by Ann Angel
That’s the airport for you, isn’t it?
They didn’t see me, of course, which was why Cherry didn’t wave good-bye to me. It’s one thing to pretend strangers are really your friends or family or lovers, but to intrude on real people you actually do know, the moment they’re starting over again, that just wouldn’t be right. So I just went away very, very quickly so as not to disturb or upset anybody.
I’m not telling the truth, completely.
I upset myself when I went away from that airport very, very quickly. I upset myself a whole lot, because I really did want for Cherry to see me there in the airport, in my airport look. I was dressed awfully nice. I did a good job getting ready that Saturday night in June. Cherry would have liked how I looked when I was in the airport, in my duds, in my airport mood.
I should have let her see me.
“Would you like me to stay with you for a while longer?” Nurse Knightly asks in an unnecessary whisper that makes me worry about myself. “I don’t mind a bit.”
“Were you reading my mind?”
“Good nurses can do that.”
“I don’t think I would recommend any more of it.”
“Can’t be any worse than what you actually say out loud.”
“I apologize, Nurse, for attempting to be grotesque to you.”
“Very good. So, I’ll stay for a while.”
“No.”
“What? You don’t want me?”
“Don’t tease, please. You are dealing with an invalid, you know. Of course I want you. But I don’t mind you leaving. As long as I feel sure you’re coming back.”
“Sure, I am coming back. As long as you don’t talk dirty anymore.”
“OK. But can I make you my fantasy?”
I can hear Nurse Knightly sliding away as the team shuffles in to turn me over and make me cry. She stops in the doorway.
“I believe you may have mentioned you already had one.”
“I would very much like to replace it with something nicer.”
Words fight over a straining low laugh. “You going to need to have a look at me, then, to make this thing work?”
“Absolutely not. Absolutely no. Anyhow, I’ve got you already.”
Nurse opens the door to my room once more just as the team is snapping the Stryker bed tightly over me and the checklist starts. Clip number three, tight, four locked . . .
“So,” Nurse asks with a big, thick Lucy laugh, “how am I?”
I want to make a joke.
I want to make several.
But I have another glitch moment, and only real stuff comes out.
“Nurse, you are so beautiful, I’m blinded. You are the most gorgeous thing I have ever never seen.”
The door to the room has already closed, but there is no missing the big voice bouncing around the corridor.
“Ha,” says Nurse, “you must have been sneaking peeks all along.”
I start laughing the wrong way, and it hurts like mad. The team jerks me over at just that moment, slams me to an awkward, excruciating stop, and the pain is immense.
But this time, I do not cry.
That’s a lie. I cry like a brat.
But it’s OK. It’s only pain. And soon I am moaning a small, safe laugh. Right, then I’m crying again.
But after a while everything settles down. It’s quiet, and I can lie back and think about truly lovely things.
Like being able to walk again.
Lauren Myracle
“This is a complete and utter disaster,” I pronounced.
“Zelly, please,” Kristin said. Her tone was Here we go again, Zelly being overdramatic. “A disaster would be being attacked by a pit bull. A disaster would be a tidal wave, or being sold as a sex slave in the Philippines.”
“Or having a hair sprout from your chin on the day you’re supposed to be crowned Homecoming Queen,” I said. “In five hours, Kris! Five hours until the stadium lights shine on me, me, me—and my chin hair!”
I could hear how self-absorbed I sounded, and I tried to get a grip. I did tend to be a little vain sometimes. I knew that. It was one of my flaws, along with . . . well, a lot of things. I had a lot of flaws! I admitted it! And one day I’d, you know, go live in a yurt and drink nothing but barley water until I achieved enlightenment. But not today. Not on Homecoming.
“Be honest,” I said to Kristin. “Which would you rather have: tidal wave or chin hair?”
“Huh, think I’d take the chin hair.”
“Well, huh, I think you wouldn’t.”
“Huh, I think you’re freaking.”
I glared. “Could we stop with the ‘huh’s?”
“Huh. Can we?”
I made an aaargh sound and closed my eyes. When I opened them, she was still there. So was my chin hair. It was black and wiry, gleaming in the girls’ bathroom mirror.
“Just pluck it, will you?” I said. “It’s mocking me.”
“It’s mocking you? How is it mocking you?”
“Well, look at it!”
We leaned toward the mirror. Kristin scrunched her eyes.
“Do you see?”
“It’s tiny,” she said. “It’s cute.”
“Kristin!”
Even though I knew she was kidding, there was a part of me that wondered if she was secretly delighted. Was she jealous that I was Homecoming Queen, even though she swore up and down she wasn’t?
Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful, I wanted to tell her.
The thing to remember was that I didn’t ask to be Homecoming Queen. The football players voted, which, OK, was sexist and a little pervy, but tell that to the school administrators. The football players picked me, which was their way of saying I was the hottest girl in the class. What was I supposed to do? Decline? Renounce the throne to Scout Hopkins, who had the second most votes?
Scout Hopkins had something wrong with her. She never passed judgment on anyone, even famous people like Lindsay Lohan who would neither know nor care. Instead she said things like “She doesn’t look fat; she looks happy,” because that was the way of the Lord. Once I gave her a ride because her pickup broke down, and she tuned my radio to Wave, the Christian rock station. I so wanted Kristin there to laugh at it with. Although the music wasn’t terrible. It was alarmingly catchy.
I very, very privately admired Scout for being such a good person, but I wasn’t about to hand her my crown. The girl had stubby eyelashes, for heaven’s sake. And she wore rodeo jeans. With tube socks.
I passed Kristin the tweezers from my contraband Swiss Army knife, which had my name in cursive swirled across the red casing. Zelly, with the “Z” all looped and sassy.
“My grammy has a chin hair,” Kristin said. She squeezed the tweezers open and shut, like a tiny mouth. “More like a beard, really. I guess there’s no one at the nursing home to pluck it for her.”
“Get on with it,” I said. Our free period would end within minutes, and girls would come streaming into the bathroom. Girls who were unhairy.
“Wouldn’t that suck, to live in a nursing home and be covered in facial hair?” Kristin asked. “And moles. My grammy has a gazillion moles.”
“I’d really appreciate it if we could stop with the chatter.”
Kristin extended the tweezers. “On the count of three,” she said. “One, two . . . three!”
“Ow!” I yelped.
Kristin examined the nose of the tweezers. “Sorry, didn’t get it.”
“That really hurt!”
“Let me try again. One, two . . . three!”
“Ow!”
She peered at my chin. “Oops.”
“Kristin!”
“One more time—let me try one more time.”
She grasped the hair, and I squeezed shut my eyes. She gave a mighty yank.
“OW!” I howled. “Owie owie ow!”
“It’s very resistant!” Kristin cried. “I don’t think it wants to come out!”
“You’re fired,” I said,
snatching the tweezers.
The bell rang. A posse of volleyball players swarmed into the bathroom, and I tucked my chin.
“Does anyone have a brush?” a girl named Solange asked. She jostled for a place at the mirror as mascara wands were whipped out and lipsticks uncapped. Last night’s party was raucously discussed.
“People, please!” Solange said. “Is anyone even listening to me? Anyone?”
I fumbled in my purse. “Here,” I said, keeping my head turned sideways.
“Thank you,” she said for the benefit of her friends. She dragged it through her tangled curls.
Kristin stepped closer. She shielded me with her body, hiding me from sight even though no one was paying attention.
“Really, it doesn’t look that bad,” she said in a whisper.
“That’s because it’s on me and not you,” I said.
She bit her lip. This time she was honest enough not to deny it.
The chin hair had won the first round, and inwardly, I was shaken. A pimple I could deal with, or under-eye circles. Even a bad case of flatulence, because I could blame it on one of the football players. Hey, they were beefy guys.
But a chin hair was . . . grotesque. Aberrant. Manly, even, and one thing a Homecoming Queen was not supposed to be was manly. Just look, honey, she’s absolutely stunning. Skin like ivory, eyes like violets, and—what’s that? A whisker? Oh, turn away! Turn away!
I was especially worried about Blake, my boyfriend. Blake was going to escort me onto the field. He didn’t play football, but he was a track star, so the football players were cool with him. Plus, he was dating me, which would give any guy status. I wasn’t saying that to be conceited, either. Well, all right, maybe I was—but at least I was aware of it. That counted for something, didn’t it?
Anyway, being a trophy girl wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Sometimes I wished I was just normal looking, or even ugly (although ugly in a not-absolutely-hideous sort of way), so that if anybody liked me, I’d know they were liking me for me. Blake said I was crazy, that he loved me inside and out. Still, I worried.
If I were in a wheelchair, I wouldn’t have this problem.
If I had only one leg, or a wine-colored birthmark mottling half my face, my life would be so much easier. Or if not easier, then truer. Realer. I would be noble and good and devote myself to charities, like feeding the homeless at Saint Joe’s. And I would say things like “But honestly, they give back to me. The vagrants couldn’t care less if I was there. They have tons of volunteers. But the work I do? Ladling out the cabbage soup?” I’d place my hand on my heart. “It enriches my soul.”
But I didn’t have a wine stain, and both my legs were in full working order. And even if excessive facial hair did qualify me for sainthood, I actually didn’t want to feed the homeless. Not that I wanted them to be hungry—that would be terrible—but maybe I could be the one to fix the cabbage soup instead of serve it. Yes, that’s what I’d do. I would call Saint Joe’s this weekend. Only maybe I’d suggest turkey and cheese on focaccia. Or baby quiches.
But tonight all I wanted was a crisp fall night and no pregame rain, because high heels and muddy sod were a guaranteed disaster. A bouquet of roses would be nice. And, natch, a hairless chin.
Instead I got a full-on smackdown from Scout Hopkins, Queen of Pure. I ran into her in the stairwell, me on my way out and Scout on her way in. We collided, and I went sprawling. A tampon flew from the partially zipped lower pocket at the bottom of my backpack.
“Yikesies,” Scout said. “We don’t want that scooting around.” She scrambled for it and palmed it to me. The wrapper crinkled as I shoved it back in my pack.
“Sorry,” I said. My face burned. “I’m such a spaz. Are you OK?”
“Oh, totally. Don’t worry about it.” She held out her hand and heaved me up. “So . . . are you ready for the big night?” Her smile was easy as she took me in, but it froze when she noticed my chin. Her eyes widened. Then she gamely pretended that nothing was wrong.
“Is your dress drop-dead gorgeous?” she said in a rush. “I’m sure it is. I wanted to buy a new dress, but I was like, ‘Can I really justify spending a hundred dollars when children in Africa are dying from AIDS?’ So I bought mine at A.R.C.”
Of course you did, I thought. A.R.C. stood for the Association of Retarded Citizens, and it was like the Salvation Army only without the bell. All the clothes came from donations.
“It’s awesome, though,” Scout went on. Her eyes strayed to my chin. “It’s, um . . .” She jerked her eyes back. “It’s turquoise and flowy, and I can wear my cowboy boots with it.”
Cowboy boots? To Homecoming? Then again, maybe with the right accessories she could pull it off—sort of a flouncy, Western, bohemian look. Just as long as she didn’t wear the tube socks.
“I’ve got some turquoise earrings from Santa Fe,” I said. “You can borrow them if you want.”
“Yeah? Thanks, Zelly.” She shifted her weight. “What’s your dress like?”
“It’s Marc Jacobs,” I said. “It’s black.”
“Oh wow,” Scout said. “You’re going to look absolutely”—down dipped her eyes, and her voice grew uncertain—“beautiful.”
“For God’s sake, just say it,” I snapped. “I’ve got a chin hair! Do you think I don’t know?!”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Scout said quickly. “It’s hardly noticeable.”
“Uh-huh.”
Her brain searched for something to say. “I had a cold sore once. It was terrible! It was on picture day last year—can you imagine?”
Yes, actually, because Kristin and I had chortled over it when we pored over our yearbooks.
Scout shrugged. “But I told myself, ‘Oh well. Eventually you’ll look back at this and laugh.’ ”
Like we did, I almost said. Although afterward, I’d felt bad, because my dad got cold sores, and I knew they really hurt.
“So don’t worry,” she said. “Just think of it as one of those nutty things.” Her gaze drifted once more to my chin.
“Well, thanks for that,” I said. “And now, not to be rude, but—”
Scout gasped.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing!”
My hand flew to my chin. “What? What is it?”
Gone was Scout’s look of Christian charity, replaced by cow-eyed horror. “It . . . grew, while I was watching. It grew!”
My fingers found the hair. It had been a quarter-inch sliver; now it was as long as my thumb. And it had thickened. Surely I was wrong, but it seemed to twitch at my touch.
Scout backed away, clutching the gold cross she wore around her neck.
I stammered something about the nurse, and too much caffeine, and please-don’t-please-don’t tell. And then I fled.
Nurse Wells took one look at my chin hair and blanched the color of biscuit gravy. “You need to see a dermatologist,” she said, scribbling me a sick pass. “Or an electrolysist. Or both.” She ripped the pass from the pad and placed it on the table between us. “Go home, Zelly. Heaven forbid you’re contagious.” She gave a start. “Oh my God—is it waving?”
By the time I got home, the chin hair extended a good three inches and was as thick as a mouse tail. If I looked down, I could see it undulating. Sniffing the air, searching its surroundings. Cold sweat slicked my body. I longed to escape, but how could I when it was part of my very self? I thought of the tapeworm story, the urban legend of the boy strapped to a chair and tempted with a roasted turkey. Out of his mouth slithered a tapeworm, blind and pulpy.
“Zelly, is that you?” my stepmom called when I came in through the back door. “Thank you so much for unloading the dishwasher this morning—I didn’t get the chance to tell you.” Her heels clicked in the hall. “But why are you home so early? Why aren’t you at school?”
She came into the kitchen and saw the hair. She shrieked and dropped her load of laundry.
I burst into tears. “Get it off me!�
�� I wailed. “Get it off!”
She snapped into efficiency mode. “Wax,” she said firmly. “Come with me.”
But the wax was no match. I could feel the hair tighten against the force of it, and when the wax pulled free, the hair remained. If anything, it was longer now. And more lustrous.
Next my stepmom tried plucking, but she had no more success than Kristin.
“Ow!” I bellowed as she abandoned the tweezers and tugged with bare hands.
She let go. Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath. “Now this is just plain silly,” she said.
“I have Homecoming tonight,” I moaned. “Why is this happening?”
Her mouth took on a determined twist, and she extracted a pair of nail scissors from the drawer by the sink. She put them back. She pulled out a giant pair of sewing scissors, gleaming and sharp.
I stepped back. “Um . . . what are you doing?”
“Don’t think about it. Just close your eyes.”
“Oh God,” I said.
The chin hair lashed wildly. My stepmom caught its tail. I felt a jerking at my chin as it struggled to get away.
“Do it quick, or I’m going to throw up!”
There was a snip, followed by a blissful stillness. Then a sliding, slicing, growing sound, a new heaviness tugging my skin.
“Oh crap,” my stepmom said.
“It’s back, isn’t it?” I said.
My stepmom wobbled beside me. “Zelly, sweetie, I need a Scotch.”
Alone in my room, I dialed Kristin’s cell.
“Hold on,” she said when she answered. “Let me go somewhere where I can talk.” The noise of chatter receded. “ ’K, I’m back. Where are you?”
“Am I a horrible person?” I demanded. “Is this my punishment for being, you know, me?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m shallow—I admit it! I’m vain and I’m petty and I care about my appearance! I use Crest Whitestrips! I’m addicted to microdermabrasion!”
“Is this about your chin hair?” she asked.
“It’s down to my belly button,” I hissed. “It just keeps . . . growing!”
“Whoa,” Kristin said. “Are you shitting me?”