Things Jolie Needs to Do Before She Bites It

by Kerry Winfrey

“Not to be self-centered, but, uh … what does this have to do with me?”

  “I’m just saying … there’s not, like, one universal standard of beauty. Life isn’t a Miss America pageant, as much as Abbi would probably love that. Do I think you’re pretty? Yeah, but that’s a useless question.”

  “That’s really easy for you to say,” I grumble. “You know you look good and your face isn’t deformed. You’ve never felt the way I feel.”

  “Jolie!” Evelyn almost yells. “Listen to yourself. Yes, I am confident. But we live in a world where a lot of jerks equate ‘fat’ with ‘ugly.’ I regularly go to clothing stores and can only buy hats because they don’t carry my size. There are people everywhere who would love to tell me that the way I look isn’t good enough, that I should change, that there’s something wrong with me. So don’t say I don’t get it, because I do.”

  I drop my hands, properly chastised. “I’m sorry. I just never thought you felt this way, because…” I trail off.

  “Because I carry myself like I’m worth something,” Evelyn says. “You’re right, I don’t give a single bedazzled shit what anyone else thinks of the way I look, or act, or think, but that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of it. You aren’t the only one who lives with self-doubt, Jolie.”

  “You are really pretty, though,” I say quietly.

  She smiles back at me, then laughs. “I think you’re pretty, too, babe. But it’s more important that you think you’re pretty.”

  When Evelyn finishes the last minor fixes to my dresses, I ask her if she wants to hang around and Netflix something.

  “Sorry, can’t,” she says, giving me an altogether unconvincing pouty face as she packs her sewing supplies into her vintage bowling bag.

  I’m disappointed, because I would love to forget about tomorrow’s performance for a few episodes of literally anything, but I try to be supportive. “You’re right. You should probably study instead.”

  She looks at me for a moment and purses her lips, then heads toward the door. “Yep. Good point. Try to actually get some sleep tonight, okay?”

  After Evelyn leaves, I pull out my scrapbook and page through it. Logically, I know Evelyn’s right. But emotionally? Well, that’s a different story. I flip past pictures of Karlie Kloss and Zendaya and some girl in a mascara ad. I’m not delusional; I know that when my swelling goes down, I’m not going to magically look like a supermodel. But I’m starting to wonder if, even after my surgery, I’ll ever think I’m pretty.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The next day, I send Evelyn about one million freak-out texts, most of them including that Kermit gif where he’s waving his arms frantically. She repeatedly tells me to chill out about the musical, but that’s much easier said than done. When we’re all running around backstage doing last-minute makeup and costume fixes, things are a lot more stressful. I fight the urge to peek through the curtains, but I can hear the murmuring of the audience and know it’s a full house.

  I’m pacing back and forth nervously when Peter steps on my dress.

  “No!” I shout as I hear a loud, horrifying rip.

  “Emergency!” Peter yells. “Dress emergency!”

  “Peter,” Mrs. Mulaney says calmly. “We’ve talked about this. You’re not allowed to use the word ‘emergency’ unless there’s blood, okay?”

  He points silently at my dress, which is torn right up the side.

  “On it!” says Evelyn through the pins in her mouth. She pushes in between us and gets to work.

  “Thanks, Evelyn,” Mrs. Mulaney says as she walks away, presumably to manage another crisis Peter’s started.

  “Thank you,” I exhale. “I can’t believe that happened right before the show starts!”

  “I can,” Evelyn says, pins still sticking out of her mouth like she’s a villain in a horror movie that would be great for Terrible Movie Night. “Something always happens right before stage time. Just be glad it’s only a rip; last year, Marla’s dress got dog poop on it, and we had to create a completely new one in like half an hour.”

  “How did she—” I start.

  “Don’t ask,” Evelyn cuts me off. “Strange things happen backstage.”

  I sigh. “I guess I should consider myself lucky.”

  Finishing her work, Evelyn pulls the pins out of her mouth and stands up. “Hey, did Derek tell you he broke up with Melody?”

  It’s like someone reached out and turned down the volume. I can’t hear the murmuring of the crowd, Peter’s frantic yelling, or the general hubbub of backstage. I can’t hear anything except the echoing of Evelyn’s words and the roar of my own blood rushing through my body.

  “What?” is the only word I can formulate.

  “Yeah, I don’t know what happened. I just saw him, and he said it happened earlier today.”

  “He—they—wait—” I stammer.

  Evelyn looks at me quizzically. “Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you guys?”

  I shake my head, but I must not look very convincing, because she just widens her eyes and says, “Oooookay,” sort of sarcastically.

  “Places, everyone!” Mrs. Mulaney yells, and the volume is turned back up. Now I can hear everything—the squeak of every shoe, every whispered word, every nervous cough. I clear my throat a few times.

  Derek broke up with Melody. I don’t know what it means or how to feel, but I can’t think about it right now, because Noah’s squeezing my hand and we have literally seconds before the curtain opens and I have to be Prudie.

  “You ready?” he whispers, catching my eye.

  I look at him and feel myself smiling as I squeeze his hand back. No matter what happens tonight, and whether or not I ever end up kissing him in a situation that doesn’t involve a stage or his thumb, I’m glad we became friends.

  “Yeah.” I exhale, pushing out all the stress and worry and doubt. “I am.”

  * * *

  When Noah says the last line of the play while staring dramatically off into the distance, the curtain drops, and I hold my breath.

  And then, applause.

  I can’t believe it. It happened. I didn’t trip or barf or faint or forget my lines. I sang on key, I delivered a monologue convincingly, I kissed Noah’s thumb like it was my job. The musical is over and I did it.

  Noah grabs my hand and pulls me out onstage to take our bows. The audience, which has been applauding this entire time for the rest of the cast, stands up. My heart beats overtime as I bow, but for once it’s not because I’m afraid of people looking at me; this time, it’s because I’m actually proud of what I just did. A standing ovation for me, Jolie Peterson, the girl who’s spent basically her entire life hiding from the spotlight. I think about everything I would’ve missed if I’d backed out of the musical when I got scared: new friendships, a tiny bit of confidence in my own abilities, and this. There’s an entire room of people staring at me, and I’m shocked to realize that I don’t feel like hiding or wilting; in fact, I could stay out here for a few more minutes to take in the adoration, but eventually the curtain goes down for the last time.

  Euphoric relief hangs in the air. We’re all running around, hugging each other, yelling congratulations. I can’t wipe the cheesy, oversized grin off my face, and for once I don’t want to.

  “I’m so proud of you, Jolie,” Noah says as he gives me a huge hug. “Everyone loved you.”

  I hug him back as I smile, even though I know it means he can see my braces and just how much my lower jaw sticks out.

  “You were amazing,” I say as I pull back to look at him.

  He runs a hand through his hair, and it magically flops back into place. “No barf, no pee, no fainting. That means it’s a success, right?”

  I laugh and give him a double thumbs-up. He smiles back at me and then turns around to be congratulated by a long line of people. I see Derek across the room, wearing his black stage crew T-shirt. I open my mouth like I’m about to say something, but of course he wouldn’t be able to hear
me from across the crowd—and anyway, what would I say?

  “AMAZING!”

  Evelyn grabs me in a hug and spins me around.

  I laugh. “Your costumes were amazing!”

  I look over to see if Derek’s still there—he’s not. My heart slumps a little.

  “You’re going to Toby’s, right?”

  I nod. “Yeah, of course. Isn’t everyone?”

  Apparently, after every musical there’s an after-party at someone’s house. This year, since Toby’s parents are spending all weekend getting some sort of lamp appraised on a taping of Antiques Roadshow in Cleveland, the party’s at his place.

  “Anyone who’s anyone, darling,” Evelyn drawls, before adding, “But yeah, seriously, even the freshmen are invited.”

  “Do you need a ride?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Marla’s picking me up.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Okay.”

  I’m slightly fonder of Marla now that she apologized to me, but I still don’t get why Evelyn’s hanging out with her. But I know that right now, in the crush of excitement, it isn’t really the time to have a deep conversation about it.

  “Why don’t you ask Derek if he needs a ride?” she asks pointedly, her eyebrows raised.

  “Will do.” I give her a thumbs-up before she spins off to congratulate someone else. But I have no intention of doing that, because I don’t want to have this conversation with him right now. If he broke up with Melody, then he’s not always-there-yet-always-unavailable Derek. And if he’s not unavailable … well, I don’t want to think about it. Because the last thing in the world I want is for our relationship to change.

  “It’s Jolie, right?”

  I turn around and come face-to-face with Johnny McElroy himself. My smile slides off my face. I’m way too excited to get bummed out by listening to him tell me how I didn’t live up to his vision of Prudie.

  “What do you want?” I snap, surprising even myself.

  He takes a step back.

  I sigh, then remind myself that Johnny McElroy has no power over me anymore. The musical’s done. What’s the worst thing he’s going to tell me?

  “I get it, okay? You don’t think I was good enough. I’m not young Meryl Streep, or old Meryl Streep, or any Meryl Streep. But I’m not ever going to be Meryl Streep because I can only be Jolie Peterson.”

  I pause to take a breath and realize that Johnny McElroy isn’t saying anything.

  “I just wanted to tell you,” he says when he regains his composure, “that I greatly enjoyed your take on Prudie.”

  Wait, what?

  “And,” he continues, “if you’re ever in New York, I’m putting on a small production of my next play—”

  I hold up my hand to stop him. “No offense, but no thanks, Johnny.”

  And then I walk away. It feels good.

  I head to the bathroom to change out of my costume (as great a job as Evelyn did, I’m not wearing a gingham dress to Toby’s party). As I’m fixing my now-faded mascara in the bathroom mirror, ignoring all the girls around me who are shrieking and laughing and full of giddy relief, I take a good look at myself.

  I think about what Derek looks like—his lean muscles, those eyes that are deep and kind, the way his ears look cute even though I’ve never noticed another person’s ears before. And what do I look like? Not that bad if you focus on my hair, my expertly done eyeliner, my always-completely-covered-up zits, my cute but not flashy outfits. But when you take a good look at me? Well. That’s not a girl who should be with Derek, I think, staring at myself. I highly doubt that even my surgery is going to magically transform me into a girl who’s worthy of him. It hurts a little (or a lot) to think that he only started feeling this way about me when I’m just a few weeks away from being fixed, but I still don’t want that to ruin our friendship.

  I swipe on some sticky lip gloss that smells like cinnamon rolls. I’m going to avoid him tonight, I decide. If we don’t even talk, then we can’t have any awkward conversations, and maybe the next time we get together this entire weird vibe between us will have blown over and we can go back to talking about lemurs and watching terrible movies.

  Tonight’s about celebrating. Tonight’s about fun. Tonight’s about finally getting that kiss from Noah, getting my surgery in less than three weeks, putting this entire kiss-less life behind me, and starting over.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I drive to Toby’s nervously, my hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. It’s not like I haven’t been to parties before, but I’ve never gone to one with the express purpose of kissing Noah Reed.

  “First time for everything!” I say cheerily as I adjust the radio. Brentley gets, like, three stations, and one of them is conservative talk radio, so I have to be content with listening to a country song about a guy with a broken heart. Surprisingly, it isn’t the pump-up jam I’d hoped for.

  I’m just going to have to pump myself up. “You can do this, Jolie,” I whisper to myself as I park a street away from Toby’s so as not to alarm any suspicious neighbors (“I live next to some seriously unchill senior citizens,” Toby told me). “Carpe diem! Seize the day! Kiss a boy! You can do it!”

  I feel a pair of eyes on me and look over at the sidewalk, where Peter is watching me. He waves.

  I get out of the car and lock the door. “How long have you been watching me, Peter?”

  “This is a terrible parking job,” he comments, and holds out his arm. “Would you like to walk into the party as my plus-one?”

  “No, I would not,” I say politely. “Also, this isn’t a wedding. I don’t need to be your plus-one—I was invited.”

  Toby greets me with a hug as soon as I step into the house. “Jolie!” he shouts, and I’ll admit, it’s nice to be so enthusiastically welcomed. “Let me show you around my humble abode.”

  “This is the kitchen,” he says as we walk into a kitchen, where people are crowded around multiple bowls of potato chips.

  “And there’s the beer,” he says, pointing to a cooler in the corner. Several stage crew guys are crowded around it. “Do you want something to drink?”

  “Um…,” I say. I should say no. I don’t usually drink, both because I think beer tastes disgusting and because I have a pathological fear of being caught.

  But I want to take chances tonight. I want to be someone different. I want to be a girl who can drink a beer and not loudly say, “Why does this taste so bad?”

  “Sure,” I attempt to say breezily.

  Toby grabs a can and hands it to me. I crack it open and take a sip as he leads me into the dining room. I hide my grimace behind my hand. Yeah, this is just as awful as I remembered. I scan the room for places I can hide my almost-full can.

  I spot Noah across the room, talking to a huge group of people. He looks good, just like he always does. He runs his hand through that hip British-boy-band hair, and I wait to feel my heart flutter.

  Nothing. I feel the way I did when we watched Magic Mike and Abbi thought the stripping scenes were so hot, and I was just like, “Wait, why would I want some sweaty stranger to pick me up and rub me all over his chest?” Like, I get that there’s an appeal for some people, but it’s just not working for me. Apparently, fake-kissing Noah killed any last lingering bits of my crush on him.

  This is good, though, I tell myself. I can kiss Noah for real and we can keep feelings out of it and not have to worry about anything scary or weird. I can go into my surgery and my possible death without any regrets.

  He looks up, sees me staring at him, and waves with a smile. I wave back.

  Then I look a few feet to the right and see Derek talking to Evelyn. My heart stops, then comes roaring back to life, beating a million times a second.

  He changed out of his stage crew shirt and he looks good—God, he looks good. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that looks like it was made especially for him, and I’m stuck wondering how something so basic looks so amazing on him.

  I hate that I
feel this way about my best friend, because I know the odds. How many people actually stay with someone they dated in high school? Pretty much none, right? And the thought of losing Derek like that … well, I can’t even think about it. And I know, I just know, that he would come to his senses sooner or later and realize that he can do better than me—that if he can date girls like perfect Melody, with her pretty hair and her perfect face, that he doesn’t need to mess around with a girl like me. Someone who’s laughably far from perfect, someone who wears all of her imperfections on her sleeve (or face, as the case may be). And even if we did date and stay happy together forever, I would have to know in my heart that he only liked me once I changed. He only liked me once he knew I was getting fixed.

  Toby’s still talking his way through the tour, but I can’t focus on his story about the time he “majorly bit it” and fell down the stairs because I need to get out of here. I can’t stop myself from imagining what it would be like if Derek and I were more than friends, if we spent Terrible Movie Night with his arm around me instead of my feet in his lap, if we …

  It would never work, Jolie. It just wouldn’t.

  “I need some air, okay?” I pivot away from him and walk toward the porch.

  It’s just slightly chilly, the good kind where you can snuggle up in a jacket and feel comfortable, so there are plenty of people on the porch. But it’s still quieter out here than it is inside. I sit down on the front steps and cross my arms over myself. I idly take another sip of beer and then make a face.

  “That bad, huh?”

  Derek sits down beside me.

  “Oh!” I say. I didn’t think he’d follow me out here, didn’t think he’d even seen me. My eyes dart around as I wonder if I can make a break for it, but running away would probably be even weirder than staying.

  “You really bolted out of the auditorium,” Derek said.

  “Couldn’t wait to get to the party! I, um, love partying!” I smile as wide as I can and take another sip, wincing.

  “Yeahhhh,” Derek says slowly. “You’re acting really weird.”

  “Am I, though?” I give him a who can say? look.