by Lara Chapman
“Sweet,” I mumble, eyes still covered.
“But I don’t get it. Isn’t a diamond clear? I mean, my eyes are about as blue as they get. Clear eyes? Eew.”
I shake my head. How can someone be seventeen, have watched Titanic a dozen times, and not know the Hope diamond isn’t a traditional diamond? Honestly.
“The Hope diamond is blue,” I tell her, doing my best not to add something completely rude and sarcastic.
Kristen sighs like a dreamy girl from a second-rate fifties film. “He’s perfect.”
He is perfect … but for her or for me?
She puts the phone in her pocket, then grabs the straightener from her dresser. “Can you run this over the back? I can never really reach it.”
I nod, wishing I was anywhere else. Like getting ready for my own date with Rock. I pull her already-straightened hair through the CHI while she scrutinizes her face in the mirror.
“Is it just me or is my chest splotchy?”
I don’t have to look in the mirror to answer. “You always get like that when you’re nervous, Kris.” And the fact that she’s nervous tells me she’s really excited about Rock. I mean, completely over the top. Because she dates. A lot. And never gets nervous.
And in that little telltale sign, I know being a good friend to Kris is the right thing to do. Rock means a lot to her, to her happiness. What if he is the one for her?
She takes the oversized powder brush and dips it into her bronzing dust with just the right amount of sheen. Two swipes across her chest do the trick, easily camouflaging her one fault. “God, I hate when I get like this. You’re so lucky you don’t have to worry about this kind of thing.”
I release her hair from the straightener and lean against the dresser so we’re facing each other. “What do you mean?”
Eyes wide with realization, she starts backpedaling. “You know what I mean, Sarah. You’re … um … you’re lucky you don’t get all splotchy like this.”
Narrowing my eyes, I study her. In my heart, I know she would never intentionally hurt my feelings. But still. “Because it sounded like I don’t have to worry about getting all dressed because I can’t get a date.” Which, now that I say it out loud, is completely accurate. So what’s my point?
Kristen shakes her head emphatically, grabbing my hands and squeezing them. “You know that’s not true,” she says. “Honest. And you could date about a hundred guys. But you don’t put yourself out there, you know?”
And I guess she’s right. I’ve never really been up to the challenge. It’s always been so much easier, so much safer, to pretend I don’t want to date. I’ve never been able to take that leap and just give it the old college try, as Mom says.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, feeling 100 percent ashamed. “I’m just …” I trail off, not sure what to say. If I was up to telling the truth, I’d tell her what a jealous wench of a friend I am. But I won’t spoil this night for her. No matter how bad it hurts.
I finally finish my sentence with a lame, “Forget I said anything.”
Fortunately, she does and practically dives into her closet looking for shoes. She’s tossing out possibilities when I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror hanging on her bedroom door. When I see myself like this, head on, I can almost visualize the face I’d have with a normal nose.
Almost.
Kristen snaps her fingers in front of me. “Hel-lo. Help!” She points to her feet, a black ballet flat on her right foot, dressy red sequined sandals with a tiny little kitten heel on the left.
“Definitely the red,” I say.
“But my toes are painted hot pink.”
“Get the polish,” I sigh. “I’ll paint them for you while you put on your jewelry.”
Kristen tosses me the red polish on her dresser and reaches for the silver heart necklace she reserves for special occasions. Against her bronzed chest, it looks incredible.
Just as I finish the last toe, the doorbell rings.
“Omigod,” she whispers loudly, like he might be able to hear us outside. “That’s got to be him.”
I look at the clock, then back at Kristen. “Five minutes early. That’s more like it.”
I screw the lid on the polish and return it to the dresser, then walk to the window to peek outside. “I can’t see him, but his truck’s out front.”
Kristen’s mom opens the front door and invites Rock inside. It’s easy to pick out his voice; the smooth, deep texture reminds me of melted chocolate.
“Come on, Kris. You look amazing.” I grab her arm and pull her from the mirror and out of the bedroom. When we enter the living room, I’m struck speechless.
No guy has a right to look this freaking hot.
Just-right jeans with a sexy, black button-down shirt opened just enough to reveal a rope necklace.
“Hey, Sarah,” he says, obviously surprised to see me. “You joining us tonight?”
“Oh, no. I was just leaving,” I say, reaching for my purse on the coffee table.
“Hi, Rock.” Kristen eases into the room, working her way around me to get closer to her date. “You met my mom?”
“Oh, yeah, we’ve already met,” Kristen’s mom says, all smiles. I can hardly blame her. Shoot, a nun would be smiling at this guy. “I guess you two better get shaking if you’re going to make it there by eight. You know how traffic can be.”
“It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Gallagher.” Rock reaches forward to shake her hand and I can tell she’s impressed. Who wouldn’t be?
When Rock opens the door for Kristen, I walk out behind her, seriously regretting that he’s following me in my old Levi’s and last year’s football T-shirt. I’m quick to flee his line of sight by walking across the lawn to my car, which is parked nose to nose with Rock’s truck.
My car is actually Mom’s old Lexus, black with tinted windows. Very mysterious looking, which is totally not my personality, but I love it anyway.
“Sarah,” Rock says, stopping at the end of the sidewalk.
“Yeah?” I ask, fully aware that Kristen’s waiting for him to open her door but watching me.
“Why don’t you come with us?” he asks, smiling like he isn’t asking me to do the utterly impossible.
“Oh, no, no. I couldn’t. I’m busy, busy, busy. Y’all have fun.” I click the unlock button on my car remote, frantic to escape. I’d rather walk on fire than be the third wheel on their date, watching them snuggle, feed each other, hold hands. And, what, I get to witness their kiss good night? No freaking way.
“That’s crazy,” he argues, oblivious to the daggers Kristen’s shooting his direction. “There’s plenty of room, right, Kristen?”
She pastes a toothy pageant-queen smile on her face and nods at Rock, then at me. “Of course,” she says, but her eyes are conveying an entirely different meaning.
“Maybe next time.” I open my car door and slide inside. As I start the engine, Rock walks to the passenger side of the truck and opens the door for Kristen.
I quickly tap my horn as I pull away from the curb, wishing like hell I actually had something to do besides think about him.
When I pull into our driveway, I notice Mom’s car in its usual spot in the garage and a sporty red convertible I don’t recognize parked by the curb. After parking behind Mom, I walk into the house and find her and Jen sitting at the kitchen bar.
“Hi, honey,” Mom says. “You remember Jen, don’t you?”
Remember her? It was only two days ago. “Sure. It’s good to see you again.”
Jen gives me a camera-worthy smile and I feel immediately second class. Next to Jen’s to-die-for ivory pantsuit, I look downright destitute.
“We’re just having a little after-work chat,” Mom says, a flush on her cheeks that was no doubt put there by the red wine. Judging from the empty bottle on the counter, they’ve been chatting a while.
“Girl night. Got it.” I grab a bottled water from the fridge before kissing her on the cheek. “I’m headed to my
room. I’ve got some research to do.”
“On a Saturday night?” Jen asks, pity marring her impeccable features. “When I was your age …”
“Not my Sarah.” Mom’s practically misty eyed. Damn wine always makes her emotional. “She’s such a good girl. Always so responsible.”
“Sure, Mom,” I say, walking out of the kitchen and up the stairs to my room.
When I sit on the bed to kick off my shoes, I notice a new brochure sitting on my nightstand. I grit my teeth, frustrated that Mom doesn’t understand this is a closed subject. But as I walk to the trash can to lay it to rest, the title catches my attention.
Why Not Find Out What Plastic Surgery Can Do for You?
It’s that simple; nothing else is written on the front except for that question. Naturally, the requisite picture of an absolutely gorgeous couple is front and center, all smiles with whitened teeth and the best little noses money can buy.
I open the brochure and scan through the same rhetoric inside every plastic surgeon’s ads. Still, something about this one has me intrigued, so I open my laptop, connect to the Internet, and type in the website address. I roll my eyes at myself, seriously thinking I need therapy. Never before have I actually researched a plastic surgeon, not that I’m really doing that now. But still, before Rock came along, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought.
But maybe it’s not just about Rock. Maybe it’s just … time.
I’m not a naturally ambivalent person. Being decisive is one of the things I like most about myself. But when it comes to my nose, I just can’t make myself stand steadfast in one decision for very long. I guess I have the right to be conflicted at seventeen.
When the website pulls up, there are even more pictures of pretty people. Flashing in the right-hand corner is a red circle; on the inside it reads “Why Not?”
I click the circle, which takes me to a page where I can load my picture, which I do quickly when I realize what this site offers: the ability to give my face a new nose, even if it’s only in a picture.
With last year’s school picture on the screen, I study the different noses available. There are about a million different choices. Who knew there were so many different shapes and sizes? Geez, talk about a tough decision.
I start with the one that looks most like Kristen’s, which I’ve always considered God’s best handiwork. But on me, the nose looks positively puny. I mean, maybe I’m just used to seeing myself with this oversized sniffer, but it totally doesn’t fit me.
The next nose I click is a little longer, but still well within the normal limits as far as noses go. It definitely looks better than the first one, turned up just a little, and not too wide for my face.
I print the picture and lay it next to my laptop. It looks good, real good. But it’s still so different from what I’m used to. It’s just not … me.
Rubbing my hand over my nose, I try to imagine what it’d be like to go to college completely normal. With nothing freakishly large plastered on my face. A fresh start where no one would know the old me, the old nose. There would be nothing to stop me from doing or being whatever I want. No excuses.
As I’m about to close the website, I see a button that reads “Watch Us at Work” and click it. A video begins playing and the screen is filled with images of some poor schmuck with half his face peeled back. I have to stop myself from upchucking what little I’ve eaten today. It’s beyond gross.
Someone narrates the rhinoplasty procedure like what they’re doing isn’t the nastiest thing ever. Shuddering, I close the window and slam the laptop closed.
Picking up the picture of me with a new nose, I think of the video. Good as the new nose looks, it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let someone butcher me like that.
I wad up the picture and toss it into the trash, thankful I finally came to my senses before I did something foolish.
No object is so beautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly.
—OSCAR WILDE
Chapter Ten
Just after midnight, my cell phone rings, pulling me out of a deep sleep. I seriously consider ignoring it, but I know it’s Kristen from the unfamiliar tune screaming at me. She has a really bad habit of changing my ringtone for her. Of course, she never tells me when she’s done that, so it’s always a surprise. Her choices are superobscure: usually oldies because she knows I love them. This time, I’m treated to the theme song from The Golden Girls, “Thank You for Being a Friend.” I should recognize the tune easily enough; it’s one of Mom’s favorite shows.
I reach for the phone, because she’ll just keep calling until I answer. I’ve tried to dodge her long-winded late-night calls before and nothing works. She’s like a dog with a bone.
“This better be good,” I grumble into the phone.
“Omigod, Sarah,” she squeals, the high pitch shooting through my ears straight to my brain. “It’s about a gazillion times better than good!”
I roll over and turn on the lamp. There are at least a thousand other things I’d rather do than listen to Kristen recount every last sordid detail of her night with Rock, but this is our postdate routine; there’s no changing it now. And deep inside, there’s a sick part of me that almost wants to hear it all, like the car wreck you don’t want to see but can’t stop looking at.
“Tell me all about it,” I say.
“Well, first of all, his hands are freaking amazing,” she gushes, like I don’t already know. Like the memory of those hands doesn’t torture me. Especially now, knowing she’s felt them, too.
“Uh-huh,” I mumble, eyes closed.
“I mean, they’re like totally huge and, omigod, they’re so soft.” She pauses abruptly. “But you already know that, don’t you,” she whispers, more to herself than to me, disappointed she wasn’t the first one to hold his hand.
“So tell me something I don’t know,” I say, further proof I’m a glutton for punishment.
“Okay,” she says, the excitement back in her voice. “So we’re at the restaurant and while we’re waiting, we check out some of the fish. That’s when he put his arm around my waist. And it was so natural, like we’d been together forever.”
I nod, knowing she can’t see me but unable to actually form words. It makes my stomach churn to think about the two of them together. And just hearing her echo my own thoughts about how easy it is to be with Rock is like a sucker punch in the gut.
She ignores my silence. “It was supercrowded, so we had to wait for over an hour. And you know how long it takes to eat at that place. We were there almost two hours and there wasn’t a single awkward silence. Not one!”
“No David Copperfield discussions?” I ask.
Kristen laughs softly. “No, I did exactly what you said and kept the conversation personal. It worked like a charm.”
“Good to know.” I’m the most loyal friend on the planet, hands down. And quite possibly the biggest idiot.
“When we got home, we sat in his truck for a few minutes, then …” She draws out the word “then,” doing her best to ramp up the drama. Like I don’t know what’s coming next.
“Then he kissed me. Not just a sweet peck on the lips. It was the kind of kiss that actually made me weak in the knees. I didn’t even know what that meant before last night.”
Of course he kissed her. I mean, I didn’t really expect the night to end with a handshake, but hearing her say it out loud makes it real. Painfully real.
The last thing I want is to hear the details of the killer kiss to end the night of all nights. “Don’t need the specifics, Kristen,” I say, trying to hold it back but knowing it’s totally useless.
“It was just perfect, Sarah. Totally, completely, 100 percent perfect.”
“Perfect,” I echo.
I’m sitting on the couch at ten the following morning and watching a documentary on the role of journalism in the wake of 9/11 when the doorbell rings. And rings. And rings.
This is one of the Sundays that Mom
works, so I’m home alone. I pause the show, then half jog to the front door and look out the peephole, where I see Kristen smiling and waving, a brown paper sack dangling from her dainty fingers. I know that sack.
I open the door and she flies inside, whipping past me. “Hungry? I brought your favorite,” she says.
“My favorite?”
“Cinnamon-crunch bagel from Panera.” She tosses the bag to me and looks me up and down. “Still in your pj’s?” she asks.
“Sue me.”
She waves her hand dismissively. “No time. I need your help.”
“Of course you do,” I mumble.
Kristen grabs the remote and turns off the television. “Rock friended me on Facebook.”
“I was watching something,” I say, pointing at the black screen of the television.
“This is way more important than some documentary. Geez, bor-ing.”
“All you have to do is confirm him as a friend, Kristen. It’s not rocket science. You’ve done it a thousand times.” I grab the remote from her hand and swiftly turn the television back on. I set the remainder of the show to record, then turn the television off.
“I know that,” she says. “But you don’t expect me to write him, do you?”
Shaking my head, I laugh. “You’ve lost it.”
“It’s not funny, Sarah,” she whines. “I mean it. Once I confirm him as a friend, he’s going to want to talk there, too. What if I say something wrong?”
I sit on the couch next to Kristen and grab her hands. “This is ridiculous, Kris. You can’t go through an entire relationship faking it. It’s wrong, not to mention unnecessary. Rock already likes you.”
“Because he thinks I’m smart!”
“And kind and pretty and funny.”
“Please, Sarah. You don’t have to do it forever, just … just for a little while.”
“What are you going to do? Run over here every time he sends you a Facebook message?”
“I’ve thought it all through,” she says, pride lighting her face. “I’ll give you my sign-on information and you can log on from here and write him back and forth. Then when you’re done, I’ll just go back and read what y’all talked about so I’m not lost.”