear. He’s got hot, sensual breath that invades my head and sends bolts of unwanted desire like interior lightening strikes into my gut. That creeps me out worse than the mask.

  His body is touching me.

  I go nuts, fight to get free. Can’t scream. Why can’t I scream?

  They laugh at that. “Don’t worry, Beast. You’re too ugly to want to mess with.” Colby backs off, and the guys behind let me go.

  I run toward the girls’ restroom—crash into a wall of people watching. Laughter. A hand grabs my butt. I rip the mask off, grab my glasses, and let it fall. Head down, arms wrapped around myself as if that will
keep me from falling apart, I scuttle down the hall.

  My face is wet. Crap. I’m not supposed to let them do that. I crash through the restroom door—startle some smokers. I lock myself in a stall. Colby’s truth beats inside me.

  This is me, don’t you know ?

  Touch the sky?

  Who am I kidding?

  Clip my wings, weight me down.

  I thought my time had come.

  But the dream turns to dust.

  As I bow to do your bidding,

  Now I see the truth—it’s all a lie.

  I don’t leave my safe stall until the bell rings. I venture out only when I’m sure the restroom is empty.

  I splash cool water on my face and stare at my blotched, hideous reflection. Meadow and her mom are so delusional. As if a haircut and her cast-off makeup can even make a dint on my ugly.

  All morning the mask keeps reappearing. Taped to my locker. Slid onto my chair before econ. When it drops on my lunch tray, Scott picks it up and wipes off the chocolate pudding. “They’ve got to be kidding.” He folds the mask up and shoves it in his sweatshirt pocket.

  He gets a clean napkin and wipes off the pudding drops splashed on my neck. He doesn’t try to joke about it.

  An awful weight presses on my chest. “This isn’t going to work—is it?” Colby made it clear today. I’ll always be the Beast.

  Scott pats my shoulder. “Just sing, Beth. That’s all you need to worry about.” His words bore a tiny hole in that weight and let out the pressure building up in my heart. I’m not flying. The sky is still impossible, but I know he’s right. That is one thing I can do. Sing. All the Colbys and their ugly warty witch masks can’t steal that.

  chapter 5

  BRIGHT LIGHTS

  Don’t let anybody tell you lasers aren’t painful.

  You know when the dentist says it’s going to pinch a little, and then he jabs a needle into the roof of your mouth, and it feels like it goes right up your nose and out the top of your head? From what I found on the Internet, laser treatments are kind of the same deal.

  Mom says childbirth is like that on steroids. I don’t know if I’m brave enough. All that pain? It would be worth it, though, for a baby, a sweet, beautiful bundle cooing in my arms. Anything would be worth that. But even with all of Meadow and her mom’s interventions, no way a guy will ever get that close to me. I’m so delusional about the blind, fat old guy in my fantasies. I’m too ugly to mess with. Colby’s right about that. Look at all this time I’ve been friends with Scott and the most that’s ever happened between us is he touched my lips with his fingertip. I don’t think any of that stuff means anything to Scott. How could it? I’m so gross. He’s being nice. That’s all it is to him, but it makes me overheat if I just think about it. Or is that the big lamps overhead and the technician standing next to me armed with a laser wand?

  The chair I’m sitting in echoes dentist, too, but it is massive, cushy, and smells like burned meat.

  “Just relax.” The technician waves her magic laser. I think she’s smiling to reassure me. Her eyes seem to be. I can’t see her face because she’s got a pale-pink surgical mask covering it. “We’re going to gently burn away the damaged skin.” All my zit scars. “You’ll have some oozing for a while. Nothing to worry about. You’ll notice a huge difference when it heals. Two weeks, and you’ll be a beauty queen.” Not a princess?

  Hold it. Gently burn? Burn gently? How is a burn gentle? I can take this woman. I’m bigger and stronger, but I lie here and nod, the perfect picture of cooperation. I do that at the dentist’s, too.

  “Would you like something to help you relax?”

  Yes. Of course. Yes. Please. “No, I’m fine.”

  She turns on some waves crashing to the shore set to music, gives me sunglasses to shield my eyes from the dental-like light she shines down on my face, and pushes buttons that lean me way back in the chair. “Okay. Let’s get started. Try to hold very still.”

  I hold my breath. I hate this. I hate all of this. Everyone looking at me. Trying to figure out how to fix me. I hate being reminded how pathetic and broken I am—seeing the disgust in their eyes. I hate that I need an industrial-strength makeover complete with lasers instead of a mere trip to the salon and a killer outfit. I’m not a person to these people. Especially Meadow’s mom. I’m her latest obsessive project. She let her daughter give up her solo spot for me. Now she’s taking everything that used to be me and turning it inside out, cutting, dicing, disguising. And I have to let her. I should even be grateful.

  “You need to breathe, hon.” The technician rubs goo with a touch of anesthetic all over my face.

  I exhale and fill my lungs again.

  “This is the same process we use to remove tattoos. You may want to close your eyes.”

  Okay. Closed.

  It is gentle. At first. But when she gets down to the raw epidermis it stings like crazy. Burns. My eyes water. I’m glad I’ve got the sunglasses.

  “There. That wasn’t so bad. Let’s move on to the next one.”

  Crap. She’s just getting started. There’s something wrong with me. I’m getting kind of dizzy.

  “Breathe, Beth.”

  Right. Breathe. I take another gigantic breath in and blow it out.

  “Not quite so huge, though. Keep it shallow so you don’t move.”

  She starts on another scar.

  I need to swallow. Can I? The liquid is collecting in the back of my mouth, pooling. I can’t breathe through it. Nose. Right. I’ve got a nose. I suck a tiny bit of air in through my nose and exhale the same way. I can’t stand this spit in my mouth. If I swallow it lying back like this, I’ll choke. I know it. She’s got me almost upside down. Can you drown in your own spit? Damn, that hurts. Damn. I hate that word. Why did I think of that word?

  No, no, no, no. Blackness builds in me. I need to breathe deep, sit up, and swallow, but I’m stuck here. What will she say if I shove her aside and run out? My mouth is full of spit. Completely. I breathe through my nose, so careful. Concentrate on that. Don’t think about the—DAMN!

  I must have made some sort of noise.

  “Do you need a break?” She sits the chair up.

  I swallow all that drool. So gross. “Are we about done?”

  She shakes her head. “Here.” She pops open a couple of individually wrapped capsules, hands them to me with a glass of water.

  I gobble down those drugs. I don’t care what they are.

  “Relax for a while.” She turns off the glaring lamps and lights a couple candles. “I’ll be back in half an hour.” She leaves.

  The waves crash against the shore, and I scan the place for a mirror. Nothing. Smart folks.

  Right on cue, Meadow walks into the room. “I’m supposed to keep you company.”

  “Do you have a mirror?”

  She looks at my face. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I need a mirror.” Wait. I have one. In my bag. On my first visit—the one Scott was going to hold my hand through—they decided we needed to clear up my face before they could laser me. They started me out with a new zit treatment, some secret, European spa stuff. They applied it here and sent me home with a supply. Morning, noon, and night. You wouldn’t believe my skin. I need to tell Dr. Namar about this stuff. He kept me from being totally engulfed in acne like Aunt Linda says bio-Dad was in high school, but there were plenty of breakthroughs—especially on my back and chest. So nasty. So . . . ugly.

  The team also gave me secret, European spa cosmetics, hypoallergenic and noncomedogenic, i.e., they won’t give me a rash or break me out. The sleek compacts and tubes look too beautiful to use. I got a lesson in brush technique. I’ve messed around with it some. The lip-gloss pots are all flavored. Mulberry Lane. Cinnamon Candy. Watermelon Ice. I can’t bring myself to wear it too much at school yet. But the pressed-powder compact comes in handy. And it’s in my purse, sitting over there on that counter.

  I stretch my arms, yawn, bend m
y head from side to side to crack my neck. “Hey, can you hand me my purse? I need to text my mom.”

  Meadow tosses me the bag.

  It’s not really my purse. I’ve never had a purse before. Backpack. Music bag. Purse? Meadow has a closetful.

  She tossed this squishy, brown leather bag at me before we went shopping. “You can’t go to these stores with a backpack on your shoulder.”

  I was going to leave it in the car. Really.

  I search through the big belly of the thing and come up with the compact. I take it out and flip it open fast.

  “No.” She tries to grab it away from me.

  I hold it way, way out of her reach. I stand up and go over to the door where there’s still a soft light on. Four oozing wounds mar my face. Crap. What if this doesn’t heal like it’s supposed to? What if it makes bigger scars? My whole face will be one hideous wound.

  “What? It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “My mother looked way worse than you do. When it all heals up, it’s like you have brand-new skin. And you’re young. It will heal fast for you.”

  At that moment I decide Meadow is almost human. “Really?”

  “Yeah.” She slips the compact out of my hand. “Let me put this away for you.”

  I watch her ditch it in the purse.

  “You go lie down awhile, and I’ll take care of this.”

  She leaves with the purse. She’s way more into Project Beth than she ever was into singing that solo. Maybe I’ll give it back to her and go crawl in a hole somewhere. That would be better than this, wouldn’t it? Is my world debut worth all this? I sit down, sink back into the cushy chair, and that’s the last thing I remember.

  Ooze? Yeah. Gooey, oozy, weepy, pussy mess. And I have school. I’d stay home, but my group is giving a presentation in AP history and if I’m not there, they’ll screw it up totally. My GPA needs the solid A I’ve got in that class.

  I wash off the crusty crap that dried on my face overnight with warm water and the special medicated cleanser they gave me and survey the tube of medicated concealer for the wounds and the beautiful array of cosmetics spread out on my bathroom counter. I’ve got no choice—the face magnified in the makeup mirror Meadow loaned me resembles a car-accident victim in a driver’s ed film.