“Today’s the day!” sings Mrs. Henshaw as I walk into her studio after school. “We must finish this today!”
“I will,” I say. “Or tonight. Or maybe tomorrow.”
“Ha!” Mrs. Henshaw says. “Aren’t you the funny one all of a sudden?”
“I guess so,” I answer.
I’ve just started taking out the brushes when Patrick walks in. “Dude,” he says. It takes me a second to realize he’s referring to me. “You ready to roll?”
“Uh, yeah, but we should really wait for Calista, I think.”
“Oh yeah, right.” Patrick sits and takes out his phone and starts playing a game. “Whoa!” he yells, then laughs. “No way!”
“What happened?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing,” he says. “This game is just so totally insane.” He starts playing again and cracks up at his phone. “Insane!”
Watching him makes me wish I could have fun so easily.
A few minutes later, Calista walks in. “Sorry I’m late. I was in the nurse’s office.”
“Why?” I ask. “Is everything okay?”
“Oh yeah, I’m fine,” she says. “I just needed to grab a book I left in there.”
“Cool,” I say.
Calista looks at me. “Nurse Kline told me she doesn’t expect to see you at all tomorrow.”
“I have a really busy day,” I say.
“Busy is good,” Calista says.
Mrs. Henshaw comes buzzing into the room. “No more chitchat! We’re here to work!”
Patrick and Calista stand up on the two apple-boxes Mrs. Henshaw has pushed together.
“How’s it going?” Patrick asks Calista.
“Pretty good,” she answers.
“Cool,” he says. “Your face looks all better, practically.”
“It’s getting there.”
They keep talking as they strike a dance pose. I start painting, trying not to pay attention to what they’re saying.
I hear every word.
Mrs. Henshaw takes Patrick’s hand and puts it on my waist, then she takes mine and puts it on his shoulder. She asks us to bring our other hands together in the air.
“Seriously?” asks Patrick. “No offense or anything, but isn’t this how old people dance?”
“Old people, young people—anyone with class,” sniffs Mrs. Henshaw. “Now you two just hush yourselves and look pretty.”
We stand there and look pretty.
“Are we allowed to talk?” I ask Damian.
He nods. “Sure, as long as you don’t move.”
“Can we move our mouths?”
“Yes, slightly,” Damian says, not taking his eyes off his canvas.
I look at Patrick. “So.”
“Yeah,” he says.
Our faces are approximately three inches apart. For some reason, instead of making me shy, it makes me bold. “So,” I say again. “Do you like Ellie?”
I feel Patrick’s shoulder tensing up beneath my hand. “Are you serious? You really want to talk about that now? Here?”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Yes! No! Maybe!” he says. Then he adds quietly, “I like you.”
“So then why did you ask her to the dance?”
He shifts his feet.
“Last I checked,” I add, “you’re only supposed to ask someone to the dance if you like them. Right, Damian?”
Damian blushes and doesn’t look up. “Please stop moving,” he says.
“Was it because,” I ask Patrick, “all of a sudden, I wasn’t the prettiest girl in school anymore?”
Patrick looks around like he’s trapped in a bad dream. “Of course not,” he mumbles. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“You guys, stop moving!” Damian commands.
“Sorry for what?” I ask Patrick.
He tries not to fidget. “I—I messed it all up. I didn’t treat you fairly.”
“Well, that’s true, you didn’t.”
“I’m really sorry,” Patrick repeats, and all of a sudden I feel bad for him.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m just kidding around, anyway.”
He blinks. “You are? About what?”
“The whole thing.”
“Huh?”
I shrug, as if I don’t have a care in the world. “People are so obsessed with looks, it’s gross.”
Patrick looks like he doesn’t know who I am anymore. Which would make two of us. I scratch my nose for a second, then place my hand back in his and decide to change the subject. “Damian, when can we see the poster?”
He shakes his head. “Not for a while.”
“Seriously?” I ask. “Why not?”
“I never show anybody my unfinished work.”
“Mrs. Henshaw, is that true?” Patrick says. “We can’t see the poster?”
“Damian, let them take a look at your work-in-progress,” she says.
“Fine. Five minutes,” Damian says.
“How much longer do we have to pose?” Patrick asks.
“Five minutes,” Damian says again.
Patrick chuckles. “Is five minutes your answer for everything?”
“Damian, what’s two minutes plus two minutes?” I ask him.
“Four minutes,” he says.
“Shush, you two!” whispers Mrs. Henshaw. “Let the man do his work.”
Seven minutes later, Damian says, “Okay, you can look at it now if you want.”
Patrick and I immediately jump down from the apple-boxes and rush over to the easel where Damian is working. I stare at the white canvas—all I see is a vague outline of our body shapes, in a formal dance pose.
“That’s it?” I say.
“Where’s the rest?” Patrick adds.
“Today I just needed to work on your body shapes,” Damian says. “Tonight I’ll do the faces, and I know what your faces look like. Plus I have the yearbook pictures if I need them.”
“So you’re going to use my face after all?” I ask him.
“I’d like to,” Damian says. “Is that still a problem?”
I think for a second. I’m feeling better, and my yearbook picture looks good. “It’s okay, I guess,” I say. “When can we see the final product?”
“I’m going to work some more on it tonight and finish it tomorrow before the dance,” Damian says.
“Well aren’t you a last-minute Larry?” I say.
Mrs. Henshaw comes up to me and pinches my cheek. “Relax, you’re a beautiful girl,” she says, reminding me of my grandmother. “You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”
“You’re so nice,” I say. “Thank you.”
Patrick is smiling at me as he puts on his jacket. “People are so obsessed with looks, it’s gross,” he says, imitating me.
“Watch it,” I tell him.
“Oh, I will,” he says.
After dinner, I wait until my mom and my sister go in to watch TV, then I take out the poster. I don’t have an easel at home so I spread a bunch of newspapers out on the dining room table, then put the poster down over that. I bring over a lamp so I can see better.
I take out my paint brushes.
I stare at the two dancing bodies, then start to fill them in—the colors, the shadows, the depth, the perspective. It takes me a while, until finally I’m satisfied. But I’m not done yet, of course.
I still have to do the faces.
I paint Patrick first. I have the yearbook open to his picture, and it goes quickly. He’s got an easy face to paint. Not complicated.
Calista is different. Harder. I put the paintbrush down and look at her yearbook picture for a long time, but it doesn’t help that much. She doesn’t look real in that picture, she doesn’t look like the person I know. I go to the kitchen to take a break and get a glass of juice. I sit there and think of Calista as she was earlier in the week, when her face was messed up. That’s not right, either. Finally I decide that I won’t rely on pictures or memories. I will go deeper than that.
I
will paint the real her.
FRIDAY
“Laura, you’re gonna be late!”
I’m standing in front of my bathroom mirror.
My mom is calling me down for breakfast.
I see a tiny pimple starting to form on my chin.
I close my eyes and then open them again.
Still there.
I lean in closer to the mirror.
“You gotta be kidding me,” I say out loud, even though there’s no one there. I’m talking to myself. It’s come to that.
I rub my finger gently over the pimple, which is when I see two more, farther down, on my lower left cheek.
“I hate my life,” I say to my mirror self, even though that’s not true at all. Actually, I like my life a lot right now. I have nothing to complain about. I’m healthy. I do well in school. I’m a good athlete. I’m lucky, and I know it.
Still, these dang pimples.
My dad sticks his head in. “Hey, honey, let’s go, you gotta eat something.”
“It’s fine, I’m just going to grab a quick bowl of cereal.”
“Okay,” he says, but he doesn’t leave. “Whatcha doing?”
“Just washing up.”
“Great.” Still doesn’t leave. “Dance tonight?”
“Yup.”
“You’re going to knock those boys dead, I’m telling ya.”
“Okay, Dad.” Whatever you need to tell yourself.
He finally leaves me alone, and I stare at my pimples for another minute. Then I go back to my room and pull my dress out of the closet. I hold it up and stare at it, then have this sudden intense desire to stomp on it, rip it into small pieces, and throw it in the trash. I hate it. It’s ugly. I’m ugly. Even though I know I’m not. I’m kind of pretty, actually. I’m all of these things.
I’m complicated, okay? Who isn’t?
My phone buzzes. A text.
HI, THIS IS DAMIAN.
Hmmmm, I think to myself. Then I type: HEY WHAT’S UP?
I put the dress back in the closet, then check the phone to see if he texted back. Nothing. I get dressed, brush my hair, brush my teeth, check the phone again. Still nothing. For some reason I start to get annoyed. I go downstairs. My mom is drinking coffee.
“Hi, my beautiful baby,” she tells me.
“I don’t love it when you call me that, actually,” I tell her.
She stops, mid-sip. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay, honey,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s no big deal.”
My phone buzzes.
DO YOU WANT TO MAYBE MEET UP AT THE DANCE?
I don’t answer right away. I eat my cereal. After a minute, I look up at my mom. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to snap at you. You can call me whatever you want.”
My mom smiles. “How about if I just call you Laurabelle?” That’s been her nickname for me since I was a baby.
“Laurabelle is great.”
I text Damian back.
YEAH OKAY.
I’m standing in front of my bathroom mirror.
I can’t see anything.
I mean, that’s not true. I can see a lot. I just can’t see anything except my face.
No pimple. No scar. No scab. No hives. No swelling. No dark circles under my eyes.
Nothing.
Just my face.
I look at it as if for the first time. Even though it’s only been four days since the last time I saw it like this, it feels brand new.
I touch it, rub it, squeeze it. I make faces. I see if there’s anything I can do to make it change. But I can’t. My face is back and isn’t going anywhere.
I feel whole.
There’s a knock on the door. “Honey?”
I open it up, and my mom is standing there. She looks at my face and nods. “See? And you were so worried.”
“I wasn’t worried!”
“Okay, if you say so,” she says. She peers into the mirror. “These things don’t know everything, you know.”
I frown. “What things?”
“Mirrors,” she says. “They’re just pieces of glass. They don’t actually reflect anything about who we are. They’re your friend one day, your enemy the next. You can’t trust them!”
I laugh. “That’s for sure.”
She takes my face in her hands. “All I know is, you always look perfect to me, no matter what.”
I lean against her shoulder.
That’s what moms are for, I guess.
I’m standing in front of my bathroom mirror, but I’m not looking at myself.
I’m looking down, at my phone.
HEY WHAT’S UP?
I stare at each word Laura wrote, trying to understand. HEY—hard to tell. WHAT’S UP—I can’t decide. Is she being mean? Friendly? I hate texting. It’s too confusing.
I type DO YOU WANT TO GO TO THE DANCE WITH ME? then immediately erase it. I type again. WOULD YOU HAVE ANY INTEREST IN GOING TO THE DANCE WITH ME? Erase.
I put my phone in my pocket and decide to try again later.
In the kitchen, my big sister, Janie, is stuffing books into her backpack. My mom has already left for work, as usual. Janie glances up. “Hey, you.”
“Hey.”
“I’m late, I gotta go,” she says. “You all set? You got your shirts, your meds, blah blah blah?”
“I’m all set.” I pour some milk into my raisin bran, spilling a little. I pick up my phone before it gets wet.
Janie messes up my hair, which I quickly put back in place.
“See you later,” she says. “Big night, right?”
“I guess.”
She laughs. “I remember middle school dances—they’re a huge deal! Goofy, silly, ridiculous, and you’ll laugh at it later, but it’s huge. How’s the poster coming?”
I point at a big portfolio case I left by the door. “Almost finished.”
“Amazing. Can I see it?”
“Tonight, at the dance. When you pick me up.”
“Whatever. As long as it’s not another desert.”
“It’s not.”
After she leaves, I eat my cereal and pick up my phone. I type: DO YOU WANT TO MAYBE MEET UP AT THE DANCE? Yeah, that’s good enough. I hit send. I go to the closet to grab my jacket. I stare at it for a second, then put it on. I walk to the bus stop, holding the portfolio in one hand and my phone in the other. Finally, as the bus is pulling up, it buzzes. I pull it out and read the text.
YEAH OKAY.
I close my eyes and breathe.
The morning goes by in a blink. On my way into homeroom I run into Patrick, and his smile flashes at me just like it did five long days ago, when I thought he was the dreamiest boy in the world. My feelings about him are more complicated now, but his smile is still pretty impressive.
“Hey, Calista.”
“Hey.”
“Damian told me on the bus that he’s almost finished with the poster.”
“He’d better be—the dance is tonight!”
I can feel Ellie and Ella behind me, so I turn around.
“Calista!” Ellie gasps. “You have to sit with us at lunch today!”
“We have the most amazing news!” Ella titters.
I shrug. “Tell me now.”
“We can’t!” Ella looks around conspiratorially. “It’s not for public consumption.”
“Oooooh,” Patrick says. “Sounds juicy.”
“See you at lunch, okay?” Ellie says, a pleading look in her eyes.
“Sure, I guess.” I watch them walk away, then turn back to Patrick. “Do you think they really have the most amazing news?”
“Of course not,” he says. “But I do.”
“Cut it out,” I say.
I turn away before he sees me blush.
In Spanish class, Laura sits all the way across the room from me. I see her looking at me once, and she half-smiles. I’m not sure what that means. All I know is I don’t hear or understand anything the teacher s
ays for the rest of the class, and it’s not just because she’s speaking a foreign language.
After class I walk out and there she is. “Damian, do you have a second?” she says.
“Oh, hey, I didn’t see you there,” I say, which is totally not true. “What’s up?”
Laura gets right to the point. “Do you like Calista?”
I feel a line of sweat start to trickle down the bottom of my back.
“That’s crazy. Where did you hear that?”
“Jeffrey is my friend Rachel’s lab partner,” she says. “He told her that he sits with you at lunch and you talk about Calista all the time.”
I suddenly feel very mad at Jeffrey.
“That’s crazy,” I say. “As if a girl like Calista would be interested in me.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Laura says, shaking her head. “I asked if you liked her.”
I hesitate for a second before saying, “I don’t know. Who doesn’t?”
Then Laura does something shocking. She laughs. “Thank you for your honesty. So now let me ask you another question: Why would you want to go to the dance with me if you like Calista?”
“Because I like you, too,” I say, before I can make something up.
“Good.” Laura slips her backpack around her shoulders and starts to walk away. “Correct answer.”
“So we’re still going to the dance together, right?” I call out to her.
She gives me the thumbs-up without turning back.
I walk away, thinking one thing: it’s a good thing I took an extra shirt to school after all.
It turns out my dress is a little on the tight side, so I’ve made up my mind not to eat lunch today. That should solve everything.
Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?
I skip over the food line and head right to a table where Rachel is enjoying a full spread. Bless her heart, she just doesn’t care. Or, maybe she cares, but it’s not going to stop her from eating what she wants, when she wants. Or maybe she cares, and hates the way she looks, and eats to dull the pain. Any of those things are possible, but I don’t know which, because we’ve never talked about it. There are some things you just don’t talk about, even with your best friend.
The Real Us Page 9