by Cheryl Klam
“I’ve been trying but I keep screwing up. Everybody hates me.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“What about you? You used to love spending time with me. And now…”
“I’ve been busy with work. You know that.”
“You haven’t been working Saturday nights. You’ve been going out with your friends.”
“Oh, Megan,” she says sadly as her eyes well with tears. “You know why I keep making plans on Saturday nights? I was afraid if I didn’t have plans you would feel too guilty to go out. I wanted you to have some fun and develop your own social life and I didn’t think you would if you felt obligated to me.”
My mom has been making plans to go out every Saturday night for me? “But I loved our Saturday nights.”
“I know, but that was before you had other choices…better offers, so to speak.”
“Oh, Mom,” I say as I begin to cry again. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
“I do,” my mom says, grabbing another tissue box out from under the sink. “And I think deep down, you do, too.”
“So who am I?”
She pulls out a tissue and wipes my nose for me. “You’re who you’ve always been and who you’ll always be. And it has nothing to do with the way you look.”
I appreciate where my mom is going with all this, but she’s wrong. As much as I hate to admit it, Lucy’s right. I have changed.
And it has everything to do with the way I look.
twenty-nine
feedback (noun): a loud whistle or rumble emanating from a sound system in an auditorium, caused by a sound’s being amplified many times.
The morning after the fall festival, the school is quiet, the halls empty. I walk toward the auditorium with a pit in my stomach. I enter through the back door and wander toward the center of the stage. I arrived early so that I could practice my lines onstage before our last rehearsal, but as I take my place and look out at the empty auditorium, I realize I don’t want to be here by myself.
I turn to leave and stop as I notice a stack of freshly painted screens leaning against the back of the stage. I walk over to the screens and thumb through them, silently evaluating each one until I reach the end. There, up against the wall, is an old background scene that Simon and I painted our freshman year for a senior production of The Wizard of Oz. It was our first project together and Simon and I worked hard on the design, creating a stylized farmhouse that was designed in three pieces so that when the tornado hit it could fly up and off to the sides simultaneously while splitting up. Instead of making the farmhouse all drab and gray like it was in the film, we took the opposite approach. We researched the era and decided that Aunty Em would have too much pride to let her house get all trashed. After all, why would Dorothy keep saying “There’s no place like home” if her house was a pit? And so Simon and I had created the farmhouse of our dreams, using the brightest, most cheerful colors we could find.
I feel like whistling the theme to “Moon River” (an old song I have always found inherently sad). Everything seemed so simple back in the days when all Simon and I would argue about was the color of the paint we should use. I let the background screens fall back into place and turn away from the stage, heading toward the production studio. I walk to the door and stop, staring through the glass window at all the hubbub inside. Besides Simon and me (and Laura, who ended up attending the dance with George), no techies were at the dance and therefore were no more bleary-eyed than usual. The sound of laughter ricochets off the walls as everyone rushes to take care of the last-minute details, putting the final touches on the various sets for the senior productions. They’re so busy that no one notices me as I open the door. I pause for a minute, taking time to listen to the comforting whir of the circular saw while breathing in the familiar smell of wet paint and turpentine. I suddenly wish that I was at school this morning not to act, but to design the sets; that tomorrow I would be at the performance not standing onstage, but in the audience, watching with paint-stained fingernails.
The saw stops and I open my eyes. Simon is in the corner of the production studio, standing on a ladder, finishing up the purple and gold wildflowers for the backdrop of Drew’s set. He’s wearing his glasses again, along with his black T-shirt, Bermuda shorts, and trademark silver sneakers. He seems to sense my presence. He stops painting and turns to face me.
Catherine and Laura are standing beside the table saw, just staring at me. I’m a little bothered to see that even normally cheerful Laura is now giving me the same evil eye as Catherine. Simon has obviously told them what happened at the dance. Or Annie.
“Simon, can I talk to you for a minute? Please?” I beg.
Finally, with what appears to be considerable thought, Simon puts down his brush and climbs down the ladder. We walk out of the production studio and down the hall and up the marble staircase, to the deserted second floor. When we reach the top of the stairs, I notice his shoe is untied. I attempt to point it out to him by tapping it with my foot but he moves away from me as if he can’t stand to have me touch him, even with my foot.
I swallow back the lump in my throat. What can I possibly say to make things better? “So you gave up on your contacts, huh?”
He sighs as if he’s not sure whether to answer me or not. “I hated them,” he said. “I was just wearing them to try to look a little better for you.”
“Oh, Simon,” I breathe. “I’m so sorry.”
He raises his hand as if to silence me. “It’s not all your fault. I knew how you felt about Drew. I was just…stupid.”
I chew on my bottom lip while he tucks his hands in his pockets and looks at the floor. “What’s going to happen to us?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I wish we could go back to how things were between us before your accident, but…I don’t think I can.”
“What are you saying?” I wipe my nose on the back of my sleeve as I blink back my tears. “That you need some time apart? Some time to think things through?”
“No.” Simon closes his eyes for a minute and breathes in deep. “What I’m saying is that…I can’t be just your friend, Megan. I wish I could, but I can’t.”
“But…I love you.”
He gives me a little grin. “I know. Just not the way I want you to.”
After my talk with Simon I go back to the auditorium and stare blindly at my script until Drew arrives with Mrs. Habersham, who is there to give us our final critique. I nod at Drew as we take our places onstage. I’m glad that when the play opens I’m supposed to be sitting down because knowing that Mrs. Habersham is there evaluating me is making my knees so wobbly I don’t think I could stand if I had to. I do my best to remember my lines, but I keep getting distracted by Mrs. Habersham, who is in the front row, watching me intently as she takes copious notes on the spiral pad in her lap. I feel totally, utterly sick to my stomach. As I forget yet another line, I can’t help but feel bad for Drew. He has put so much time and energy into this whole thing and I am going to blow it for him. We finally finish and I brace myself for a lecture as I walk to the edge of the stage to receive Mrs. Habersham’s critique.
“That was terrible,” she says simply.
Drew inhales deeply as he crosses his arms.
“Miss Fletcher,” she continues, as she pushes her glasses up her nose and leans forward. “I know you saw the script at the audition because I was there, but have you even looked at it since?”
I stare down at my feet. There’s nothing to say. She’s right. I’m terrible.
“Why haven’t you memorized your lines yet?” she asks.
“I, ah, well, I’m trying.”
“With less than thirty-six hours until your performance, I would suggest you try a little harder,” she says crisply.
“She’s had a lot of stuff going on,” Drew says, courageously rising to my defense.
“Let me remind you that this is your play Drew,” she says, almost angrily. “And casting Megan was your
decision. As the director, writer, and star, you’re the person who will be held accountable. Your entire grade is riding on the performance—the entire performance.” And with that threat, she turns and spins away, walking up the aisle with her notebook tucked under her arm.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Drew as soon as Mrs. Habersham is out of earshot.
“No,” he says. “I’m sorry. About last night…I had no idea that Lucy…I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say. “It’s mine.”
He takes a breath and glances toward the back of the theater. “I tried to call you.”
“I know. I just, well, I had a lot of things to think about.”
He walks toward the edge of the stage. He sits down and motions for me to join him. “How did everything go?”
“Not so good,” I say, sitting next to him. “Lucy’s furious. And Simon, well, I told him I could never see him as anything more than a friend. Needless to say, he doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “Megan, what I said last night, about how I feel about you…if it helps at all—”
“It does,” I say quickly.
“I just want you to know that I’ve never felt like this about anyone before.”
I look into Drew’s eyes. A year ago it would’ve been inconceivable to me, almost laughable that I might question whether or not someone might want to be with me because of the way I look. As of last year, people liked me in spite of the way I looked, not because. “The way you feel about me…does it…would it matter…” I swallow. “What if I looked like I used to?”
“What do you mean?”
“Would this—us—have happened if I had never been in that accident? If I was still ugly?”
And then I wait. I look into his eyes and wait for him to tell me that of course he would, that he would love me no matter what I looked like, no matter how ugly I was. That he didn’t care about high cheekbones, small noses, or straight white teeth. I wait for him to reassure me that Simon and my mom were wrong, that even if I was the most horrible-looking person in the world he would still be sitting next to me telling me how he’s never felt this way about anyone before.
“I don’t know.” He takes my hand and squeezes it. “All I know is how I feel about you now. And I can tell you this: I love you.”
thirty
deus ex machina (noun): an event or character that appears out of nowhere to resolve the dramatic conflict.
When I get home, Lucy is in our bedroom, packing her suitcase. She spent the night at Marybeth’s and I haven’t seen her since our argument. It’s obvious from the look of surprise on her face that she didn’t plan on seeing me now, either.
“Hi,” I say nervously. I take a breath as I ready myself for another confrontation.
But Lucy doesn’t even answer me. She just continues packing, as if I’m not even there.
“Are you going someplace?” I ask, finally. (Even though the suitcase is a fairly big clue.)
“I’m going to New York for a few days.”
“When will you be back?”
“Don’t know,” she says, zipping up her suitcase.
“Look,” I begin. “About last night…”
“Let’s just forget it.”
I know Lucy doesn’t really mean that she intends to forget it. What she’s really saying is: I’m convinced I’m in the right and you totally screwed me over and I will never ever forgive you as long as I live. I swallow and clear my throat. “This thing with Drew…”
“Over it,” she says, raising her hands.
“I know you’re mad,” I interrupt. “But…”
“I’m not mad,” she says.
Truth be told, she doesn’t sound mad. She sounds a little tired, and maybe a little rushed, but not mad. “Then why the silent treatment?”
“Marybeth and I have a train to catch.” She wheels her suitcase out of the room and bangs it down the steps. I hear the front door open and close and I know she’s gone.
I glance back toward the closet. I see my reflection in the mirror, complete with runny nose and thumb cuticle in mouth. I take my thumb out of my mouth and stare at the face looking back at me. I feel like I’m looking into the eyes of the enemy. But like Lucy, I don’t want to fight anymore. I just want it all to go away. I’m ready to admit defeat.
I lunge at the door, slamming it shut. I run downstairs and grab the Hefty bags out of the kitchen cupboard. I hurry back up to my bedroom, determined to rid myself of every stitch of clothing, every stick of makeup, everything and anything that was bought to showcase the new me. I fling open the closet door. As Lucy’s dollhouse crashes to the floor, I ignore my reflection while I take my pile of cute tight little shirts my sister had picked out for me and throw them in the Hefty bag. Then I yank all my skinny jeans off the hangers and toss them in, too. In between blowing my nose I fill two oversized Hefty bags full of clothes before heading to the bathroom. I open the makeup drawer that I share with Lucy and begin to quickly sort through it, putting my stuff in the trash and leaving Lucy’s scattered across the floor.
After I’m done with the makeup I open the medicine cabinet. I pull my stent out of its protective case and whip it into the Hefty bag. As it disappears into the trove of lip glosses and snot-filled tissues, I’m suddenly so disgusted that I feel nauseous. I wrap my arms around my belly as I bend over the toilet and begin to dry heave. When I’m done, I wipe my face with my hands and turn back toward the medicine cabinet. I shut it closed, inadvertently glimpsing my reflection in the mirror. I pause to look at my mascara-streaked and snot-filled face and wonder how awful-looking I’ll be when my nose closes up. Will it just collapse or will it shrink in place? Before I can stop myself, I’m rifling through the Hefty bag, desperately picking through snot-filled tissues and tubes of lip gloss looking for my stent.
“Megan?” My dad is standing in the doorway. “What are you doing?”
“I threw out my stent,” I sob.
He hesitates and for a minute, I’m pretty certain he’s going to blow his top. As in: YOU THREW OUT YOUR STENT? ARE YOU @#$%! CRAZY??
But he doesn’t say a word. He steps over the makeup scattered across the bathroom floor and kneels beside me as he starts digging through the bag.
“Here it is,” he says, handing it back to me.
I take the stent and drop backward, leaning up against the bathroom wall. He pauses, just looking at me. We sit there for a while, neither of us speaking.
“Come on,” he says finally, offering me his hand. “I just found a bag of Fig Newtons your mom hid from me.”
“Fig Newtons?” I say, wrinkling up my nose.
“She’s on a health kick.” He shrugs. “I figure they’re better than nothing.”
He has a point. I take his hand and follow him downstairs. I take a seat at the table and he hands me a box of Kleenex. I wipe my nose as he pours us two humongous glasses of milk and sticks a brand-new bag of Fig Newtons on the table.
“I heard about the fall festival,” he says.
“So you know Lucy hates me,” I say, using three tissues to wipe my nose.
“She doesn’t hate you.”
I rip open the bag of Fig Newtons and pop one in my mouth. I don’t want to talk about Lucy with my dad. I have already gone down this road with Mom and I know Dad will pretty much tell me the exact same thing she already did. Besides, I just don’t have the energy right now.
“Can I ask you a question?” I say, as soon as I swallow the cookie. “Do you think Mom would’ve liked you if you had never shaved off your mustache and lost all that weight?”
“What? Why do you ask that?”
“Drew…the guy I like.”
“I know who he is,” he says.
“He practically admitted that he never would have cast me in his play if I wasn’t pretty. He never would have liked me.”
“But you are pretty.”
“Yes but…”
“Let me ask you something, Megan,” Dad says quietly.
“Would you like him if he was fat and ugly?”
“Yes,” I announce.
“Uh-huh,” he says sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “It’s human nature, Megan. Look at your mother. She’s the least superficial person I know. She couldn’t care less what people look like. But, when she first saw me, she didn’t have any interest in me. It was only after I lost all that weight and my silly mustache and white apron that she agreed to go out with me.”
“But she loves you.”
“I know. She loves me even though I’ve lost my hair and gained almost all that weight back. She doesn’t care anymore because she loves me for who I am. But would she have ever agreed to go out with me if I came up to her looking like I do now? Maybe not.”
“I think she would. I mean, you still look like you. It’s not like you got a completely new face.”
He looks at me. I can tell he’s at a loss for words. He takes a bite of a Fig Newton and makes a face as he chews. “It needs something,” he says, holding the remaining portion up to the light.
“Like some chocolate and a creme filling?”
“Exactly,” he says, popping the rest in his mouth and winking at me. He takes another one.
I push back my chair. I don’t want to upset my dad with all my poor me talk. “I better get back upstairs and start memorizing my lines or tomorrow’s going to be a disaster.”
“Megan,” he says, stopping me. “This guy of yours…this Drew. Would you like him if he was a jerk?”
“What? No.”
“What I’m trying to say is that a pretty face may increase your chances of getting inside the house, but it’s not going to keep you from getting kicked out on your ass. That’s up to you.” He smiles as he offers me the bag of Fig Newtons.
I think I understand what he’s saying. A beautiful face might win me the attention of the guy I loved, but it wasn’t going to win his affection. After all, lots of pretty girls were interested in Drew (besides Lucy). But I was the one he liked. I was the one he loved.