If they had known about the letter, I wondered if I’d be grounded for my “bad attitude” and for being “selfish.” But what was selfish about trying to get Tomlin & Tomlin to make products that actually worked? Fifty million acne sufferers would be thankful—not just me. But I’d have felt the same way even if I was the only person on the planet plagued with this disease. So, maybe I was selfish. Is it selfish to want smooth skin?
Before I went to bed, I checked updates from my friends one last time . . . beach plans tomorrow . . . pictures from the band banquet . . . and ONE NEW MESSAGE!!!
REPLY FROM CHARLIE:
What’s your phone #?
Should I give it to him? Am I in trouble?
I called Jenna. She had actually met Charlie last year at band camp. “Why do you think he’d want my number?”
“Slow down. What did you do? I didn’t know you even knew Charlie Tomlin Jr.”
“I don’t,” I said. “I mean, I know who he is. Who his dad is.”
“Who doesn’t? So what did your letter say?”
As I told her, I was suddenly embarrassed by my brattyness. Maybe it was my hormones. That’s what my dad said when I got emotional. I did read once that hormones contributed to acne—not nuts and chocolate as my grandma thought.
Jenna was laughing about my letter.
“See what happens when I feel like I’m losing my friends. I was depressed.”
“You haven’t lost us,” she said. “Maybe lost your mind, that’s all. I guess you should give him your number.”
four
“Stop checking your cell, Kaylin!” Rachel misted me with sunscreen. “You’re going to get sand in it.”
I tossed my phone back in my bag and just tried to relax and enjoy the first beach day of the summer. Maybe the sound of the waves foaming up onto the sand would drown out my noisy thoughts and nervousness.
Or maybe not.
I grabbed my phone to double check that the ring volume was as loud as I could make it so I’d hear it over the waves.
“It’ll never ring if you’re staring at it,” Jenna said. I would’ve rolled my eyes at her if I hadn’t already closed them.
It had been seventeen hours and thirty-two minutes since I sent Charlie my number.
“You don’t even know if Charlie’s dad read your message,” Maron said. “And what do you think, the President of Clearagel is going to call you on a Saturday while you’re sunbathing?”
I don’t know what I thought. I guess I just figured someone asks you for your number, you give it to them, there will be a call. Cause and Effect. But who, when, and maybe most importantly, why? I didn’t have a theory for that yet.
“Okay, I’m sweating now.” I sat up and put my hair in a bun. “Let’s go in.”
We ran across the hot sand into the water. I slowed down as the first chill surged through my legs, watching Maron, Jenna and Rachel clomp through the waves and then dive into the suds. I hadn’t scientifically proven this yet, but I still thought getting used to the water gradually was the better way to go. Although I did resort to the fast shoulder dunk for the final step. Brrrrrr. But I forgot all about the cold in a minute as I jumped and floated over the waves with my friends. Jenna and Maron were on their backs, flailing their feet in the air, pretending to be synchronized swimmers.
“See what you would’ve missed if you were in DC?” Rachel said.
“I wouldn’t have been gone all summer. Sean’ll be back in three weeks.”
“That’s a relief. I wouldn’t have been able to last any longer than that,” Rachel said, with her best attempt to sound desperate. At least we could laugh about the whole Sean incident now.
“I’m sorry Kaylin,” Rachel continued. “I know you wish you were in DC.” Jenna and Maron side-stroked over to us. “WAIT! You could do Junior Lifeguards with us now! We start next week.”
“Oh yeah! You know they’d totally still let you in,” Maron said.
“How awesome would that be?” Rachel added. “Trust me, you’ll forget all about Sean.”
“You know I can’t,” I said.
“You have to get over Sean,” Jenna said. “Whatever happened to that 20% thing you told us. That’s like one-fourth of your life! Wasted.”
“One-fifth,” I corrected her. “But that’s not what I was talking about. I can’t do Junior Lifeguards.”
“Because you don’t like it when you can’t touch the bottom and we have to do that tread water day? You’ll get over that,” Rachel said. “We’ll all be there to make sure nothing bad happens.”
Did they have memories like hamsters?
“I told you at Jenna’s sleepover,” I said, wondering how long it would take them to synthesize sleep-over data with Junior Lifeguards requirements.
“You still can’t use tampons!!!”
I dunked my head under the water, drowning in embarrassment. I was pretty sure the group of guys boogie-boarding near us couldn’t hear—but still!
I popped my head back up, wishing I could rewind the last few minutes—no, rewind all the way back to my science fair project.
Normally I loved the beach. But it wasn’t where I expected or wanted to be that day.
“I’m going back.” I angled toward the shore, and started kicking while looking back for my favorite kind of body-surfing wave—glassy in the middle with just the beginnings of bubbly at the top. I felt like I was guiding the wave in, even though I wasn’t in control—like so many other things in my life.
When I was back on foot, I could see my friends weren’t far behind me, following my sloshy, sunked-in footprints. I dripped my way back to our primo spot marked by our colorful beach bags.
“Nobody heard, Kaylin,” Rachel said after we collapsed on our towels. “I didn’t know that was still an issue.”
One of my many issues. Some more visible than others.
I tried to forget about them all, feeling the warmth of the sand through my towel, and rays of sunlight evaporating salty water droplets on my back.
I listened to all the sounds around me . . . a little girl patting down the sand as she buried her friend . . . seagulls squawking . . . the ocean sucking back a wave and then sending another . . . part of a Suki5 song—
The part that plays WHEN I HAVE VOICEMAIL!!!
I scrambled to grab the phone out of my beach bag.
It could’ve just been my mom.
“It’s him!!!” I blurted out, still listening to the message.
“The President of Clearagel?” Maron asked, shocked.
“Shhh . . .” I said.
When it was done, I pressed replay and put it on speaker, as we huddled around to listen.
Hey Kaylin—It’s Charlie. I’ve been helping my dad’s company find people our age to be part of a focus group. After I read your letter, I thought you might be good for it. Um, yeah, I read it. Hope that’s cool. So, I’ll send you all the info about the group. Let me know if you can come.
five
Before I got back to Charlie, I wanted to figure out what he meant about a focus group. Almost everything I read about it online mentioned the group participants sit in a room with a mirrored wall. But there are people on the other side of the mirror in another room watching and listening.
I don’t think I’d ever been in a room with a mirrored wall, except when I took ballet once when I was eleven. It was really boring. My mom thought it’d be good for learning how to follow instructions and to be poised. Personally, I think science lab is a much more interesting way to learn about following instructions. But who wants to follow instructions anyway? I’d rather make up theories and create my own instructions to test them out. That’s way cooler than just being a follower.
I don’t remember being particularly poised in ballet class. But I do remember the mirrored wall by the ballet barre. Ever since my breakouts, I hadn’t been a fan of mirrors. Now, if I saw a mirrored wall, I’d have to wonder if there were people on the other side watching me.
; Creepy. But at least I knew about it before the focus group. And I wanted the people at Clearagel to hear what I had to say. If I had to talk to them through some weird wall, so be it.
I sent Charlie back a message that I’d be there on Monday.
It didn’t seem very scientific. There must’ve been much better experiments you could do than putting people in a room and having a “moderator” ask a bunch of questions. But whatever—I’d say what was on my mind. Like in my letter. I wondered if Charlie ever showed his dad. He never said one way or the other.
I still meant everything I wrote, I just wish I hadn’t been so bratty. I’d try to be more poised when I got to talk to the people behind the mirror.
Almost ready to go, Monday morning, I just needed to cover up a few more red spots with my Tish Macelroy concealer, which I was nearly out of. It was the only thing that made my face look semi-decent in the mornings—so I’d have “Neutral Ivory 2” splotches all over my face instead of the alternative. Much better.
“Why are you bringing your camera bag?” I asked my dad as we got in the car.
“I’m going to scout photo shoot locations while I wait for you.”
I’d seen the Tomlin & Tomlin building many times when we took the back-way to the beach. It was on a bluff, overlooking the ocean.
My dad drove us up the hill until we reached a giant gate. The security guards and cameras made it seem like something important was going on in those massive, window-covered buildings. I wished Tomlin & Tomlin was making something important enough to be secretive about. But if it was anything like Clearagel, there was nothing worth guarding.
Unfortunately.
But maybe I could change that today if I was persuasive—politely persuasive, with well-researched facts. I brought my science project portfolio with me so they’d know I wasn’t just making stuff up.
After my dad told the man at the gate who we were, I was given a guest ID and directed toward the fountain in front of the main building.
“I’ll be back in two hours,” my dad said as I got out of the car. “Just call me if you need me sooner.”
There were a couple other girls sitting on the ledge of the fountain talking to Charlie Tomlin Jr.
Charlie looked just like the pictures I had seen on his profile page, except his hair was brushed neatly.
It seemed like he already knew the other girls that were there. They were talking about band camp later in the summer, and one of them asked about his sister.
“Hey, I’m Charlie.” He held his hand out toward me to . . . uh, shake hands, apparently.
“Kaylin.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said. “This is Eva and Delaney. A few other girls are inside already. I’ll show you the way.”
The lobby of Tomlin & Tomlin reminded me of the spa my mom took me to for a facial. Soothing music played quietly underneath the sound of water trickling over stones in a fountain along the wall. It smelled like peaceful relaxation with a hint of eucalyptus.
Charlie walked us down a long hallway lined with flat screen monitors showing close-ups of Tomlin & Tomlin products along with muted television commercials followed by big numbers across the screen saying how many sold.
I had contributed to at least a dozen of those sales. Maybe close to fifty if you counted recent years of Clearagel and face washes, masks and more. Maybe more like sixty. And not because they really did anything to help me. Not like I hoped they would, anyway.
“So, what’s this all about?” I asked Charlie. Was our little group meeting, whatever-you-call-it, going to just help Tomlin & Tomlin sell more of the same? I hadn’t really considered that me being here could have the opposite effect of what I wanted. I couldn’t let that happen.
“Someone will explain it all inside,” he said, stopping in front of an open conference room door, like he was waiting for us to walk in ahead of him.
He started to close the door behind us. “You’re not coming in?” I asked. But what would Charlie Tomlin Jr. know about having bad skin? I bet he’d never had a blemish in his life.
“No, it’s just the girls right now. The guys are later this afternoon.”
We joined a few other girls who were already sitting around the table writing their names with colored markers on folded cards.
“Come on in,” a petite woman said. “Make sure you write your name on both sides of the card.”
So they can see it though the mirrored wall, I thought. But wait. There was no mirrored wall. Just a bushy, fake fern in the corner. Maybe there was a microphone in there. Other than that, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
“I’m Julie,” the woman continued. “Thank you all for coming today. We invited you here because we’re interested in what you think. I’m going to ask you some questions and just answer honestly.”
Don’t worry, I will.
“And just so I can remember what we talked about, we’re video recording this.” She pointed up to a small black dome protruding from the ceiling in the corner. “Please be sure to talk loud enough so that the microphones will pick it up.” She showed us the thin microphone wires dangling down from the ceiling over the conference room table. So much for the fern theory.
Since I was going to be recorded, I reminded myself to choose my words carefully when I told them what I thought about Clearagel. No whining. No brattyness. Just the truth.
“I didn’t make any of the products we’ll talk about today, so don’t worry about hurting my feelings if you don’t like something,” Julie said. “Just talk to me like you would talk to your friends.” She stood up and brought a marker over to a poster board pinned to a wall, then turned back around toward us. She didn’t seem dressed like someone who’d work at Tomlin & Tomlin. She was dressed like—I guess, like us girls. She seemed liked she had raided her daughter’s closet with her pony-tie and charm bracelets. And she didn’t sound very grown-up—like she was trying be just one of the girls.
“So . . . like, you ever have one of those mornings when you’re brushing your teeth and you see something on your face that wasn’t there the night before?”
Yeah, like every morning.
“And you think . . . Ugh! Another . . .,” she paused, and held out her hand like she was waiting for someone to fill in the blank, over her jingling bracelets. “What do you call this thing you see in the mirror?”
Nobody said anything. Probably because the question was so ridiculous. Why did it matter what we called it? Just get rid of it!
“So like, when you’re telling one of your friends about it, what do you call that thing on your face?”
Things plural.
“I’ll just write the words up here as you say them.”
“Pimple,” one of the girls said and Julie wrote in a purple marker much prettier than the word itself. She continued to write as we said the words that came to mind.
PIMPLE
BUMP
WHITEHEAD
BLEMISH
ACNE
ZIT
“I hate that word,” Eva said. Yeah, I hate all those words, I thought.
“Which word, ZIT?” Julie questioned, looking up at the ceiling corner.
“Ooh, yeah.” Eva scrunched up her nose in disgust.
“Which word do you like better?” Julie asked.
“I guess BUMP is okay,” Eva said. Julie made sure we all agreed it was the least offensive word. She circled it on the poster board with a red marker and moved over to another blank poster board.
“So, let’s describe these BUMPS,” she said.
Can we not? Wait, I got a word—ANNOYING!
“What do they look like? Feel like? What are some words that come to mind?”
“Ugly,” I said. Sad, but true. And they wanted the truth.
UGLY
RED
SPLOTCHY
GROSS
I looked around the room as she wrote down the words that came to mind, realizing I wasn’t the only one that felt frustrated about my face.
Not all my friends could understand how I felt, but I bet these girls could.
“What about the word INFLAMED?” She added it to our list. “Is that how the BUMPS look or feel to you?”
And so on, and so on . . . lots of questions. Except she never did ask what we thought of Clearagel. Instead, we were going to play what Julie called the “WHAT IF” game.
She handed each of us a piece of paper with a bunch of “WHAT IF” questions and told us to make a check mark next to our answer. Would we be “NOT LIKELY” or “VERY LIKELY” to buy a new product with these “WHAT IF” benefits.
WHAT IF THIS PRODUCT REDUCED INFLAMATION?
WHAT IF THIS PRODUCT GOT RID OF YOUR BUMPS?
I read down the list of questions, but weren’t the answers obvious? Of course I’d be very likely to buy something if I thought it would actually work!
VERY LIKELY -
VERY LIKELY -
VERY LIKELY -
And so on, and so on. I handed Julie my answers. Who wouldn’t want a product that did all those things?
But I kept thinking about it while Julie took the papers from the other girls.
Even if this mysterious product really could reduce inflammation and get rid of bumps or do the dozen other things listed—if our acne was just going to come back, what was the point?
So you get rid of a bump or two, but that same morning you’re going to have three new ones to deal with. There’s got to be something that will make sure we never get acne in the first place!
I was done being poised. Julie said they wanted to know what we thought—just like we talk to our friends—and my friends had heard plenty from me about this.
Who wouldn’t want a product that did all these things? That’s me, who wouldn’t.
“Um, can I have my paper back?” I asked. “I need to fix something.”
“Oh, uh. . . .” She looked up at the camera in the corner, not quite sure what to do. “I guess so. But here.” She handed me a marker. “Use red so we can see your new answers.”
I took off the cap and gripped the marker. Could they see me through the camera?
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