“May I?” he asks, his hands moving toward my face. I nod, fixated on his manicured nails. His touch is soft, almost feminine. It’s all I can do not to pull away. As he runs his fingers down my nose, he makes a noise in his throat that is almost like a purr.
“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” he says . “Definitely deformed. Let’s just have a look inside.” He gets a small light from his desk and shines it up my nose. Then he goes over to his computer, swivels the screen to face me and says, “What shape were you thinking? The Johnny Depp is still very popular. So is the Robert Pattinson. Here, have a look.”
He clicks through screen after screen of noses. It’s overwhelming. How does anyone ever choose?
“Um, can I ask you something?” I say as the images flicker by.
“Ask away,” he says. He leans back in his leather chair.
“What about my parents? Don’t they need to sign something? I mean, what if they don’t want me to do this?”
He laughs. “They’ll come around when I explain all the problems you’ll have if you don’t have it fixed. Breathing problems. Infections. Post-nasal drip. You’d be surprised how quickly parents change their minds when they hear that.”
“But I won’t have those things, right? I mean, if I don’t have the surgery?”
He laughs again. “Well, if you get a cold, there’s no telling what can happen, but no. It’s just a bump. A bump that you want to get rid of. Give me a few minutes with your folks and we can set the date.”
I pretend to think about it, although I want to say, You haven’t met my parents, buddy. Instead I ask, “So, if my girlfriend wanted to get, uh, bigger, uh—”
“It’s called breast augmentation. ‘Boob job’ is so crass, don’t you think? And most parents—most mothers, really—are happy to help when I explain the psychological benefits. Happier girls equal happier moms, right? It’s a win-win situation. Let me show you something.”
He pulls a silver attaché case off a bookshelf and motions me toward the desk. He pops the clasps on the case to reveal six different compartments. Each compartment holds a different implant. It’s totally freaky.
He picks one up and tosses it to me. I fumble it, and it slips to the floor. “Not on the baseball team, I see.” He laughs.
I pick up the implant, which is soft and squishy and really, really creepy. I put it back in its little compartment and step away from the desk. It makes me sick to think of this guy cutting into Leah and inserting those…things…into her body.
“I’ll talk to my parents,” I say, trying to smile. “And my girlfriend.”
“My clinic’s just down the hall.” He stands up and shakes my hand again. “Call anytime. I can get you in pretty quickly.”
I bet you can, I think.
I walk out past the cute receptionist. The nose-job woman gives me a thumbs-up as I cross the waiting room. I try and look cheery, but all I can manage is a feeble wave. I race down the stairs. When I get to the street, I realize that I didn’t ask him a single one of my questions.
Chapter Seven
Dad is barbecuing pizzas for dinner. They’re a bit crunchy in places, but tasty. If you don’t mind a bit of charcoal with your cheese and pepperoni. Mom has made a salad and her signature dessert: store-bought angel food cake and strawberry ice cream with Hershey’s chocolate sauce on top.
“Here you go,” she says. “The perfect dessert. Fruit, dairy, low-fat cake, chocolate. The health benefits of chocolate are well known.”
“Fruit?” I say, peering at the pile of fat, sugar and carbs on my plate.
“In the ice cream, silly.”
My dad laughs and pours a slug of Grand Marnier over his dessert. “And this is made with oranges. Want some?” He holds the bottle out to my mom, who shakes her head.
“So, Jack,” Dad says. “What’s new?”
“Not much. I’m doing a bit of research about plastic surgery. Scary stuff. I mean, thirteen-year-olds having boob jobs? Oh, sorry, I mean ‘breast augmentation.’ I just want Leah to know what she’s getting into.” I’d really like to tell my parents about my visits to the doctors, but they take a dim view of me skipping school. And an even dimmer view of lying and forgery.
Mom wipes some chocolate sauce off her chin and says, “You should talk to Roberta Smithson. She’s a therapist who teaches a course on body-image issues. I bet she’d be able to give you all sorts of insights.”
“Sign me up,” I say.
Dad chuckles and helps himself to some more cake. “Dr. Smithson is”— he shoots a glance at my mom, who glares at him—“interesting.” I have a feeling he’d like to say more. Maybe Dr. Smithson is super-butch: buzzcut hair, camo pants, lots of piercings and tattoos. Mom would say that’s a total stereotype, but at least two of her colleagues look like they just got out of the Marines.
“I’ll call her tomorrow and set something up,” Mom says. She pauses on her way over to the sink and rests a hand on my head. “This is a good thing you’re doing, Jack. Leah’s lucky to have you as a friend.”
“Too bad she doesn’t agree,” I say.
Dr. Smithson’s office is in a converted garage behind her house. I follow the signs along a brick path bordered with flower beds. The door to the garage is open, and when I knock on the door frame, I hear a voice from the backyard. “I’ll be right there. Just gotta wash my hands.”
The woman who appears a few minutes later looks like Cameron Diaz—blond and a bit goofy. Her legs go on for miles. I can tell because she is wearing dirty denim cutoffs. And a pink tank top, which she quickly covers up with a gray hoodie. Not before I have checked out her breasts, which are perfect.
“Sorry about that,” she says. “It’s my day off. I got carried away in the garden. I don’t usually meet clients dressed like this.”
“That’s okay,” I mumble, following her into the garage. She slips her feet out of her Crocs and pads across the office to a large wicker armchair. She motions me to sit on a wicker love seat opposite her. In between us is a coffee table made from a surfboard. I feel like I’m in Hawaii. With a surfer goddess. Who might also be a dyke. One thing my mom drummed into me was not to make judgments based on appearances.
“So, Jack,” she says. She’s sitting in the full lotus position, which is pretty distracting. “Your mom tells me you need to know something about the psychosocial effects of plastic surgery.”
I nod and clear my throat so that I don’t squeak when I talk. “Yeah. I’m, uh, trying to help a friend. She’s fifteen, and her mom wants to give her a boob job—oh, sorry, I mean breast augmentation—for her birthday.”
She nods. “Fifteen’s pretty young. Although I’ve seen worse.”
“Her mom’s totally into it. And Leah—that’s my friend—thinks it will make her happier, prettier, more popular.”
“Those are the usual reasons,” Dr. Smithson says. “Body image is a complicated thing though. Many people don’t stop at one surgery. It can be addictive.”
“Leah’s mom’s like that. Addicted.”
“That’s pretty common,” she says. “Did your mom tell you anything about what I do?”
I shake my head. “Not much. Just that you teach a course about body image.”
She smiles. “Did she tell you that I used to be a man?”
I stare at her, not sure what to say.
“Yup. Dr. Robert Smithson. So you can understand my interest in body image. And cosmetic surgery.”
I still don’t know what to say. She’s so hot. My brain can’t put her hotness together with what she just told me.
She uncoils herself from the chair and sticks her feet out. “These are a bit of a giveaway, don’t you think?” she says. The nails are painted hot pink, but she’s gotta be a size 11. Men’s 11. “So, shall I give you Body Image 101?”
I nod, and she leans forward in her chair. “Have you ever heard of body dysmorphic disorder? BDD?”
I shake my head. She continues.
“BDD is a preoccupation with
an imagined or slight defect in appearance that leads to significant impairment in functioning.” I must look puzzled, because she says, “Sorry. Even to me, that sounds like something from a textbook. Let me try again. A person with BDD gets so freaked out about their appearance that they can’t think about much else. They look in the mirror and all they see is some abnormality or deformity—breasts too small, ears too big, belly too round.”
“Nose too bumpy,” I say, stroking mine.
“Exactly. Anorexics often see themselves as fat, even when they’re near death from starvation. Body image starts to develop when kids are really small. Families influence how children think about themselves. So does the rest of the world: toys, television, movies, magazines.” She pauses. “Make sense so far?”
I nod.
“Teenagers think plastic surgery will make them happier, more self-confident, more popular. But it doesn’t. So if the goal of cosmetic surgery is to feel better about yourself, you’re better off seeing a therapist. Which is where I come in. Lecture over.”
“Is plastic surgery ever a good thing?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“Of course,” she says. “I’m living proof. Plastic surgeons do great work all the time: cleft palates, burns, traumatic injury, sex changes. The man who does my surgery works part of every year in third-world countries. They’re not all greedy bastards.”
“So I should try and stop my friend from having surgery, right?”
“Unless she has three breasts and a cleft lip, yes.”
She stands up and shakes my hand. Her grip is bone-crushing, but she smells completely girly—like roses. I close my eyes and inhale.
Chapter Eight
When I get home from seeing Dr. Smithson, I post a few things on Slice and Dice. Stuff about the interviews I’ve done. I try to be fair. I’ve decided I don’t much care what adults do to their bodies. I focus on the whole issue of plastic surgery and teens. I’m still getting lots of comments, but it seems like it’s time to ramp it up a bit. Get some public attention on the issue. But first I want to see if I can talk some sense into Leah.
I pass her a note in English. I need to talk to you. Usual place at lunch?
No reply. I go to our usual place anyway. It’s a wooden bench outside the window of the teachers’ lounge. No one else ever sits there. Not even the teachers. To my surprise, she shows up.
“What do you want, asshole?” she says. She stands in front of me. Her hands are clenched around the straps of her backpack.
“A few minutes of your time. Just hear me out, okay?”
“You’ve got three minutes,” she says.
“You gonna sit down?” I ask.
“Tick, tick, tick,” she says, looking at her watch. She sits as far away from me as possible on the bench.
“I know you’re mad at me about the whole boob-job thing. But I did some research”—she rolls her eyes— “and here’s the thing. It’s risky, and you’ll need more surgery down the road, and it won’t make you happy. In a few years you’ll like your body better—”
“Says who?” she asks.
“This therapist—”
“You talked to a therapist about me?”
“Not about you. About plastic surgery. About body image. About BDD.”
“BDD?”
“It’s this thing where you can’t see yourself properly. Trust me, it’s weird.”
“So you think I have this BDD thing? That’s what you and this therapist decided?” She stands up and looks down at me. “You are such a jerk. Stay away from me.”
She stomps off. I don’t go after her. She has a mean right hook. After dinner I go down to the basement and drag an old protest sign from the pile. I paint over something about gay marriage and write Keep Your Scalpel Off Teen Bodies on one side and I’m Not Deformed. I’m Unique on the other. Mom comes downstairs and watches me paint.
“Never thought I’d see you with a sign in your hands,” she says. “Need any help?”
I shake my head. “I’m just about finished. Unless you want to make another sign and join me?”
“Join you where?”
“Outside Dr. Myers’s office. Tomorrow after school.”
She picks up an old sign and twirls it in her hands. “It’s been a while,” she says thoughtfully. “And it’s a good cause.”
“So you’re in?”
“Let me check my schedule. If I can make it, I will.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say. “Do you think the drops of blood are too much?”
She looks at the red paint dripping from the p in Scalpel.
“Nope,” she says. “It’s great. I’m proud of you.” She heads back upstairs, and by the time I finish the sign, it’s time for bed. Big day tomorrow.
After school the next day, I race home and grab my sign, a bottle of water and a bag of Oreos. No sense getting weak on the picket line. Then I take the bus to Dr. Myers’s building. Getting the sign onto the bus is a bit tricky. A drunk guy says, “Right on, dude,” and raises a freedom fighter fist. A little girl asks her mother what s-c-a-l-p-e-l spells. The bus driver just sighs and says, “Sit at the back, son.”
At the office building, there are a lot of people sitting outside having coffee at a café on the ground floor. I figure it’s a good thing. I need all the attention I can get. I stash my pack under a bush and hoist the sign up. I walk from one side of the building to the other. Back and forth. Back and forth. After about the twentieth time, a woman going into the building stops me. She has that stretched, shiny look that Leah’s mom has. Too much Botox. Too many facelifts.
“What are you playing at?” she says. Her arms are crossed over her breasts. Maybe she’s just had them done and she’s here for her follow-up.
“Exercising my citizen’s right to peaceful protest,” I say.
“Your what?”
“His right to peaceful protest,” a voice behind me says. Mom. She has a sign. Hers says The greater the emphasis on perfection, the further it recedes. She links her arm in mine, and we stroll away from Botox woman. We’ve gone back and forth about four times when a security guard struts out of the building. He is wearing a fake-cop uniform, complete with walkie-talkie. His gut is almost busting the buttons on his shirt.
“You need to move along,” he says to Mom. “I don’t want to have to call the cops.”
“No, you don’t,” Mom agrees. “Because you don’t want to look stupid. I can see the headlines now: Security Guard Goofs: Middle-aged professor and teenage son arrested for peaceful protest.”
“You’re disturbing the peace,” he says, blocking our way on the sidewalk.
I hand Mom my sign and run over to the café. I ask a couple at one of the outdoor tables, “Are we bothering you?”
“Are you kidding?” The woman laughs. “This is awesome. Maybe I’ll join you when I finish my coffee.”
“Cool,” I say. A man at the next table is taking a picture of Mom and the security guard. Other people are standing up and reading our signs.
“What exactly are you protesting?” a blond woman in yoga gear asks. She’s about my mom’s age, but sort of… sleeker.
“Uh, doing plastic surgery on teenagers,” I say. “A guy in that building does it all the time.”
She nods. “Ah yes, Dr. Myers. He must have skipped the ethics lectures at med school. Will you be here for a while?”
“Probably. I mean, I don’t know about my mom, but I’ll be here.”
“See you later,” she says. “Keep up the good work.”
By the time I get back to Mom, the security guard has disappeared.
“I convinced him not to call the cops,” she says as we start walking again. “Turns out he’s not a big fan of Dr. Myers either. Apparently he treats his staff terribly.”
I wonder if the cute receptionist hates Dr. Myers too. Half an hour later, I get my answer. They come out of the building together, his arm around her waist. Total cliché. She stops dead in her tracks when she
sees us. I wave. She doesn’t.
Dr. Myers’s hair glistens in the lateafternoon sun. “Call Security, Mandy,” he says to the receptionist. I hold my sign like a shield as he barrels toward me.
Dr. Myers bats the sign out of my hand. “This is private property!” he screams. Behind him, I see a VTV news van pull up to the curb. Yoga woman, now wearing a dark suit, jumps out of the van. She is followed by a guy with a video camera.
“The sidewalk? I don’t think so,” I say. “Just a peaceful protest, sir.”
“I know you,” he says. “You’re that punk with the ugly nose. You were in my office. Asking about getting it fixed.”
“I decided against it, sir,” I say. “And I decided that people need to know what you’re doing. Cutting up kids. Lying to their parents.”
He lunges for me just as yoga woman sticks the microphone in his face. “Dr. Myers,” she says, “is it true that seventy-five percent of your practice involves surgery on kids under the age of eighteen?”
Dr. Myers grabs Mandy by the elbow and race-walks back into the building. He’s got his phone out and he’s yelling into it.
The whole thing runs on News at Eleven. And then the phone starts to ring.
Chapter Nine
Mom and Dad field the calls. The local paper wants to interview me. CBC Radio and Television also want a few moments of my time.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Oprah calls,” Mom says. “This is just the kind of stuff she eats up. Maybe you’ll get a trip to Chicago, Jack.” She pokes me in the ribs and grins.
“You up for this?” Dad asks me. “This kind of attention can be pretty intense.”
I nod. “I’m just the flavor-of-the moment, right? Slow news day, I bet. No new wars, no celebrity meltdowns, no scary diseases. It won’t last.”
“Maybe not,” he says. “Just think before you speak, okay?”
“I always do, Dad. I’m not Mike, you know.”
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