"Why would you say something like that?" Mom set down her brush and looked at me with wide eyes, as if I'd actually hurt her feelings. Give me a break.
"Because it's true. You think I don't notice the ratio of beautiful Adonis Finn photos compared to mine? It's obvious you don't want to have to look at me."
"I don't understand. What photos?"
"In the nice-nose hallway of fame. The gazillion photos of Finn?"
"What?" Mom looked totally confused. "Our hallway? I put all those sports photos up to be supportive."
"Face it. He's good-looking."
"Well, yes, but so are you."
"Yes, in my unique, special way. But what exactly is special about me? I don't do anything special. I'm not smart in any special way. I'm not pretty. I don't have anything that makes me unique. Except a big nose that you're always trying to hide."
Mom didn't have time to answer because Ashley Winters swept out of the photo room, beaming like she'd just won the Miss Reno High Best Senior Photo Session Ever Pageant. Her skeleton-thin mother followed behind her.
"Can you believe how grown up our girls are?" she cooed.
Mom transitioned right into aren't-we-all-having-so-much-fun social mode. "I was just saying the same thing to Jory," Mom gushed. "Next thing I know, Finn will be graduating."
"He's such a gorgeous young man," Mrs. Winters said. "Even the senior girls are after him." She tilted her head toward Ashley.
Ashley acknowledged me—for the first time ever, I might add—with a slight finger wiggle. "Can you believe that we're seniors? I don't even feel like a senior." She sighed and shook her long red hair around her shoulders, actually looking like someone who had stepped out of the pages of Teen Vogue. Great. Ashley Winters is going to want to be nice to me so I can hook her up with my little brother.
"Come on in," the photographer said.
"Guess I gotta go." I rolled my eyes.
"You'll totally feel like a supermodel." Ashley giggled. "Say hi to Finn for me."
"You betcha." Maybe I could run a dating service for my brother and make up my missing nose money. I could put an ad in the Caughlin Rancher: "Desperate super-schnozzed senior will rent gorgeous brother for reasonable fee. Call 5551891."
Mom pushed her nails into my back and scootched me into the photo studio. The photographer was mostly bald but had a long greasy ponytail slinking down his back, like a gray snake. He wore a black T-shirt that said "Photographers Do It in the Dark." So classy! Maybe I was kind of glad my mom tagged along. He handed me a little velvety shirt thing.
"For the formal shot." When he smiled, I saw that he had two gold teeth.
All the seniors had to match. In the photos, it looks like a glamorous evening gown; in reality, it looks like one of my grandma's sofa-armrest-protector thingies. And it was black. If there's one color that does not flatter my blond hair and freckled complexion, it's black. I went behind the little changing curtain, wondering if the guy had secret perv cams hidden in the walls. He looked the type. I heard Mom making small talk. "She's pretty nervous. Not very confident, you know. Also, we don't want any profile shots taken." I imagined her tapping her nose. Great-Grandpa Lessinger, she'd whisper in a low tone.
I flipped Mom off behind the curtain. Yeah, Mom, tell Perv Photographer that I'm an insecure big-nosed freak.
I walked out from behind the curtain wearing the velvety little top thing over my jeans. The photographer pointed to a stool in front of a big camera.
"Now, relax. You're a beautiful girl." He winked at Mom. "One, two, three."
I stuck out my tongue.
"Jory!" Mom exclaimed. "I can't believe you did that!" She turned to the photographer. "I am so sorry. I'm simply shocked. She doesn't usually act like this."
"It was just a joke," I said.
"No funny photos. The yearbook editor made that very clear." The photographer stood behind his camera. "Now, smile like you're looking at the cutest boy in your class." This time he winked at me.
I leaned my head down by my shoulder, rolled my eyes up to the ceiling, and made a dreamy closed-mouth smile.
"Jory! What are you doing?" Mom stomped her foot. "You're embarrassing me."
"So what else is new, Mom?"
The photographer took a deep breath. "We'll try one more. Smile in the way you'd like to appear in the yearbook."
I put my hands over my face. Click. Flash.
"That's great." I jumped off the stool. "Ready, Mom?"
"No, it's not great. Sit," Mom hissed. "This photo isn't just for you. It's for me. It's for posterity. It's for the whole community."
The photographer nodded. What did he know?
"Who are you trying to impress, Mom? Maybe you could just put Finn in my place. It's not like Jory is a real name anyway. Just pretend you have two gorgeous sons," I said, mimicking Ashley Winters's mom. "I can just go live in a cave and give you the real scoop on the Caveman Diet. I'll hook you up with some dead rabbits."
The photographer turned around and pretended to adjust his camera.
"I don't know what's gotten into you." Mom spoke low. "Where did all your self-confidence go?"
"Where did it go?" I spoke loud. "When did I ever have any? You've been slathering my face with nose-minimizing makeup ever since I was twelve. You think I didn't get the message?
"That's ridiculous."
"No, it's not. Obviously I'm a total embarrassment. I'm probably the reason it took so long for you to be invited to that stupid book club, and now I'm keeping you and Dad out of the Mullinses' snobby wine club. Maybe if I were a cute cheerleader or a studly jock, you'd get in. But, no, I'm a big-nosed freak with absolutely no talent whatsoever." I yanked the scratchy little top off and threw it on the floor, standing there in my bra. "I don't even want to be in the yearbook."
The photographer guy slinked out of the room.
"Too bad there isn't a Nose Shrinking Diet, huh, Mom?"
"Is this about my dieting?" Mom looked small as she crossed her thin arms. "I'm only trying to improve myself."
"Why? You're gorgeous. If you don't like the way you look, how am I supposed to like the way I look? I'm never going to be as pretty as you. Never!" I ran behind the curtain and threw my inside-out T-shirt over my head. "I'm never going to be good enough for you!"
I ran out of the room, then looked back at Mom, who stood there crying.
Wham! I tripped over some guy's feet and went sprawling onto the dirty red carpet. I blinked back tears and pushed myself up to sitting. My elbow hurt and my knees felt raw. The guy pulled me up by my armpits as if I were a toddler learning to walk.
Gideon.
He didn't say anything, but his expression drooped like wilted flowers.
"What are you looking at?" I ran out, even though my scraped knees hurt. I dug in the bottom of my purse for my set of keys. Ha! She hadn't thought to confiscate them. After I jumped into the minivan, I looked back through the window of the photographer's shop. Helen embraced Mom in a big hug. Gideon watched me. I lifted both hands up high and flipped them all off where they could see it. I was sick of soaking up everything like a sponge cake! I sped away from the curb. Where should I go? No way would I go home to Mr. So Gorgeous All the Senior Girls Go Wild for Me Finn. Plus, I didn't want to see Mom again until all her hair turned gray and her perfect nose disappeared under a million wrinkles.
Maybe the plastic surgeon would see me today? I pulled into the plastic surgeon's parking lot over by the hospital, but I didn't have my Nice Nose Notebook and I didn't want to appear insane, with tears down my face and my hair all stiff and crazy. I yanked at my hair. Stupid hair. That's all anyone ever complimented me about. Anyone could grow hair!
I spotted Mom's beading accessory box. "I'll show them!" I rummaged through the various beads and wires until I found a pair of tiny scissors—and snipped away at my hair, one chunk at a time. My hair floated all around me in little wisps. I cut one side, but then my fingers got sore, so I stopped. I looked at my re
flection in the rearview mirror. Ugly. My minimizing makeup smeared all around my nose like fudge marble cake batter. In the light I looked like some hideous old showgirl trying to look young again. Or one of those sad old prostitutes they interview on the local news sometimes. I wiped the makeup away with the wet wipes Mom kept in her ultimate soccer-mom minivan, scraping at my face until it hurt. And drove again.
I ended up at Virginia Lake, watching pairs of geese float around in the murky water. Would anyone ever want to mate for life with me? Not the way I am now. Only a new nose could rescue me from my miserable life.
I got out of the van and ran around the lake, once, twice, three times. Wouldn't Mr. Jock PE Teacher be proud? Jory Michaels ran three miles. I bent over, breathing hard. A mom with a double stroller pushed her children to the very edge of the sidewalk to avoid the crazy girl with half long, half short hair. Maybe if I ran long enough I'd just die. Such a tragedy, people would whisper at my funeral. She destroys her best feature then dies. Kids would ask, Can people die from being ugly, Mommy? I ran around a fourth time, finally stepping into the van with quivering legs. I didn't have the energy to cry.
I drove home to an empty house and cut off the rest of my hair.
Chapter Twenty-five
NOSE DOCTORS, WITCHES (ME), AND BIG TROUBLE
I smoothed my prickly short hair while looking at a blurry version of myself in the shiny elevator doors. My backpack with my Nice Nose Notebook hung heavy on my shoulder as I tried to calm my breathing. Don't look like a crazy teenager who just cut off all her hair, I told myself. I fanned my shirt over my stomach to dry off some of the sweat from biking all the way to the doctor's office—my armpits weren't exactly fragrant either.
I should've begged Mom for the minivan, but she wasn't talking to me. I did find the phone book open to "Psychologists," though, and I was pretty certain that she wasn't finally seeking help for her social-climbing, a-diet-will-cure-anything attitude. Plus, I'd overheard several hushed conversations between Mom, Dad, and even oh-so-sane-and-beautiful Finn. That's okay. Me and my new nose will go tour the world as a fashion model, purchase some private island inhabited only by gorgeous musclemen—who also have great personalities—and live happily ever after.
The doctor's waiting room smelled like alcohol wipes. Clean. Several large photographs of mountains decorated the walls. An older woman sat in a chair, reading a fat paperback novel. Face-lift? A younger woman flipped through magazines across from me. Definite boob job; she had a great nose. Everyone could tell what I was there for, right? Super Schnozz. I sat down in one of the plush little chairs and picked up a Business Weekly magazine; I wanted to appear older and mature.
The receptionist peered out at me from a little window in the corner. "Are you here for an appointment, miss?"
"Oh, yes." Boob-Job Woman glanced at me as I stood up and walked over to the little window. I felt really stupid. Whenever I went to the doctor, Mom did this part.
She handed me a clipboard of forms. "Fill these out."
I sat back down in the little cushy chair. High blood pressure? Does right now count? I checked no to everything, lingering on "Sexual Dysfunction" for a moment. Does being ugly and completely unattractive to boys count? I put a big fat X in the "no" box next to "Sexually Active" and brought the clipboard back to the receptionist.
"I need a copy of your insurance card," she said.
Insurance card? I opened my wallet and pretended to look for it. What on earth had possessed me to buy a Hello Kitty wallet? I looked like such a third-grader.
"Oh, I must have left it in my other wallet." Nose growing, but, hey, I was in the right place. "Can I send you a copy?" I envisioned sneaking into Mom's purse on a stealth mission late at night. Caughlin Rancher headline: "Desperate Big-Nosed Girl Bilks Mother's Insurance Company."
"Well, that's usually not our policy, but since this is just a consultation." The receptionist tapped her pen against her head. "Can you at least tell me your carrier? What's your copay?"
"Oh, it's a popular insurance. I know that." I saw my nose expanding past the woman's head until it hit the copy machine against the back wall. Doctor! We have an emergency, the receptionist would scream. Hurry! This nose is going to take over the world.
The receptionist's pen hung in mid-tap. "Would you like to phone your mother and ask?"
"Oh, no. No. My mother would kill me if she knew—I mean, if I disturbed her at work," I squeaked like a mouse. "I mean, she knows about my big nose and everything." Oh, God. Why hadn't I been practicing lying skills all these years? I sucked at lying. Sucked.
"Maybe you should pay up front today."
"Certainly." The receptionist's eyes grew wide as I pulled the wad of hundred-dollar bills out of my notebook covered with magazine cutouts of models with ideal noses. "How much is it?"
"Eighty-five."
My cheeks burned as I handed her a hundred-dollar bill. I tossed my head to fan my hair around my shoulders. Nothing moved. Oh, God. I forgot. I'd become Big-Nosed Butchered-Hair Girl. I put my hand up to my hair to smooth it out. It still stood up in little clumps. Mom had begged her hair-dresser—begged—but he couldn't get me in until tomorrow and I wouldn't let Mom come near me with her scissors. She might decide it wasn't even worth it to have a daughter like me. Caughlin Rancher headline: "Mother Kills Desperate Big-Nosed Daughter." The article would go on: "'At least the embarrassment is over,' mother sighs. It turns out beautiful Adonis-like son is enough for Michaels family."
Both of the women in the waiting room tracked me with their eyes as I returned to my seat. This time I picked up Teen People magazine. I'd blown the whole maturity thing. The page I opened had a quote from a guy with soulful eyes and a totally kissable mouth who said that what he likes best about a girl is hair. "Longer the better." Not my type. Maybe I'd have to move to a forest and date a hedgehog. I paged through the rest of the magazine, feeling like a crumbly dirt clod, ugly and ready to fall apart. Don't cry. You can't cry. Not now. Maybe you even needed to cut your hair before surgery.
"Jory Michaels?" A woman in purple scrubs opened the doctor-area door. "Follow me, please."
I followed her into a little room that had big posters of the insides of a breast. They should bring tours of boys in here and show them that! Definitely not sexy. I looked at an old copy of Better Homes and Gardens. Total Mom mag. The fluffy frosted cake on page 43 reminded me of what a loser I'd become by getting fired from my summer job. That was one thing I'd actually had over Megan: my summer job. Now I was back to being Loser #1. I hadn't answered Hannah's calls (in spite of her long rambling apology messages about "selfishly living in the moment") or Megan's e-mails since wedding-disaster day; I did let Tyler take me out for a "comforting" cheeseburger and fries at Juicy's—I'd called him so he wouldn't come looking to give me a ride home after work. I hadn't minded, really, telling him all the gruesome details (minus the stuff about Gideon), but now I was ignoring his calls too.
About a million years later, a nurse came in to go over my medical history. I wanted to roll up and mummify myself in the crinkly examining-table paper when she asked me about my sexual activity. "None," I peeped. The nurse nodded like, Of course, how could someone like you have a boyfriend?
"And you're here because?"
"Isn't it obvious?" I watched the nurse jiggle her shiny white sneakers up and down over her crossed knee. Up. Down. Up. Down.
Her foot stopped moving. "Why don't you tell me in your own words."
"I need a new nose."
"Do you have any breathing problems? Sleep problems?"
I shook my head, hating the empty feeling of having nearly no hair.
"Okay. Dr. Lawrence will be in to see you in a few minutes."
I picked up the magazine and read a story about a woman who'd lost her arm fighting in Iraq but came home and started painting. She'd sold a self-portrait for $4,000 in some fancy-schmancy gallery. Now that's optimism. I'd lost my hair, and I hadn't left my room for two days. How
pathetic was that?
Knock. Knock. The doctor came into the room. With her long black hair tied up in a ponytail, she looked too young to be a doctor—plus she had a largish, bumpy nose. Didn't she have a friend who could help her with that? I could see how you couldn't operate on yourself, but didn't all plastic surgeons try to look perfect? Wouldn't that be advertising or something?
"My nurse tells me you're looking to get a new nose?" The doctor sat down and flipped through pages in a folder. "No breathing issues? Sleep issues?" She sounded like Megan.
"No, but I have boy issues, family issues, and ugliness issues," I said. "With a new nose, all those problems could disappear. I'd fit into my family. Some boy might actually like me in the daylight and I'd feel good about myself." I fidgeted and wondered if I'd said too much, or not enough. I should've brought Hannah. She could have elbowed me when I started talking too much. One problem: I didn't want to tell Hannah that I thought I had a big nose.
"So," Dr. Lawrence said in measured tones. "You're looking for a new nose to solve your problems? Am I understanding you correctly?"
"Exactly. I've known it for some time now and I've been saving money from my summer job." I unzipped my backpack. "Also, I've been doing research." I pulled out the Nice Nose Notebook. "I've collected several different noses you can choose from."
The doctor took the notebook from me and flipped through the pages slowly. "You've put a lot of time into this project."
"Yes. I'm very serious." My heart stopped beating quite so fast. This was actually happening. "Just stop and point out any noses you think would work on me."
The doctor closed the notebook without looking further.
"You stopped too soon. I stuck one in there the other day that had freckles on it just like mine." I reached for the book.
"Why don't we go back to my office and chat?" The doctor stood and opened the door for me. I followed her to a posh little office cluttered with papers and boring-looking magazines. A framed photo showed Dr. Lawrence hugging some guy on top of a mountain somewhere.
My Big Nose and Other Natural Disasters Page 18