“Getting dressed!” I said, springing to a stand. “You like?” Then, before she could answer, I added, “As a wise woman once told me, ‘change your life, change yourself.’”
Ruthie shook her head. “That’s not exactly what I said.”
“Yes, it is.” I quoted back her other gemstones: “don’t let your face define you” and “stop wallowing.” “See?” I smiled, gesturing down at my outfit. “I’m taking your advice.”
Ruthie shot me a funny look, but that didn’t stop me from sharing the list I’d written the night before—my RULES FOR BECOMING THE ANTI-LEXI—that I happened to have brought with me into her closet.
1) Eat what you want.
2) Stop worrying about looks, aka no more makeup, scales, or Elle magazines.
3) Get some real friends (who aren’t fake, obnoxious, or boyfriend stealers).
4) Forget guys (they’re more trouble than they’re worth).
5) Boycott all football games, pep rallies, dances, and other nonacademic after-school activities aimed at the so-called “popular” crowd.
6) Study!
7) Stop letting other people (aka Mom) dictate your life.
Then, because I’d just thought of this one and I knew Ruthie would appreciate the sentiment, I threw out:
8) Care more. (Become more “globally aware.”)
“Wow,” Ruthie said when I was finished. “You’ve really thought this through.”
“Yes, I have.”
She was giving me the strangest look—like she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure she should.
“What?”
Ruthie shook her head. “Nothing.” She reached up to a hook on the wall. “Here … the fashion police will hate this.”
“Oh, yeah.” I smirked at the barf-green scarf she held out to me. It looked like something one of the old ladies at church would knit for the Christmas bazaar. “This is hideous.”
“Right,” Ruthie said, shrugging as she turned to walk out of the closet. “I made it.”
I started to apologize and then stopped myself. Apologizing was an old-me move, because the old me never wanted to offend anyone. But the new Lexi didn’t let other people dictate her life (Rule number seven). She spoke her mind. Besides, my sister didn’t care if I thought her scarf was ugly. Those things never bothered her. And, anyway, Ruthie was smart enough to understand that—starting today—ugly was whole the point.
My mother’s reaction was even better than I’d hoped. When I walked into the kitchen she took one look at me and sloshed her tea on the floor. Then, after she’d cleaned it up and regained her composure, she asked, “Are you doing a skit in school today? Some kind of performance?”
I played completely dumb. I flopped onto a chair, helped myself to a piece of toast, and said, “What do you mean?”
“Your clothes.”
“What about them?”
“There must be a reason you’re dressed that way.”
“Yes,” I said, spreading butter on my toast—not just a thin coating, either. Hunks. “I’m going to school.”
My mother shook her head. “No. No, you are not going anywhere dressed like that.”
I took a bite. “Why?”
“Why?” she repeated in disbelief. “Because you look like a ragamuffin … a … homeless person.”
This was exactly the opening I was waiting for. “Ruthie dresses like this all the time, and you don’t even blink!”
My mother hesitated then said, “We are not talking about your sister. We are talking about you.”
“I wore her khakis yesterday!” I cried, spraying crumbs through the air. “And you didn’t have a problem with that!”
“Those pants were new. I bought them just last week. They didn’t have rips, or stains, or—”
“Right, you bought them. You picked them out. If you pick something out for me, it’s fine. If Ruthie picks something out for herself, it’s fine. But if I want to choose my own clothes or get my own hair cut I need your approval? That’s just…” I paused for a second, wracking my brain for the best word. “Lunacy! And I am not doing it anymore!” Then, for good measure, I threw out, “And you can take that scar makeup back to the store because I’m not doing that anymore, either!”
I grabbed three more pieces of toast before marching out of the kitchen, down the front steps, and into Ruthie’s car.
Minutes later, my sister opened the door and got in.
“Did you hear me telling off Mom?” I asked.
She nodded, turning the key in the ignition.
“You should have seen the look on her face…. She hated my clothes … and I really got my point across about her not telling me how to do everything all the time, how just because she wants me to look a certain way doesn’t mean her way is the be all and end all….”
The whole time I talked, Ruthie didn’t say a word. She just drove. When I stopped talking and looked at her, she stayed silent.
“Well?” I said.
“Well what?”
“Aren’t you proud of me?”
Ruthie turned the steering wheel and sighed. “Is that why you’re doing this? To make me proud of you?”
“Doing what?” I said.
Ruthie gave me that look again—the one from the closet. I could see in her eyes that she had something to say, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. Which wasn’t Ruthie at all. Never, in all her seventeen years, had my sister kept her mouth shut about anything. “What?” I said, exasperated.
I waited.
Finally, Ruthie shook her head. “Nothing,” she said quietly. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Lex. I’m glad you’re back at school. Let’s just leave it at that.”
I stared at her.
“I know how you feel about the bus,” she continued, “and I’d love to help you out, but stage band starts today. It goes until five o’clock. You can hang out in the library until I’m done or call Mom to pick you up or … whatever you want to do.”
“Library,” I said.
Ruthie raised an eyebrow.
“What? An afternoon among the books will do me good.”
“It’s not just one afternoon, Lex. I have rehearsal every day but Friday, every week of the school year.”
I frowned. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Stage band, marching band, jazz band. Trombone is a serious commitment.”
It’s a serious waste of time, I thought to myself. But instead of saying that, I shrugged. “Fine. I’ll hang out in the library four days a week. Rule number six, remember? Study!”
“Yeah,” Ruthie said, pulling into the parking lot. “I remember.”
When the car stopped, I combed my hair in front of my face but resisted the urge to look at myself in the side-view mirror. I knew what I looked like, and I didn’t need to be reminded. I wasn’t about to let anything ruin this perfect day.
For the first four periods, everything went great. I successfully ignored Taylor and Heidi, avoided Kendall and Rae, and, in trigonometry, didn’t look at Ryan once. I was the model student: attentive to my teachers, oblivious to the superficial chatter around me. I knew people were staring at my face. I knew they were whispering. I just refused to let it bother me.
But fifth period, after I’d dodged Laurel and Ariana in the hall and ducked into the girls’ room to steer clear of Jarrod LeFevre, I was in the lunch line, waiting for a tray and listening in on the conversation taking place a few feet ahead of me. It was football players, I could tell—even before I saw their sweats, MHS muscle shirts, and gold chains. As I contemplated fries versus onion rings, I heard one of them vow to “kick Fairfield’s pansy ass” on Friday night and the other complain about his “bee-atch of a mother,” who wouldn’t let him drive her car. Then the question arose, “Dude, have you seen that sophomore with the smokin’ bod?”
“Which one?”
“The blonde chick with the fucked-up face.”
“The one LeFevre hooked up with?”
; “Yeah … lucky bastard.”
“Hell, yeah. She’s hot as shit from the neck down.”
“All she needs is a bag over her head.”
There was laughter, a high five, but I no longer heard what they were saying. Words were bouncing around my skull like pinballs. Fucked-up face. Bag over her head. The one LeFevre hooked up with.
Jarrod told people we hooked up? We barely kissed. Hooking up could mean anything. It could mean everything.
My brain went numb, and I forgot all about the new Lexi. The walls were caving in and I couldn’t breathe and I needed to get out of there and I pushed my way back through the line and walked faster and faster until I came to a room and in that room was a door and I threw it open and—
“Hey!”
I froze.
“Shut the door!” a voice barked. “Shutthedoorshutthedoorshutthedoor!”
I shut the door.
“It’s called a darkroom for a reason.”
Darkroom, I thought, my heart pounding against my rib cage. Right.
There was a sharp, chemical smell in the air. I steadied myself against the wall, feeling my nose burn. But after a few breaths I got used to it. My eyes adjusted to the blackness. I didn’t care how dark it was. I didn’t care who else was in here. I was just happy not to be seen. I slouched against the wall, letting the darkness wrap me like a quilt, feeling my muscles loosen, my pulse return to normal.
“Damn,” the voice muttered.
“What?”
“My film’s ruined.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Didn’t you see the warning light? The big red one outside the door?”
It was a stupid question, because obviously I hadn’t. “Why don’t you just use a digital camera?”
“That,” the voice said, “would defeat the purpose.”
“Why?”
“Film development is an art form.”
Then, out of nowhere, the lights flicked on and a boy was squinting at me. A boy with black, wiry hair and skin so pale it looked like he hadn’t spent a single day of his life outside. He was two heads taller than I was, so I felt like a child looking up at him. Which, after the humiliation I’d just endured in the lunch line, was the last thing I needed. I felt my eyes sting, and I hated myself for being such a baby.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry, you idiot.
“Hey,” the boy said, his eyes softening. “I’m not mad at you.”
I shook my head, feeling my face grow hot, which made me remember my graft and the fact that I wasn’t wearing Band-Aids, which made me want to fling open the door and run.
I didn’t want to run.
New Lexi wouldn’t run.
She would do this: stare straight into Photo Boy’s eyes without moving a muscle, until he turned away. I needed to train my brain, make it completely blank.
Forget your face.
Forget what Jarrod said.
Forget the lunch line.
Just stare.
For a second, I was doing it—mind over matter. But then, for some reason I got distracted and realized I was in a small, enclosed space with a boy whose eyes were an unnerving shade of green, and he was staring at my face.
I ran because I couldn’t stand another second.
I stayed out of sight until the end of the day, avoiding everyone—except for the nurse who gave me Band-Aids—by skipping sixth, seventh, and eighth periods, holing up in a carrel in the library. At five o’clock, Ruthie found me.
“Oh my God. Are you studying? Alert the presses!”
I shut the random book I’d grabbed from the stacks, the same one I’d been staring at for the past four hours without reading a single word. “How can I be studying? I don’t even have my backpack.”
“Why don’t you have your backpack?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“It wasn’t a rhetorical question.”
“Never mind,” I told her. “Just walk me to my locker.”
Ruthie shrugged. “Whatever you say.” She picked up her trombone case. Then, as soon we got out into the hall, she started whistling.
What are you so happy about? I thought, trudging along behind her. You’ve never whistled a day in your life. When we got to my locker, she was still whistling. “Could you stop?” I snapped. “That’s really annoying.”
“Well, excuuuuuse me,” Ruthie said. But she didn’t look offended. In fact, she was smiling.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Now, she laughed. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”
I slammed my locker. “Never mind.”
We started walking again.
“Ask me about band,” Ruthie said suddenly.
“What?”
“If you really want to know, ask me about band practice.”
“Why?” I asked, with growing annoyance. “Who cares?”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Look, I’ve had a horrible day. I’m not in the mood.”
Ruthie nodded, no longer smiling. The whole way to the parking lot, she didn’t say word.
“What—now you’re mad?” I said as we got in car.
“I’m not mad.”
“You seem mad to me.”
Ruthie sighed, turning the key in the ignition. “I’m not mad. I’m not anything. Let’s just go.” This from the girl who loves to argue, who never backs down without a fight.
Now I knew something was wrong.
We drove all the way home in silence, during which I replayed, over and over, the events of my day.
By the time Ruthie pulled into the driveway, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Jarrod told the football team we hooked up!”
“Well, didn’t you?”
“No! All we did was kiss!”
Ruthie nodded. “Okay, but hooking up’s a continuum, right? Anything from kissing on.”
I stared at her, amazed she even knew this.
“If he told people you guys hooked up—if he used that precise term—he wasn’t necessarily being inaccurate.”
“Are you defending him?” I demanded.
“No. I’m just being logical.”
“There’s nothing logical about it,” I said. And I replayed the conversation from the lunch line, in sordid detail. “How could they say those things about me?” I cried. “How could they say those things about anyone?”
“I don’t know, Lex. It’s how they roll.”
“It’s how they roll?” I stared at my sister. “Do you even know any guys on the football team?”
“Yes.”
I snorted in disbelief.
“What—you think because I’m in band I couldn’t possibly interact with anyone popular?”
I shrugged. “Your words. Not mine.”
“Ty Mastrobattisto,” Ruthie said. “Marcus Burns. Jason Godomsky. Rob Stiles, Peter Moskowitz, Brendan Sutcliff … Do you want me to keep going? Because I’ll keep going….”
I shook my head, dumbfounded.
“You think you’re the only one they’ve ever insulted? Try getting called Godzitla every day for three years. You’ll get to know them really well.”
“Godzitla?”
“Yeah.”
“Because of your—”
“Yeah … forget it.”
“That’s the stupidest name I ever heard. Your skin isn’t even that bad.” I was saying this to be nice, but I realized, looking at her, that Ruthie’s face was clearer than I’d seen it in a long time.
“Forget it,” she said again a little sharply. “I don’t care. Those guys are Neanderthals. They run around head-butting each other all day and treating girls like pieces of meat. Their opinion means nothing to me. That’s my whole point.”
“What’s your whole point?”
Ruthie sighed, like this conversation was suddenly too exhausting for words. “Get over it, Lex. Grow a backbone. Just like the rest of us.”
Specks of Dust, Atoms
WHEN RUTHIE AND I walked in
the house, our father was waiting on the couch in the mudroom. He did not look happy.
“Tough day in court?” Ruthie asked.
But he didn’t even answer. He looked straight at me and said, “Alexa. My study. Now.”
I’d never heard him speak to me that way. As I took off my backpack and followed him down the hall, I felt a mounting sense of dread.
There were only two chairs in my dad’s study—both dark leather with cracked armrests—and he’d set them up to face each other.
“Sit,” he commanded.
I sat.
“I received a phone call from your principal this afternoon,” he said, “and do you know what he told me?”
I shook my head.
“He told me that in the two days you have been back in school—of the sixteen class periods you have been expected to attend throughout those two days—you have been absent a total of five class periods. Five.”
He looked at me, as though waiting for me to question his math.
I didn’t.
“While I understand, and your teachers understand, that this is a time of readjustment for you, you need to understand that skipping classes is absolutely unacceptable. The anti-truancy statute in the state of Connecticut is irrefutable. Your mother and I have given you plenty of leeway by allowing you to miss the first two weeks of school, but that grace period is over. You are too smart to repeat your sophomore year. Am I making myself clear?”
I nodded.
“I cancelled a court appearance to come home and have this discussion with you. Your mother is very upset.”
I looked down at my fingernails to hide my annoyance. If my mother was so upset why wasn’t she a part of this lecture? Why was she hiding in the kitchen? Why was she making my father do the dirty work?
“Alexa.”
“Yeah.”
“You need to be more respectful of your mom.”
My head snapped up. “I need to be more respectful of her? She needs to be more respectful me!”
“How so?” He was using his lawyer voice, calm and measured. “Give me a for instance.”
“For instance, she won’t get off my back! She won’t stop hounding me! She won’t get a life and stop trying to run mine!”
I was only getting started, but my dad held up his hand to stop me. “Your mother loves you very much.”
My Life in Black and White Page 12