"Oh, I love it. The mascara and eye shadow really open up your eyes." She hands me a small mirror.
I hold it, but don't pull it up to my face. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
"Well, go on . ." Pamela nudges me.
I slowly bring up the mirror and peel open my eyes, one at a time.
Wow, I almost look pretty.
Mom sets two cups of coffee down on the table. "Nice job, Pamela. Now if only I can find someone to fix up the rest of her."
Almost.
23
chapter THREE
I grab a handful of cotton balls and run the water in the sink until it's warm. I wipe at my eyelids, then my cheeks. I have to press down hard to remove the gunk, especially under my eyes.
Why didn't I just say no to Pamela? It couldn't be worse than what Mom will say if she sees my streaked face and pile of soggy cotton balls. What's the point in making yourself up if you'll still be treated the same?
Mom jiggles the handle on the bathroom door. "Open up. I want to take a photo for the scrapbook."
No way in hell. I'll stay in here for the rest of the year if I have to.
I turn the faucet on full blast, hoping she'll catch the hint and 24
leave. Instead, she pounds on the door. "It'll only take a minute." Hasn't she humiliated me enough for one day? She pounds again. "Not now!" I yell.
"Stop being difficult and let me in." Mom uses two fists to knock against the door this time.
Finally I relent, opening it a crack. I quickly drop the cotton into the wastebasket. But I cannot save my face.
Mom pries the door open all the way. "Oh, God." She puts a hand up to her mouth. The camera hangs around her neck, swaying back and forth. Her red acrylic nails stare at me like daggers.
I peer into the mirror. My face looks like a child's watercolor painting left in the rain. It's a mess of brown, black, red, and purple.
"It's hard to take off," I say.
"You could've at least kept it on until you went to bed."
"Why?"
It takes Mom a few seconds to answer. "Because Pamela worked hard to make you look nice. And I wanted a decent picture of you."
Geez, thanks, Pamela, I'll move you to the top of my Christmas list.
I don't respond. I can't. I'm concentrating too hard on keeping all my emotions inside.
"I'm only trying to help you," Mom adds some sugar to her voice.
Then why does it always end up about you?
25
I promised Mom I'd lose the weight for her wedding, and I did. She wanted the photos to come out perfect because she'd never had a proper ceremony before. She never bothered to try and find my dad, and she got hitched to her first husband, Tony, when I was five. That one was in his parents' backyard.
Well, I did it that summer. I went to Weight Watchers and ran on Mom's treadmill almost every day, and by December I squeezed into the pink strapless dress she had bought for me. I've kept most of the weight off, only letting about ten pounds creep back, but I still feel like people stare at me at Ridgeland High. I hope when I go off to college that people will look at me differently.
"Hmm." I frown into the mirror, not convinced.
"Here, this is yours." Mom thrusts a pink plastic bag at me and starts to walk away, but quickly turns back around. "I don't know what's wrong with you."
Me neither.
Her stilettos click-clack down the hallway.
I slam the bathroom door and dump the contents onto the counter. Different-colored bottles and tubes spill out. I pick up a blue bottle with a gold top. Eye-makeup remover.
This could've saved me a lot of pain. I dampen another cotton ball, close my eyes, and wipe away every shred of evidence. Then I scrub my face until the only thing I can smell is Dove soap.
Mom calls me down to help with dinner. She tries to stay away from ordering takeout because Rob is used to home-cooked
26
meals. His first wife was a chef. We don't make eye contact. We just assume our usual dinner roles. She makes the tossed salad, and I sauté the chicken breast. She always complains about cooking. I don't see what the big deal is.
Before we moved in with Rob, we were strictly the white food is evil, go green type of family. But I dreaded most of those meals because it gave Mom all the time in the world to point out what's wrong with me. It would take us about five minutes to chew and the next fifteen were spent on how I could get more involved in school social activities. The other nights I was left alone with an elderly babysitter who fell asleep before me, while Mom jaunted around town, dating one guy and then the next. That's where I really got used to being alone. I had no one to answer to. Of course, I had no one to talk to either.
The radio fills the dead air that lies between us. I'm singing along in my head and Mom's bouncing around the kitchen.
"This girl can carry a tune." Mom wields her vegetable knife in the air. "What's her name again?"
I sprinkle some more chili powder on the pieces of meat and flip them over. "Maya Jackson."
"I'm sure she'd be fun to party with."
"She's sixteen."
"So what, I'm too old to hang out with the young crowd?" Mom swings her hips and tries to sing along, "You think you know me, boy, well just wait and see ... "
"American Idol worthy," I mutter.
27
"Oh, no, I was thinking more like MTV" She laughs.
The front door swings open and I can hear Rob toss his keys onto the table in the foyer.
Mom drops the salad spoons and rushes to greet him.
Hi, babe," she says.
They move into the other end of the kitchen, and then all I hear is them kissing. I don't turn around. They could be at it for a good five minutes. You would have thought, him being close to fifty, that things might slow down a bit. Oh, no, not this cowboy.
The chicken is done before they are, so I put it in a serving dish and place it on the table.
It smells good.
Mom comes up for air. "Teresa, can you set up the rest of the food?"
She doesn't even wait for me to answer before she locks lips with Rob again.
I snatch a cucumber from the salad bowl. A little dry, so I add more dressing and toss the vegetables again. I'm suddenly thankful that I still have homework to finish for tomorrow. The lovebirds are going to be pretty busy tonight.
I sit down at the table and wait for them to join me. I pick at the salad.
Finally Rob breaks free and walks toward the table. "Oh, hi, Tere. How was your day?"
"All right."
"Good." He motors right past me and grabs a beer from the fridge. "Finding a new DJ
isn't going to be easy."
28
"Why?" Mom gasps like she even knows what he's going through.
"I tried to lure Captain Pete, the midday guy from SUN, but he's locked into a two-year contract." Rob thumps down at the table and kicks off his cowboy boots.
As much as I really don't like SUN, SLAM's competitor, Pete is a good DJ. If it wasn't for him, the Ravers wouldn't be playing at Tobacco Road now and Giant James would still be delivering pizzas.
"What are you going to do?" Mom asks.
"Garrison will pick up his shift on Monday night, but we need to find a replacement. Get them groomed before sweeps." Rob takes a huge swig of Bud.
"What about that Feather guy we met at the Delano last week." Mom passes Rob the salad, but he waves it off. "He was cute."
"Cute doesn't cut it on the radio. There's a reason he's a catalog model." Rob spears the biggest piece of chicken from the serving dish.
"Oh." Mom bites her lip. "Do people really listen to the radio at night?"
Garrison's good, but he's not a night guy. He's morning show all the way. He's always hyper and gets people moving. I love waking up to him. It's like jump-starting your day with a cup of coffee. But not many people drink a large cup of joe right before they go to bed. I have enough trouble falling
asleep as it is. I usually listen to the radio for a couple of hours before I nod off.
29
That's one good thing I got from Mom. When we first moved to Miami, I tossed and turned half the night. After about the third night of me waking up bleary-eyed, Mom bought me a hot pink radio and told me to let the music help me fall asleep. After the first night I was hooked. The radio really gave me peace and settled my worries about being in a new city, having to make new friends. Miami is nothing like Orlando, but now I'm so used to living here. It's a great place to be if you want to discover new artists.
"Yeah," both Rob and I say at the same time. "When do your friends, er, classmates listen to the radio?" Rob asks me.
A sliver of sunlight shines through the French doors and makes the diamond stud in Rob's left ear sparkle.
"On the way to school. But mostly at night." The morning drive may be the most popular time slot, but most high schoolers are doing homework when they listen to the radio or just cruising around.
"So we need someone young and fresh." Rob shoves a mound of mashed potatoes into his mouth. I nod my head. He's totally right.
The phone rings. No one moves, so I shuffle over to the counter. I check the caller ID.
"It's for me."
"Go ahead." Mom waves me away.
I answer it and head to my room. "Hi, Audrey. Thank God it's you."
30
Audrey is the only person I can confide in. Like me, she's a not-popular, which is a step away from the dorks. I didn't meet Audrey until sixth grade. We were in PE together, both enduring the torture of Kevin Parker. He called her Beak (on account of her larger than normal nose) and of course, me Snowball. We were both ecstatic when he got suspended for ten days freshman year for fighting and was sent to an alternative school.
"Why, what's wrong?"
"I got attacked by the Mary Kay lady this afternoon." I plop down on my bed and kick off my Skechers. "Ohmigod. Did you call the police?"
"I should've." I laugh. I think of myself all made up and then Mom's face when she caught me washing it all off. I can't stop laughing. I fall to the floor and laugh some more. It feels good.
"Tere, what is it?" Audrey gasps.
I think I'm scaring her, so I stop. My stomach muscles are killing me. "No, my mom just had her do a makeover on me. It was okay, but of course not good enough for the Princess."
We call my mom Princess behind her back because she always coaxes men into doing whatever she wants. She's an ex-Realtor, sold Rob the biggest house in the neighborhood, then two months later, when it came time for him to move in, we moved in, too. She hasn't worked a day since. Now, I'm not complaining, because this McMansion makes our town house look like a dollhouse. Rob is definitely her best score yet.
31
"I'm sorry. That sucks."
"Nah, it's okay. I went to the station with my mom after school yesterday, and DJ
Wipeout quit while I was there."
"In front of you?"
"Yeah, pretty much. Now Rob's all worried he won't find someone decent to replace him." I look up at the collage of musicians that I made on my bedroom wall. I need a photo of PJ Squid up there. It'd be nice to have some new hottie to say good night to before I go to sleep. And let's face it, PJ Squid is flawless, with his dark brown curly hair, green eyes, and the build of a Greek god. He designed his own workout studio in his house and the investment was totally worth it.
"You're good, Tere."
"Me?"
"Yeah, you'd be a great DJ. You know the music better than most people, and you've got a deep, sexy voice. I'm sure you'd sound awesome on the radio."
I never thought of my voice as sexy. Deep, yeah, but not something guys would swoon over. I was an alto in mandatory eight grade chorus and I don't think Mr. Baxter stuck me with mostly boys because I sounded sexy.
"No way. I'd freeze up."
"You'd be all alone in the studio. Not much different from you hanging around in your room doing those fake countdowns all the time."
"I'll stick to broadcasting from 11441 Blanche Drive, thanks."
32
When we hang up, I crank the volume on my stereo and wait for the Saturday night countdown to begin.
Even if I was remotely interested in filling in for DJ Wipeout, there's no way Rob would go for it. Audrey's crazy.
***
Hello, South Florida, this is Sweet T and I'm back and ready to blast you away with some slammin' tunes on the top twenty countdown. First off, if you're feeling a little lonely tonight, give me a call and let me know who you think should be number one. In at number twenty is Ram Z with "You Get What You Pay For"... 33
chapter FOUR
I'm glad this is my last year of high school. If I can help it, I won't sign up for any college classes that start before noon. Luckily, I got in early decision at the University of Miami and avoided the whole college search hassle. So many people at school have been freaking out for months about whether they'll get into any of their top choices. My top choice was to get out of the house. Come August I'll no longer have Mom breathing down my neck all the time.
Mom makes me walk to school even though I have my license because she says it's good exercise. It's not the twenty-minute hike that bothers me, it's the fact that everyone passes me in their cars and just looks the other way.
34
The weather report said it was going to be a breezy morning, so I throw on a hoodie and hook myself up to my iPod. Music is definitely my wake-up call. I grab a raisin bagel and a bottled water and wave good-bye to Mom.
"I won't be home until after eight tonight." Mom cinches the belt on her pink bathrobe.
"Eat without us. There are Lean Cuisines in the freezer."
I nod, clasping the bagel in my mouth.
"If you have to start your day with carbs, you should only eat half." Mom holds out her hand to collect the bad half.
Instead, I rip off a piece of bagel with my teeth and chew. Then I'm out the door. Can't she just lay off the whole carbs thing? I don't think anyone has died from eating a raisin bagel for breakfast.
Today won't be so bad because I don't have a class last period, meaning I can walk home before most people get out of school. I was psyched when I ended up with a bunch of seventh-period study halls. Somebody out there must like me, or not like me, depending oh how you see it. Thank you, Schedule God! All I had to do was cough up a note from my mom saying that I could "study" at home.
I try and match my steps to the beat of the music, but midsong PJ Squid is rapping like crazy, and there's no way I'm breaking into a jog. Tracy Kramer whizzes past me in her red Jeep on Oak Bluff Drive and has to brake quickly for the light. When I reach the intersection, she's still waiting to turn. I can tell she's listening 35
to SUN 101.2, because they're playing crap music again. I think the owner of the station must be sleeping with Holly Lemon because her one hit single, "Lemon Drop," is polluting the street. Why anyone would want to listen to her high-pitched, nasally voice sing about her spiritual awakening after seven months of rehab is beyond me. I guess it doesn't hurt that her hair is as yellow as the sun and her boobs are so perky that they can carry on a conversation without her.
I cross the street and enter Ridgeland through the back by the teacher's parking lot.
When they .first repainted the building my freshman year, it looked like a nice ripe peach. Now, four years later, the peach has lost its color and is starting to mold around the edges.
As soon as I spot the security guard, I sling my school ID around my neck. When they took the pictures at the beginning of the year, the new guy in the front office didn't know how to use the camera properly, so everyone whose last name started with A-C
got stuck with a stretched out photo that easily adds twenty pounds to your face. Now I'm reminded every day how I'll look if I gain all the weight back, and I guess so is everyone else.
I swing by the science wing and pick up my literature book from my l
ocker. A mob of girls are crowded around some volleyball player, and are admiring her belly-button ring.
"Hey, you're in Ms. Peters' class, right?" Stacy Barnes shouts in my direction.
We've only been in the same class for over six months.
Stacy sits in the second row next to the window. Frank Williams, 36
the guy behind her, likes to play with her long golden-brown hair and watch her shake her ass every time she gets up to sharpen her pencil. She's all cheer and no depth.
I turn around to make sure there's no one behind me. Nope. And when I turn back, Stacy's still staring at me. "Can you tell her I'll be a few minutes late because I'm in a volleyball meeting?" Stacy relubricates her lips with shimmer gloss.
By now the whole group has turned their attention from the belly-button piercing to me. My face goes red. All she wants is for me to say yes. So I nod, hoping that's good enough.
"Thanks." She flashes me a quick smile.
I try to smile back, but by the time I do, Stacy's already fussing over the new navel ring.
"Does that girl speak?" I hear one of the others ask, but no one has time to answer because the warning bell rings.
Ms. Peters is writing on the wipe board when I walk into Room 121 and everyone else is shuffling to their seats. I stop next to her and clear my throat, hoping she'll turn around, but she doesn't. She's too busy writing out a quote, which I'm sure will lead today's discussion.
I clear my throat again, but then Tim Connors cuts in front of me. "Hey, Ms. Peters. I'm back."
She turns around. "Feeling better?"
"Yeah. Wanna see the damage from my motorcycle rollover?" He lifts up his shirt before she can answer. I look away but still catch a glimpse of the nasty red scar. Nice abs, though.
37
The last bell rings and Tim rashes to his seat. I, however, haven't moved.
Finally Ms. Peters notices me standing in front of the board. "Hello, Tere."
"Hi," I say softly.
"What can I do for you?" She recaps her marker. "Stacy's late."
She leans in closer. "Speak up." I don't, but still repeat myself. "Stacy's late."
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