“I’m not turning against you,” I say, sitting up. An avalanche of Cheezies slides off my shirt and onto the rug, leaving behind a trail of what looks like radioactive orange dandruff. “I’m just, uh…”
“Stupid?”
“No.”
“Ignorant?”
“No.”
“Annoying?”
“No. I’m worried.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause it’s surgery. You know. General anesthetic. Scalpels. Sutures. Pain. Scars. Foreign bodies in your body.”
“Dr. Myers says there won’t be any scars. Not that you can see anyway. And my mom says it’s better to get it done at my age because my skin is still so elastic. She wishes she hadn’t waited so long to have hers done.”
“How old was she?” I ask. For the record, Mrs. James’s boobs look like grapefruit and feel like baseballs. She hugged me once when I was little and gave me a black eye. I’m not kidding. According to Leah, she’s also had her ass lifted, her tummy tucked, her face sanded and a few other things too gross to mention.
“Twenty-one,” Leah replies.
“Ancient,” I say.
Leah throws the pillow at my head and stands up. “It’s totally safe,” she says. “I should have known you wouldn’t understand. I thought maybe you’d get it, but you don’t, do you?”
“I do get it,” I say. “You want bigger boobs. But can’t you just wait and see what happens? I mean—you never know, right? I mean, why put yourself at risk?”
She bursts into tears again and runs out of the room. I continue to lie on the floor even after I hear the front door slam. I grab the pillow and put it under my head, eat a few Cheezies off the carpet and doze off. The next thing I know, my dad is standing over me, laughing.
“Nice to know some things never change,” he says as I wipe the drool from my chin.
“Hey, Dad,” I mumble. “Welcome back.” I extend my hand up to him, and he pulls me off the floor and into a hug. My dad’s tall and skinny like me, but he’s in really good shape. He has to be for his job. Lots of the places he goes are totally remote. If you can’t hike for days, you’re screwed. When he’s home, he bikes or walks everywhere. It’s kind of annoying.
When he finally lets me go, he says, “Your mother tells me Leah’s getting a boob job.”
“Not if I can help it,” I say.
Dad laughs again. His face is very tanned, and he has deep indentations on his nose from wearing his sunglasses all the time. “You must be the only teenage boy in the world who doesn’t want his girlfriend to have bigger boobs!”
I sigh. “She’s not my girlfriend, Dad.”
Dad raises an eyebrow at me. Why is it so hard for people to believe that a guy and a girl can be friends? Not a discussion I want to have with my father. He likes to tell me and Mike how many girlfriends he had before he met Mom. This information is what she calls unverifiable. Which basically means Dad is full of it. He also says that she is his best friend. That’s a bit confusing, if you ask me.
“How long are you home this time?” I ask.
“A month, give or take,” he says. “I thought maybe we could go camping some weekend. Just the two of us.”
“Sure.” I nod and smile. Camping is my worst nightmare, but I’m not about to tell him that on his first night back. If Mike were here, he’d be all over it. Anything that’s outdoors and allows him to wear shorts is Mike’s idea of a good time. Not mine. I’ve got research to do.
Chapter Four
Where to begin? Online, obviously. I type plastic surgery horror stories into Google. The very first article I read says that teens usually have plastic surgery for all the wrong reasons. Because they’re insecure. Because a celebrity did it. Because their boyfriend wants them to. Basically the same reasons adults go under the knife. And there’s always a doctor who’s happy to oblige. Want your lips to look like Angelina Jolie’s? Here’s a shot of Restylane. Oh, so sorry you look like a Bratz doll. It’ll wear off in a few weeks. Want some of that ass fat to disappear? Oh, so sorry your butt’s numb. It’ll wear off in a few weeks.
Here are some of the things I find out about cosmetic surgery:
1. Teenagers don’t worry much about the risks of unhealthy behaviors like smoking, tanning and drinking. Well, duh. They are likely to pay even less attention to the risks of cosmetic surgery.
2. Teens who hate the way they look will almost always feel better about themselves a few years later, whether or not they have surgery.
3. Women with breast implants are four times as likely to commit suicide compared to other plastic surgery patients. So get a nose job, if you must—just leave your boobs alone.
4. Most women have at least one serious complication (infection, loss of nipple sensation!) after getting implants.
5. Implants don’t last forever. You’ll always need more surgery later on.
6. The general public has an inflated (ha-ha) sense of the benefits and a minimized sense of the risks of plastic surgery. Thank you, Us Weekly.
7. Plastic surgeons like to talk about something they call “degree of deformity.” Which means anything from a big nose, sticking-out ears or one breast being larger (or lower) than the other. Deformity is in the eye of the beholder. Conformity rules.
8. Even smart people make mistakes. Kanye West’s mother, for instance.
9. Lots of men have cosmetic surgery. Man-boob reduction is big, as is ear-pinning.
I start writing all this stuff in a new notebook I name Plastic. I could have added to The Big Book of Boobs, but it seemed wrong. For one thing, plastic surgery isn’t all about boobs. And the BBB is based mostly on observation, not research. Unless you call watching Megan Fox movies research.
I’m staring at some pictures online of a woman called “Catwoman.” She thought if she made herself look more feline, her husband wouldn’t leave her for a younger woman. He cheated on her with a Russian model. Number 8 (above) does not apply to Catwoman.
I definitely need to talk to some people who’ve had cosmetic surgery, but not people like Catwoman or Leah’s mom. Anyway, their views on cosmetic surgery can be summed up in three words: Bring it on! So where am I going to hear some different viewpoints? Where does anyone find out anything these days?
I go to Blogger.com and set up a blog called Slice and Dice. I post my nine facts about cosmetic surgery. Then I post a request for personal stories. Then I wait. While I wait I limp downstairs and hang out with Mom and Dad, who are sharing a bottle of wine and some cold pizza. Mom is lying at one end of the couch; Dad is at the other. They have their feet in each other’s laps. The coffee table is a mess of pizza boxes and empty bottles, and they are listening to Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic.” My parents are, in a word, wasted. Yup, that’s right. Dad’s been home all of three hours and they’re already totally hammered. Smashed. They do this every time Dad comes home. Then they go back to having a glass of wine with dinner or a beer at the end of the day. It’s not like they’re alcoholics or anything. They just like to celebrate being together again.
“Jack-o!” my dad says, waving his arm at me. “Join us. Tell me everything.”
Mom giggles and pokes Dad in the thigh with her bare foot. I notice she has painted her toenails bright blue. “There’s no room,” she says. “Jack’s growing like stink.”
This strikes my dad as hilarious and he snorts wine out his nose, which cracks Mom up.
“Not much to tell,” I say. The only thing to do is ignore them. They’re like toddlers on a sugar high. One minute they’re all hyper, and then they crash. The next day they sleep in, drink a lot of coffee and shoot each other meaningful glances over their toast. By dinnertime it’s as if it never happened. Mike and I have learned to wait it out. Let them have their fun. Tonight, though, I want someone to talk to. Ordinarily, I would talk to Leah, but she’s pissed at me. I grab a piece of pizza and head back to my room, where I shoot Mike an email.
Dad just got home, so guess what? Mo
m and Dad are blitzed (again). I’m doing research about cosmetic surgery (long story short—Leah’s mom wants to give Leah a boob job for her 16th b-day. I think it’s a bad idea. And yeah, I’m aware of the irony). Check out my blog http://sliceanddice.blogspot.com. Who’s the hot chick in the pix? Real boobs, am I right? Let me know what you think of the blog.
I sign it BB (for Baby Bro) and hit Send. Then I check my blog to see if anyone has responded to my request for information. Even though it’s only been a couple of hours, there are already twenty-two comments. Five are from “anonymous” supporters of plastic surgery. Four are links to porn sites. Six are from wack-jobs who want to convert me, have sex with me or sell me something. One genius manages to combine all three. If I pay him twenty bucks, I can have sex with all the members of his cult in northern Minnesota. I hit the Delete key a lot. Five women and two girls (fourteen and sixteen) send their horror stories. Most of them also send photos. Reading their stories and looking at their pictures makes me feel sick. Then it makes me sad. Then it makes me angry. Innocent people are getting mutilated. Other people are making boatloads of money. Something needs to be done.
Chapter Five
The next day I use my study period at school to google local plastic surgeons. There are a lot of them. All of them are men. Google kindly tells me that not all plastic surgeons are men. Just the majority. I decide to call Leah’s mom’s surgeon first. Then I will randomly pick two more names and set up appointments with them as well. I will pretend to be a teenage boy who wants to have a nose job. Only part of this is a lie. I don’t like lying, but I do like my nose, even though it has a big bump in it from the time a swing hit me in the face when I was four. A swing Mike aimed at me because I was wearing his precious Batman cape. I didn’t even know who Batman was at the time.
At lunchtime, I call and set up the appointments. No one asks my age, and wait-time doesn’t seem to be an issue with these guys. All of them can see me for a “free consultation” the following week. So far, so good. I wish I could tell Leah what I’m doing, but she’s not talking to me. I’m pretty sure what I’m doing would make her even angrier than she already is.
I spend the weekend hanging out with my dad and thinking up questions to ask the plastic surgeons. By the time Wednesday rolls around, I’ve got a list of questions on my laptop. I have also given the school a forged note that says I’m going to miss two days’ classes to go on a field trip with my dad to a salmon farm up island. The Warren Academy approves of independent study with qualified individuals. I feel bad about involving Dad, but it can’t be helped. It is for the greater good.
Dr. Marvin Thompson’s office is on the ground floor of an older apartment complex near the hospital. I sit on a duct-tape-patched chair and fill out an information sheet while I wait. The waiting room is full of women—young, old, fat, skinny, flat-chested, busty. They all glare at me, like I shouldn’t be wasting the doctor’s time with my petty male problem. I was expecting Dr. Thompson to look like one of those guys from Nip/Tuck. Chiseled jaw, straight nose. The man who shakes my hand across his desk has jowls, no hair and a nose that looks as if it has a ball on the end of it, like a clown. He has really hairy hands and arms. No white coat. His short-sleeved plaid shirt is tight over a basketball-sized belly. Physician, heal thyself, I think. There is a photo on his desk of a little boy with a big head and the same clown nose. On him it looks kind of cute.
“Sit, sit,” the doctor says, waving a hairy arm at a chair opposite his desk. “What can I do you for?
I open my laptop and clear my throat. “Um, I’ve got some questions. About my nose.” I feel stupid saying anything about my nose, now that I’ve seen his and his kid’s.
He leans forward in his chair and peers at my face. “You want rhinoplasty?”
I nod. “It’s, um, deformed. I hate it.” I use the buzzword deformed on purpose. I’m not sure I sound convincing, but he comes around the desk for a closer look. It’s very strange having someone stare at your nose. I look down at my laptop and ask my first question. “Where did you train?”
He perches on the edge of his desk and points to a wall of framed diplomas. “Undergrad, UBC. MD, McGill. Residency, U of T,” he says. “Board certified. Next question.”
I type while I ask, “Do you have experience with this procedure?”
He laughs. “I could do it in my sleep. Or with my eyes closed. Or with one hand tied behind my back.” I stop typing and stare at him. “Not that I do,” he says. “Awake, eyes open, two hands. Scout’s honor.” He lifts his hand and gives the Scout’s salute. I wonder if his son is a Cub Scout. I can totally see Dr. Thompson as a Scout leader. Tying knots, building safe campfires, telling not-too-scary ghost stories.
“So, uh, how much does it cost?”
“More than you can afford, I would think,” he replies. “Let’s back up a bit here. You don’t like your nose. Why?”
I nod and run my finger over the bump. “Isn’t it kinda obvious?”
“Not really,” he says. “Looks fine to me. Can you breathe properly?”
“Yes,” I say. “I just don’t like the way it looks.”
“Ever had surgery?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Just some stitches when I fell one time. And a cast when I broke my arm.”
“There are risks,” he says. “And there can be complications.”
“I know.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“I went online,” I say.
“Ah yes, the Internet. Font of all dubious wisdom.”
“So, can you help me out?” I close the laptop and lean forward in my chair.
“How old are you, son?” he says.
“Almost sixteen.”
He shakes his head sorrowfully. “Then the answer is no.”
“Even if my parents sign off on it?”
“Even then.” He picks up a pen from his desk and twirls it between his fingers like a tiny baton. “I don’t do cosmetic surgery on anyone under eighteen. Not unless there’s a true deformity or a health risk. My receptionist should have told you. I’m sorry you wasted your time.”
I stand up and shake his hand, trying to look disappointed when I am actually elated. He’s one of the good guys. He’s got standards. Standards he acts on.
“Is there anyone else in town you could recommend?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find someone to do what you want,” he says wearily. “But you won’t hear about them from me. Just be sure to ask your questions.” He looks so sad I almost tell him the truth. I don’t want him to think I’m shallow and vain. But it’s too soon. I need to get to my next interview. I need to find someone who isn’t a grown-up Boy Scout. Someone greedy. Someone who thinks Be Prepared means having an anesthetist on call at all times.
Chapter Six
The next guy, Dr. Sanderson, stands me up. I get to his office, and his receptionist says he was called in to perform emergency surgery.
She looks up at me, frowns and says, “Dr. Sanderson won’t see you unless your parents are with you. No point.”
“Good to know,” I reply. “Wouldn’t want to waste his time. I’ll be in touch.”
She nods and turns back to her computer screen. “You do that.”
On Thursday I have an appointment with Dr. Ronald Myers, Leah’s mom’s doctor. Dr. Myers’s office is in a brandnew high-rise overlooking the harbor. His waiting room is painted in soothing shades that probably have names like Pistachio Parfait and Bahama Lagoon. A low, sleek couch faces an oval coffee table. The magazines are all glossy. Not a battered People magazine in sight. A receptionist with perky tits and a nose to match offers me a cold drink or a “coffee beverage.” I ask for a double espresso, even though I hate coffee. It just sounds more mature than asking for a Coke.
She smiles and says, “Absolutely, sir.” Her teeth are perfect. No mention is made of parents.
There is only one other person in the waiting room—a woman about my mom’s age with a bandag
ed nose and bruises under her eyes. She looks over at me and grins.
“Gonna have that fixed?” she asks, pointing a manicured finger at my face.
I reach up and stroke my nose. “That obvious?” I ask.
“Oh, honey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that, well”—she points at her own nose—“I feel your pain. And you’ve come to the right place. Dr. Myers has done all my work. And my daughter’s. He’s a prince. He’ll have that bump off in no time. He’s got his own clinic, you know. Just down the hall. All the best equipment. Fabulous staff. You won’t regret it.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say. The receptionist calls my name, and I’m ushered into the presence of Dr. Ronald Myers. The room is enormous, and the view from his window is spectacular. Ocean, mountains, sky. He sits with his back to it, as if it’s as boring as a brick wall. The huge pictures on his walls look expensive, but kind of generic. They work well with the color scheme, which is London Fog and Ace of Spades. In other words, gray and black. Very manly.
He stands up and walks around his gigantic glass desk to greet me, clasping my hand in both of his. Chiseled jaw, straight nose, athletic build. Armani suit, Rolex, fake tan. Or maybe it’s not fake. Maybe he got it skiing at Aspen or sailing in Barbados. It is a bit orange though.
“Jack,” he says. “Have a seat. Did my girl get you something—coffee, a Perrier?”
I nod as he waves an arm at one of the two white leather chairs that face his desk. I’m starting to feel jittery. Maybe from the coffee, maybe because his perfection makes me nervous.
“Sit, sit,” he says. “Tell me how I can help.”
He sits in the chair beside mine and leans toward me as if I am the most fascinating person on the planet. This guy is good. Talk about selling ice cream to the Inuit. I clench my teeth and say, “It’s about my nose.”
He nods and leans a bit closer—he smells good. Like he’s just come back from a long walk on a misty beach. Cedar, ocean, a whiff of wood smoke. I’m tempted to ask what cologne he uses. He smiles, and guess what? His teeth are straight and very white. I hate him more by the second.
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