How to Rock Braces and Glasses

by Meg Haston

  “Dude.” Aaron glanced nervously at Quinn.

  “Duuuude.” I nodded knowingly. I could feel Zander and Paige’s smiles. “Don’t you think it would be enlightening for everyone to watch? I mean, who knew that Jake wore unicorn boxerth?”

  “They’re horses!” Jake hissed, turning bright red.

  “Or that Aaron added an extra coat of cheek thtain when he thought no one wath around?” I broke into a broad grin, braces and all.

  The girls nearby burst out laughing.

  “Stage lights wash me out.” Aaron’s voice was barely audible.

  When my eyes fell on Quinn, I felt something strange. It wasn’t power. It was more like… pity. Pity that Quinn was so weak that he couldn’t even stand up to his sidekicks. Pity that he still couldn’t look me in the eye—that he could only stand there, shoulders stooped, head down. And suddenly, I didn’t feel like humiliating him in front of his friends anymore.

  Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!

  The sound of the bell echoed throughout The Square. Looking relieved, the guys ducked past us and scampered for the door to Silverstein.

  “Whoa.” Zander’s jaw dropped. “I mean… whoa.”

  “KACEY!” Paige threw her arms around me and squeezed tight. “Way to stand up for yourself.”

  I leaned into her, ignoring the tiny, guilty knot that had formed in my stomach. Those guys deserved the humiliation. The warning that I was still there, underneath the braces and glasses. Ready to fight.

  CULTURE CLUB

  Tuesday, 3:35 P.M.

  After school, I let Zander lead me all the way to Andersonville before I started bugging him about our surprise field trip.

  “Come onnnnn. A hint,” I insisted, dragging my saffron cutout ankle boots against the cracked sidewalks. I’d lived in Chicago all my life, and never really explored any of the neighborhoods on the north side. It felt different up here, more urban than Lincoln Park. Chain-link to my wrought iron. Above-store lofts to my townhouses. Grunge to my pop.

  Basically, Zander to my Kacey.

  “Almost there,” Zander promised as we crossed over Foster. My cardio cramps turned to hunger pangs as we passed hole-in-the-wall coffee shops and Swedish bakeries that smelled of warm butter and cinnamon. I gazed longingly at the window displays of flour-dusted biscuits, muffins, and pancakes glazed with lingonberry jam.

  “Okay. Close your eyes,” Zander instructed me.

  “Nope,” I huffed. My breath made a frosty cloud in the air between us.

  “Suit yourself.” We slowed in front of a small gray storefront with a red door labeled:

  “Vinyl Dethtination?” I said skeptically.

  “Uh-huh.” Zander sidled in front of me and pressed his thumb against the brass handle. “Think of this place as the first stop in your grand tour of rock culture,” he announced. “If you’re gonna be part of the band, you can’t just sing rock ’n’ roll. You gotta live it.”

  I rolled my eyes at the back of his head. Was he serious?

  “I’m Zander, your tour guide. But you can call me… Master of Rock.”

  I could think of plenty of other things to call him right then.

  “Am I even cool enough to get in?” I quipped. “Not too, and I quote, ‘mainthtream’?”

  He turned, pretending to be deep in thought. “Good point. Hold on.” He unsnapped his leather cuff bracelet and looped it around my wrist. It slid halfway to my elbow. “There. So cool I hardly recognize you.”

  “Great.”

  He turned back toward the door, ramming it twice with his shoulder to get it to open.

  We stepped into a musty, fluorescent-lit store with dingy white walls. And records. Stacks of records, everywhere. Piled in listing columns on the cluttered oak tables. Shoved under the ripped leather armchair in the back corner. Stacked next to the sets of cushioned black headphones dangling from wall hooks all around the store. Propping up the adding machine on the speaker by the door. I sucked in, to preserve space. And oxygen.

  “Z?” A guy’s voice sounded somewhere to the right. “That you?”

  “Hey, Elton.” Zander reached for a dusty Pink Floyd album on a stack by the door and blew on it. A fine layer of dust curled into the air. I sneezed.

  “You come here a lot?” I reached for the nearest record sleeve. A woman’s gaunt, faded face was printed on it in various shades of blue.

  “Yeah. It’s like this… rock ’n’ roll mecca.” A peaceful smile spread over Zander’s face. It was the same faraway look he had when he was playing. He looked down at the album in my hand. “Joni Mitchell. Blue,” he observed. “Nineteen seventy-one. Not as good as Clouds, but definitely solid. Oh. And these.” He scooped up a pile of Led Zeppelin albums balanced on the radiator under the window. “I don’t think I really got rock ’n’ roll before Physical Graffiti, you know?”

  “Not really.” I wondered if I’d ever heard him say this many words at once.

  “The newer stuff’s in the back.” He disappeared into the maze of record stacks, and I hurried to catch up so I wouldn’t lose him.

  “How’d you find thith place?” I asked, gluing my arms to my sides and shimmying around a random speaker planted in the middle of the floor. There was a coffee mug on top with something white and furry floating in it. I stifled a gag.

  “There’s a café next door, and they do open mic nights,” he called over his shoulder. “We played there when—” He stopped mid-stride and turned to face me. “Wait. How’d I find this… what?” he asked slowly. The skin around his eyes creased. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “PLACE,” I said loudly, cupping my hands around my mouth like a megaphone. “PLACE.”

  Zander shot me a huge grin.

  “Place,” I repeated a third time, feeling a jolt from my pinky toe to my earlobe. “My lithp!” Relax the tongue. “My… lissssp!”

  “Told you!” he exclaimed. “Cheesy slo-mo victory five?”

  I glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Since we were walled in by columns of records taller than we were, it wasn’t a problem.

  “Yes, please.” In sync, we wound up and sent our hands arching slowly toward each other. I swallowed a giggle as we pressed our palms together in mid-air and held them there. His was soft and warm, like the leather bracelet on my wrist.

  “Nice.” He laughed. Our hands dropped to our sides, and I felt a surge of excitement. It was really happening! My lisp was disappearing! And soon, my glasses would be gone, too. Things were actually falling into place. The Universe was smiling on me, reinstating me to my rightful place. At the top. With Molly at my right han—

  Molly.

  I mentally smacked myself in the forehead. Time for Phase Three.

  “Come on.” Zander gripped my wrist and dragged me through the record maze. “You gotta hear this one album. Oh. And this other one.” Without warning, he turned a corner and stopped. I almost tripped over him.

  “Fourth on the left,” he murmured to himself, kneeling down in front of one of the piles. His lips moved slowly as he counted silently from the bottom. He looked up at me. “Hold this?”

  I steadied the column, and he slid a lime-green album sleeve carefully from the bottom of the stack. “Aaaaahhhh… got it.”

  “Who ith it?” Oh no. The lisp was back. My forehead crinkled in disappointment.

  “Cut yourself a break.” He nudged me in the shin. “It’ll take some time. Probably fade in and out a little.”

  “I gueth.”

  His face suddenly got serious, and he stood up. “You GUETH?” he said. “Well, I am THHHHHHERIOUTHLY THHHUR that you’ll be THPEAKING WITHOUT IT THHHHHHOOOPER thoon.”

  “Thut up, Thander.” I flushed, nudging him back.

  “OHHH, KAYYTHEEEE,” he belted out.

  Wait. Was he breaking into song?

  “You hard roooock lady.

  Don’t be tho thhyyyyy

  Says thith hard rockin’ guyyy!

  Let go and beeee craaathy.

&n
bsp; Yeah, hard rooooock Kaythee.”

  He was soaking the stacks with spit showers, and I ducked out of the way to avoid getting drenched.

  “THANDER!” I mock scolded him, gasping with laughter. “Thpitting in public ith THIMPLY thothally unacctheptable. Thometimes? It’th thmart to care what people think.”

  He dropped his head in faux-shame. “Thorry.”

  “Just don’t let it happen again.” I wiped tears from the corners of my eyes with the back of my hands.

  “Aaanyhoo.” He waved the green album in my face. “These guys are hard-core. My all-time favorite. Acoustic Rebellion. Ever heard of them?”

  I shook my head. “Are they on iTunes?”

  “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.” He shoved the record in my hands. “Actually, they’re coming to town Friday night. Pritzker Pavilion.”

  “And you’re going?” I scanned the track listing on the back.

  “Definitely. I’ve had my tickets for months now.” He paused. “You’ll like track five. Although, it’s kind of like you won’t get the true experience unless you hear them, you know, live.”

  “Oh.” My eyes snapped up and met his. I was experiencing what we call a “lightning bolt moment.” Watch and learn.

  “Ohmygod.” I smacked my palm to my forehead. “Did you say ACOUTHtic Rebellion?”

  He nodded.

  “I knew I recognized that name from somewhere. That’s Molly Knight’s favorite band!”

  Impressive, no?

  “Seriously?” Beneath the blue streak, his forehead wrinkled. “ ’Cause she doesn’t really seem like the type who likes…” He paused, like he was trying to think of the answer on a test. “Deep… stuff.”

  “Oh, totally,” I gushed. “Molly loves… deep… stuff. But especially Acouthtic Rebellion.”

  “Really?” His eyes narrowed.

  I nodded so hard that my glasses skittered down the bridge of my nose. “She may not look all deep and alternative, but inside, she… so… is.”

  I took a breath. This was it. The hard sell.

  “It’s really sad, though, because people who aren’t open-minded sometimes think she’s ditzy, or boy-crazy, or something.” I pretended to scan the record stack in front of me, but cut my eyes in his direction.

  He shook his head slowly. “Yeah. Close-minded people suck.”

  “For real. Anyway, she has all their albums, and—”

  “They’ve only done one.”

  “She has their album, and she follows them on Twitt—”

  His face darkened.

  “—in Rolling Stone, all the time.”

  “Wow.” His dissolving forehead wrinkles meant he was buying it. I moved in for the kill.

  “Now that I think about it, you guys have a lot in common,” I said thoughtfully. “Maybe you should hang out.”

  “In common?” he repeated, missing my hint by a mile. “Like what?”

  “Liiiiiiiiiiike.” I cocked my head to the side, racking my brain. “You both have colorful hair. And you’re both rock ’n’ roll affith—” I started over. “Affith—”

  “Aficionados?” he said with a smile. But it wasn’t a mean smile.

  I nodded. “Yup. She’s pretty much a rock ’n’ roll trivia buff.”

  “Has she ever been to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame? In Cleveland?” Zander perked up.

  “YES!” I slapped his arm. I hadn’t felt this pumped since the girls and I went on a Sugar Daddy bender after exams last semester. “Rock and Roll Hall of Fame!” Mall of America! “In Cleveland!” Minneapolis!

  “Dude. I’ve been wanting to go there forever.”

  “Dude. You should totally ask her about it,” I advised. “It’s one of her favorite subjects.”

  Zander was quiet for a second. “I guess she doesn’t really seem to care what people think about her outfits. That’s kinda cool.”

  “Right?” Do it! Ask her out! You’re my last hope!

  “Yeah. Okay. So maybe I’ll ask her to go?” His face flushed suddenly, like I’d just caught him writing in his journal about love—or unicorn boxers. “So… we should get to rehearsal.”

  I resisted the urge to throw my arms around him. Who knew that Zander Jarvis from Seattle would be my ticket back to the top? I could hardly believe this was actually working, but if everything went as planned, I’d be back on the air by next week. No more reruns. Just hard-hitting journalism, the way it was meant to be delivered. By me, lisp-free. “Yeah. Rehearsal,” I said. Totally calm, like this was just any other day.

  I followed Zander down the block. With every step, I was getting closer and closer to the old Kacey Simon.

  MOMENT OF TRUTH

  Wednesday, 3:44 P.M.

  I decided not to tell Molly right away that Zander was planning to ask her out. Let the anticipation drive her a little crazy. For the first time in over a week, I was actually enjoying passing her in the halls and seeing her in homeroom. It was something about her expression. Beneath the layers of disdain and pride, there was something familiar in her eyes: just the tiniest glint of need.

  Besides, I had more important things to do than text Molly. Mom had called me over lunch, telling me that she’d just gotten a call from Dr. Marco’s office.

  “What did he th—say?” I’d asked, my stomach seizing at the mere mention of his name.

  “Just that he wanted to check on you. I made an appointment for you this afternoon.” Pause. “You have been using the drops, haven’t you, Kacey Elisabeth?”

  “Mooom!” I groaned. But the feeling of unease had grown, like there was a stampede of elephants doing a step routine in the pit of my stomach. What if Dr. Marco had misdiagnosed my infection? What if it was some horrible, eyeball-disfiguring disease that would ultimately leave me blind? What if my eyes were scarred forever and I’d have to wear glasses for the rest of my life?

  By the time I arrived at Dr. Marco’s office after school, I had to crank up the volume on my iPod to chase away the What Ifs roiling around in my brain. Oddly, the pounding fusion of punk and classic rock in Acoustic Rebellion’s title track, “Sound Mutiny,” which I had digitally recorded from the album, relaxed me. I settled into the exam chair and flicked a snowflake from my dark-wash jeggings.

  Dr. Marco appeared in the doorway in his fake lab coat and mouthed something I couldn’t quite make out.

  I jerked the earbuds out of my ears and dropped them in my lap just as AR’s lead guitarist started shredding an insane solo. This was Zander’s favorite part. I hit Pause and made a mental note to tell Molly to memorize it. At least they’d have one thing to talk about. “Sorry, what?”

  Dr. Marco chuckled and closed the door behind him. “I said, firrrst you almost blind yourself, and now you’re working on going deaf?”

  “Hilarious,” I said, shoving my iPod in my bag. “Although technically, I only went blind because you gave me bum contacts.” I grinned to let him know I was joking. Sort of.

  “You got braces since I saw you last! Cool rubber bands. Hot pink?” He took a seat next to me.

  The grin morphed into a scowl.

  “My daughter hates hers, too.” Dr. Marco folded my frames and balanced them on his knee. His beachy cologne was extra strong today, smelling like sand, coconut oil, and just a trace of dead fish. But as long as he told me that I could wear contacts again one day, he could smell like whatever he wanted. “Have you been using the drops this time?”

  I nodded. “Twice a day.” Or four. Whatever.

  “Good.” He pulled his mini-flashlight out of his coat pocket as the chair went higher. “This is going to be bright, but I need you to keep your eyes open for me.”

  I opened wide, staring up at the tiny cracks in Dr. Marco’s forehead. Inside my gray suede boots, I pointed my toes. Then flexed them. Pointed. Flexed. I braced myself for the dreaded tsk.

  Instead came the rare: “Mmm-hmmm.” Dr. Marco slid his flashlight from the left eye to the right.

  I drummed my fingert
ips quadruple-time on my legs. “I swear, I used the drops.”

  Finally, Dr. Marco clicked off his flashlight and sat back. He pressed a button on the side of the chair, bringing it downward.

  “So… how does everything look?” I asked. Point. Flex. Point. Flex.

  He stared at me for what felt like an entire commercial break, then broke out into a smile. “Everything’s looking great!”

  My body relaxed instantly, like I’d just stepped into the mineral bath at The Drake spa. “Really?”

  “Really,” he confirmed. “You’ll be back in contacts by Saturday.”

  “Saturday! Woo! Hoo!” I shouted, sitting on my hands to keep from bear-hugging my eye doctor.

  He unfolded my glasses and handed them over. When I put them on, everything looked sharp and shiny. I grinned. Today was the first day of the rest of seventh grade. I could feel it. Tonight, I’d help Paige write the best campaign speech ever delivered. Tomorrow, I’d show up to school with a disappearing lisp. Friday, Zander would fake interest in Molly at the concert. And by Saturday, I’d be onstage. Comeback complete, baby. It had all the makings of a made-for-TV movie.

  “Tell your mother I said hello.” Dr. Marco smiled kindly, then headed for the door.

  My face was starting to ache, and I realized I’d had a wide grin plastered on it. I could hardly wait to text Paige and Zander. Or maybe I’d just surprise Paige when she came over to work on the speech, and send Zander a picture text later. So many options! So little time!

  “THREE DAYS, BABY!” I squealed, shimmying off the chair as the door closed with a click. Three days. Seventy-two hours. And then, finally, I could be me again.

  IT’S NOT WHAT YOU SAID, IT’S THE WAY YOU SAID IT

  Wednesday, 7:15 P.M.

  “You want the truth, Marquette?” Paige challenged. “Well, you won’t get it from Imran Bhatt.” She paced back and forth in front of my clear pink computer desk, stepping over open takeout containers, rolls of green crepe paper, and a bunch of half-finished campaign posters pushing voters to Go Greene. On the wall behind her, a muted newscast glowed on the flatscreen.