by Flinn,Alex
Even though I knew I was late, I couldn’t resist a glance in the mirror.
It was perfect, almost too perfect. No, there was no such thing as too perfect. I would be perfect, all of me!
After school, I ran to Kendra’s house.
“I tried to use magic, and it backfired on me.”
“Backfired?” Kendra looked bemused—and maybe a little amused too, arranging herself on a red bench that looked like it belonged in the Museum of Modern Art. “How could it backfire?”
“Um, I don’t know, turned my nose into a pig’s snout. That’s all.”
Kendra chuckled. She was wearing a black lace ball gown that had barely made it through the door. “So you were trying to change your nose into this stunning creation—Diane Lane’s nose, I believe—and it turned into a snout instead? Is that exactly what happened?”
“Not exactly.”
“I didn’t think so. Perhaps you were trying to give someone else a pig’s snout?”
“How did you know?” Kendra seemed to know a lot of things—even knowing I’d copied Diane Lane’s nose. Could she read my mind? Or was she spying on me with that mirror?
“It’s about discretion.” She pulled me by the arm to sit beside her.
“Discretion?”
“‘Like a gold ring in a pig’s snout, is a beautiful woman who lacks discretion.’ That’s from the Bible.”
“You didn’t strike me as the religious type,” I said.
“I have nothing against religion. Since I’m never going to die, I don’t have to worry about impressing God for the afterlife, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to use my powers for good. Also, if you go around turning your enemies’ noses into pigs’ snouts, you’ll get caught. That’s why it’s impossible to do.”
“To do what?”
She waved her hand and produced two plates. “Gingerbread?”
“No, thank you. What’s impossible?”
With another wave of her hand, the plates were gone. “Rules of magic. It is impossible to change someone without their knowing.”
“You changed me the first day. You changed my nose.” Not as well as I changed it.
“Ah, but you knew about it at the time. It was your choice. Once, I turned a proud, cruel boy into a beast, but he knew about it. To work magic on someone else, you must reveal yourself. It keeps others from being blamed. But had you changed your classmate’s nose, she wouldn’t have known how it happened. That’s not allowed by the rules of witchcraft.”
“So I can’t even give her . . . zits? Diarrhea? A bad SAT score when she’s a junior?”
Kendra shook her head. “Not without also giving those to yourself. It keeps you from abusing your power—and from making everyone suspect you. But you can do wonderful things for yourself, travel the world, give yourself incredible talents, never pay for cute new clothes.” With a wave of her hand, she changed her dress to fuchsia. “You should hear me sing opera—I’m like a mermaid.”
“All I want is for Greg to love me again. I don’t care about that other stuff.” I sort of wanted the gingerbread back. It was comfort food.
“Then you will have to win him back with your own looks and abilities—not by harming Jennifer. But it will be a difficult task.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because, my dear, he never really loved you in the first place. He was friends with you because he was lonely. With Jennifer, he has a whole circle of friends.”
I remembered Greg and me, walking to his house after school, doing crazy science experiments like putting Mentos in Diet Coke so it would explode, checking our birdhouses daily. I’d had my first wren of the year last week, and I’d so wanted to tell Greg. But I knew he wouldn’t care anymore. I guessed he’d never cared. I nodded, knowing Kendra was right.
“It’s so unfair. Why do they hate me, Kendra? I always thought it was because I was ugly. But now, I’m not that ugly, and they still hate me. What’s wrong with me?”
Kendra frowned. “I think you chose to like the wrong girl’s boyfriend.”
“But that’s not fair. I saw him first.”
“Since when are bullies fair?” Kendra asked. “Do you think they issue some sort of Bully Code of Conduct—only pick on people who deserve it?”
In truth, I guess I felt I had deserved it. Why would they pick on me if I didn’t? I’d deserved it because I was an ugly freak. But now I knew they’d picked on me because they could, and maybe because I cared. Some part of me had once longed to be friends with Jennifer, to sit at her lunch table and go shopping at Dadeland after school. I couldn’t explain why I wanted that. She was horrible. But part of me wanted to deserve them, the beautiful girls.
“I don’t know why no one likes me. I thought it was my looks, but now, I don’t know.”
“I like you.” Kendra put her arms around me. The dress was taffeta, a stiff fabric that felt like hundreds of Pringles chips when I hugged her. But I sunk into her embrace. She was the absolute coolest friend in the world.
“There, there,” she said, “I love you. And, someday, others will too. You’re going to be an incredible woman. You’ll see.”
“I don’t want to be an incredible woman,” I sobbed. I knew I was no better than anyone else. I’d only been happy to be smart because I was ugly. Really, I wanted to be beautiful and be loved. “I only want Greg!”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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10
1989
Over the next few years, I changed everything about myself. Everything I could, at least. My hair. The color of my eyes. My height. By seventeen, I was beautiful, tall with the body of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, strawberry blond hair that never got messy, and eyes the color of lavender dish soap—or, well, violets. I hadn’t had a zit in four years, and even little details like the amount of space between my eye and my eyebrow (ideally the size of another eye) or my philtrum (the area between lips and nose—ideally about fifteen millimeters) didn’t escape my notice. I was Pygmalion to my own Galatea, every part sculpted perfectly.
No one cared.
Or noticed.
I also developed talents, as Kendra had suggested. I could sing like Celine Dion, dance like Janet Jackson. I used these abilities in school musicals and on the Cougarettes dance team. I was so talented they couldn’t reject me even if they hated me.
Which they did.
It wasn’t as overt now. I wasn’t ridiculed, not usually. But even though strange men, and even women, approached me on the street to beg me to visit their modeling agency and new boys at school asked me on dates, I had no one to love me, no one I wanted. And, at the end of Cougarettes practice, when the popular girls got into their cars to go to the mall together, have dinner together, do homework together, I was the only one stuffing my pom-poms into my backpack alone. And watching Jennifer leave with Greg.
Yes, after all this time, they were still together. It was the one high school relationship that lasted longer than a rock star’s marriage. They were voted Cutest Couple in middle school, and they’d be in this year’s yearbook too. Greg was the star wide receiver, recruited by colleges. Jennifer was on dance team, at his side after every game. They belonged together.
And, of course, Jennifer got everyone else to hate me, just like she always had. Maybe now that I was beautiful, she saw me as a threat. Greg didn’t care what a bitch she was. He didn’t even know I was alive.
And yet, I still wanted to change Greg’s mind, engineering ways to run into him without her. I tried different routes to my classes at school until I found ways to cross his path, just so I could say hello or look at him. I should have moved on, but moving on wasn’t a thing with me.
Once, I passed him walking home from school. Greg h
ad no car, but Jennifer had one, so she drove him most days, after her dance team practice and his football. But Wednesdays, she had Student Council (yes, I’d memorized their schedules), so Greg walked.
I had a car, a little, blue Mazda Miata convertible I’d gotten for my sixteenth birthday. My mother was generous now that she was proud of me. Every Wednesday, I drove slowly from school, stalking Greg, fantasizing about offering him a ride. But, usually, someone else gave him one. After all, he was popular.
But that day, it happened.
As a bonus, it was raining, a sun shower that promised to get harder. Leaving the school parking lot, I saw Greg jogging toward home.
I pulled alongside him, onto the grass. “Want a ride?”
He wore black athletic shorts and a green tank top that showed every wet muscle. I longed to run my hands over him, to touch the hardness of his perfect body, the softness of that crow-black hair I’d loved since I was ten.
At first, he didn’t seem to recognize me. He approached the car, squinting in the sparkly sun-rain. I smiled, showing my kissably puffed lips and that philtrum. I shook my hair a little. “Hey.”
He backed away. “Oh . . . Violet. It’s you. I probably shouldn’t.”
I feigned confusion. “Why not? It’s awfully wet out.”
“Yeah, I know.” He was getting soaked.
“It’s dry in here.”
He was thinking about it. His hand approached the door handle. I wished I could control his mind.
“Why don’t you sit in the car while you’re working out the deep, philosophical problem of whether to accept a one-mile ride from an old friend.”
He pulled his hand back a little. Way to go, Violet. But he looked at me, stared at me, actually, like he was seeing me for the first time. I parted my lips, knowing I finally had a tool, a tool more powerful than magic I could use on him. I stared back at him, lowering my eyelids. “We used to be such good friends, Greg.” Showing my straight, white teeth. I was harmless. Beauty was always trustworthy. “Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” A gush of air. He opened the door, letting the rain in, and himself. “I remember. You’re right. It’s stupid.”
I tried not to grin. “You’re getting the seat wet. Let me . . .”
I pulled a towel from my dance bag and began wiping at the seat, just the seat at first. “Let me get the other side too.” I leaned across him, trying to touch him but make it look accidental. Like me, he’d become more beautiful each day. His arms were sculpted bronze ropes, and after I dried the visible expanse of seat, I began using the towel to stroke each muscle. “Sorry. My mom will kill me if anything happens to the leather.”
“It’s a great car.” His voice sounded strained, as if he was struggling to keep it even. “You’re really lucky.”
“Yeah, my mom and I have been getting along better. Let me get behind you.” I got real close to his ear.
“What?”
“Your back.” I caressed it, moving him forward. “Let me dry it.”
“Sorry.” He obliged, and I dried behind him. We were close, closer than I’d been in so long. I felt a little breathless, but I tried not to let him know that my pulse was racing. I could have kissed him if I’d wanted. But I knew I shouldn’t. Get him to trust me first. I dried the seat and his back, leaning close enough that my long hair brushed his chest as I did. I didn’t dare touch his chest, his legs, on purpose. I wasn’t that confident. But I dried his shoulders, his neck. He didn’t try to take the towel from me. Was it because he trusted me or because, as I hoped, he didn’t mind my touching him. My arm brushed his, and I felt his muscles stiffen.
“Guess that’s good enough.” I handed him the towel. “Let’s go.”
I pulled out. The car was tiny, and it had a manual transmission, which meant every time I used the stick, my hand was practically in Greg’s lap. His legs were long, so there was barely room to move.
“That was a great kickoff return touchdown you made the other day against Bradford,” I said.
“Oh, you saw that?” But he looked pleased.
“Well, of course. I was there on the dance team. Remember?”
“Yeah. It doesn’t always seem like those girls are watching the game.”
He meant Jennifer. I grinned. “I watch you all the time, Greg. Of course I do. You’re, like, the whole team.” We approached a stop sign, and I downshifted, my hand brushing his leg as I did. “It’s beautiful to watch you play, the way you got around those guys. It was . . . poetry.”
“Wow. Thanks. That’s really flattering.”
“Doesn’t Jennifer watch you?” Was I pushing my luck?
But he said, “Yeah. I mean, of course she does. She’s my girlfriend. She just doesn’t always seem to understand it. I guess football’s complicated.”
Which was why thousands of drunks could understand it. “Well, it’s nice that she tries.”
“Sure.” He actually looked a little unsure.
What do you even like about her? But I didn’t ask. “Well, I thought you were wonderful, a hero. And I heard there was a scout at the game.”
He looked down, embarrassed. “Well, yeah, it’s not really big colleges. Division Two.”
“Are you kidding? Do you know how many guys would kill to be scouted by anyone? Your dad must be so proud.” I patted his arm, loving the warmth of him under my hand.
He grinned. “Yeah. Yeah, he is.”
We approached his house now. The ride was ending soon. I searched for something else to say. “How is your dad? Remember when I used to go to your house after school?”
“Yeah. We were just kids then.”
“I know. But we had so much fun, didn’t we? Like when we built the birdhouses?”
“Sure.”
“And then, the wrens came.”
He nodded. “I remember.”
I wanted to ask him if he ever did anything like that with Jennifer, but I realized I might not want to know the answer.
He squirmed in his seat. “Look, Violet, I . . .”
“You once told me we couldn’t be friends because I was too weird.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You did. I remember it like the answers to last week’s vocabulary quiz. And, since then, I have worked really hard not to be weird, to be worthy of you. I mean, worthy of your friendship.”
“Violet, I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“I know you didn’t. I wanted to. I wanted to . . . be friends again. I missed you . . . that so much.” We were dangerously close to his house. I was driving slowly. I couldn’t drive any slower, but I couldn’t let him out of the car without some kind of affirmation that we’d at least talk again.
“Friends?” He looked doubtful.
“Sure. Friends. Friends like we used to be.” I wanted so much more, but there was time.
“I guess we can be friends,” he said finally.
“That’s so great!” I had to stop myself from doing a little seat dance. “So maybe I could drive you home every Wednesday.”
He looked like he’d sat on a half-eaten Slurpee. He drew away.
“I don’t think Jennifer would like that.”
And, of course, you’re not allowed to have independent thought. Does she really need to know?
“Well, then, maybe I could call you after school sometimes.”
“I guess. Maybe. Well, maybe I should call you.” We were right by his house, and he had his hand on the door handle like he might want to jump and run. “Look, I should go. Could you just—?”
“Sure.” I pulled into his driveway, and he got out. I’d blown it.
“Thanks, Violet. We’ll talk soon.”
Then he got out and sprinted into the house.
I sat there a long time, staring at the closing door, then the seat whic
h still, despite my towel drying, retained the damp imprint of his body. I curled over and lay against it until the seat got cold, and I couldn’t feel him anymore.
I knew he’d never call me.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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11
I got to see Jennifer three afternoons a week at Cougarettes practice. We wore cougar ears and drawn-on whiskers (okay, it may have been slightly—just slightly—dumb). We danced at football games and in competition. The juniors and seniors took turns choreographing, and this year was my first turn. I loved dance and didn’t just rely on magic for my talents. It wouldn’t be as satisfying. I spent hours working on my extensions and practicing jetés in the long hallway between the bedroom and kitchen of our house, trying not to kick my mother or the cat. I could leap higher than anyone. I’d also spent a long time on the routine, forgoing homework to make up the choreography. Kendra and I had gone to an Indian movie at the local art cinema, and I loved the dance routines. I wanted to do something like that. It would be different. Special! Like nothing any dance team had ever done before!
Which would probably mean people would think it was weird.
Still, I had to try. If worrying about people thinking I was weird stopped me, I’d never leave the house. It wasn’t like the girls in my grade were going to like anything I did. But there were eight new girls on the squad, three freshmen, five sophomores, none of whom knew I was weird. They weren’t in any of my classes, so they didn’t think I was a loser. I could impress them with my completely special routine.
That day, a Friday, I stepped in front of the group, trying to be proud, trying to at least look confident. I was, after all, six inches taller than I’d been in middle school with perfect 34 Cs and thighs like a Barbie doll’s, that never squooshed together. Genetics didn’t make bodies like mine, no matter what the magazines tried to tell us. But still, I stood before the group of fifteen girls in the otherwise empty gym, unsure how to start. I wondered if orchestra conductors felt like this, not completely confident that the violinists, oboists, or the guy playing the rainstick would obey his commands. Probably not. Probably everyone felt confident but me. Witchcraft didn’t change the nature of a thing, so witchcraft couldn’t make me confident.