The Story of My Face

by Leanne Baugh

  ***

  Simon plops a huge scoop of caramel hazelnut fudge fantasy ice cream into his already overflowing bowl. We’ve just finished watching a Japanese blood-and-guts yakuza film.

  “I’m such a loser,” I say, sticking my spoon into a glob of caramel.

  “Hey, go easy on yourself.” He puts the top on the ice-cream carton. The kitchen is so large, when the freezer door closes, there’s a loud echo. “I freaked seeing that bear behind bars at the zoo, and I’ve never even been attacked.”

  “I thought I was ready.”

  “It’s not as if you were faking it to get off class or anything.”

  “Speaking of getting off, anything happening yet with you and Olivia?”

  “You’re shameless.” He spoons a big hunk of ice cream into his mouth.

  “Come on, tell me. You know you want to,” I tease.

  He sighs, thinks for a bit. “Well…we made out the other night.”

  “How was it?”

  He blushes, looks down into his bowl. “Awkward. Weird. Nice.”

  “See, didn’t I tell you?”

  “But there’s a problem.” He puts his spoon down. “Olivia isn’t a virgin and I am.”

  “And the problem is…?”

  “The problem is I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I know sex is supposed to be all natural and everything, but…”

  “Is Olivia pressuring you to have sex?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So you feel ready?”

  “Yes, I’m ready. At least I think I am.”

  “Then all you really have to know is what gets put where.”

  “Don’t be so crass.” He looks serious. “This is important. I want this first experience with Olivia to be memorable. For both of us.”

  “Just take it slow then. Liam and I didn’t have sex the very first time we got naked together. It wasn’t until the third or fourth time. We just…explored for a while.”

  “But what if I chicken out at the last minute? Or if things…don’t work the way they’re supposed to.”

  “That should be absolutely okay. If Olivia doesn’t understand, say adios.”

  “What if we actually do it and I make a fool of myself?”

  “Not that I have a ton of experience to go on here, but I do know that it can be awkward at first. Just try to relax, experiment, enjoy. And wear a condom.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  We’re quiet for a while as we both scrape the bottom of our bowls.

  Simon looks up with a terrified look in his eyes. “What happens if she wants oral sex?”

  “One step at a time, big guy.”

  ***

  I hear Dad open the kitchen door. He’s home late.

  “Were you out with Belinda the accountant again tonight?”

  “No.” Dad sits on a chair and unties his work boots.

  “How was your coffee date with her yesterday?”

  “It was fine.” Dad pulls off one boot at a time.

  “Just fine? What’s she like? Are you going to see her again?”

  “So, every time I have a date I’ll get the third degree?”

  “Pretty much. Spill it, Dad.”

  “Okay, she seemed nice.”

  “Just nice? Is she pretty?”

  Dad takes off his jacket and throws it over a chair. “Well, she wasn’t the same person portrayed in her profile photo.”

  “She posted someone else’s picture?!”

  “No, but it was a photo of her about twenty years ago—when she was about forty pounds lighter. I don’t understand why anyone would misrepresent themselves like that.”

  “Hellooo—she’s trying to meet a man.”

  “I would have met her as she is, but the deception is a big turnoff.” Dad opens the fridge.

  “Yeah, but you’re a nice guy. It’s all about how you look, Dad. Trust me. Most men wouldn’t give an overweight middle-aged woman the time of day, no matter how nice or intelligent or interesting she is.”

  “I don’t think online dating is for me.” Dad pulls a plate of leftovers out of the fridge.

  “You’ve only gone on one date. You’ve got to give it some time.”

  “My email box is full, and I just don’t have the energy for it.”

  “That’s because you’re such a great catch. Let me help. I’ll sort potential dates for you,” I say.

  “Thanks, but no.” Dad puts the plate in the microwave.

  “Dad, please don’t quit. Not just yet.”

  DÉJÀ VU ALL OVER AGAIN

  Dance music blares in the drama room. “Welcome to Improv-a-ganza!” I say as I dance and Carter moonwalks around the room in front of a pack of grade eight students. Some get into it and dance along with us, some watch us mildly amused, others have crossed arms and a too-cool-for-school look. Or at least too cool for our little improv class. Carter turns down the volume.

  “How many of you have ever done improv?” I ask. “How many have seen improv performed?” Two or three nod.

  “Improv is the art of making things up on the spot,” I say, projecting my voice, my head held high. Although a few of the students did a double take when they first saw me, no one is gawking, which has given me a little more oomph. At least I can act confident in front of an audience.

  “Improv is acting without a script,” says Carter, bouncing around like a boxer. He hasn’t kept still the whole time; maybe he’s nervous. I feel strangely calm for a change.

  “Before we start, you’ll need to know some basic guidelines,” I say. “In improv, we want to avoid what’s called Blocking. Blocking is when one person says something and the other person replies with a statement that directly contradicts what the first person says. Here’s an example.”

  Carter faces me and says in a robot-like voice, “I’m from planet Xostarvis in the Drizon galaxy.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re Carter from Springbank, Alberta, Canada, planet Earth in the Milky Way galaxy,” I say. Carter, head down, sulks and walks away. Chuckles around the room. I turn to the group, “As you can see, blocking is death to an improv scene.”

  Carter says, “However ridiculous the statement one person says, the other has to go along with it. This is called Agreement or Yes, and…here’s an example.” He stands straight with one arm at his side and the other hand raised in a salute. I stand with hands on hips, head back, trying to look like a model.

  “It’s tough being made of wax,” Carter says to me.

  “Yeah, and it sure doesn’t help that we’re in hell,” I say.

  “I’m melting,” Carter says in a high-pitched voice, and we slowly “melt” to the floor. A few more laughs from the group.

  “Before we divide you into groups, in the true spirit of improv, we’ll let you tell us a scenario to act out. Anybody?”

  “Choosing a gift for your boyfriend,” one girl shouts out.

  Carter and I face each other.

  “Can I help you?” Carter says with a sophisticated British accent.

  “Yeah, well, I just don’t know,” I reply, acting like a ditz, pretending I’m chewing gum. “My boyfriend is so hard to buy for.”

  “Tell me what your boyfriend is like.”

  “He’s sooo freakin’ hot.” Laughs from the group. “And he has a big-ass Jeep with monster wheels about a mile high. And—”

  “But what are his interests?” Carter asks.

  “Interests? Well, he loves ultimate fighting, especially when there’s blood.” I act like I’m kickboxing. “Lots of blood.” I punch the air a few more times.

  “Hmm, anything else you can tell me about him?”

  “He loves shootin’ stuff, you know, like cans and bottles off fence posts. Rats and rabbits.” My hand is the gun. I aim. “Pow-pow-pow.”


  “After careful consideration, may I recommend an exquisite shirt, tie, and cufflink set,” Carter says.

  “Aces, man.” I give him the thumbs-up. “Jethro will love ’em.”

  Carter and I bow and everyone claps.

  “Thanks everyone. Remember, there are no mistakes in improv, only opportunities,” I say. “Divide yourselves into groups of four. We’ll start with a few warm-up games.”

  ***

  Every single grade eight student, even the ones who came in with attitude and crossed arms, thanks Carter and me for a great workshop. Many stay around to ask questions about the drama program. Mission accomplished.

  “I couldn’t have done this without you, Abby,” Carter says when they’ve all left.

  “You would have been fine.”

  “No way. You had this group under some weird I’ll-do-anything-you-ask-me-to spell. I don’t know how you did it.”

  “Aw, shucks,” I say, feeling kind of chuffed.

  “I probably would have lost it on that one kid. What a little shit.”

  “He wasn’t so bad. Just a bit hyper, that’s all.”

  “Have you ever thought about becoming a teacher, if and when you grow up?” Carter says, and I give him a playful jab in the ribs.

  “Never even crossed my mind.”

  ***

  “The University of Calgary website says I can do a concurrent degree in Education and Drama,” I tell Jeannie on my cell phone as I scroll on my laptop.

  “That would be so perfect for you, Bean,” Jeannie says. “But I’m checking UBC—I want you in Vancouver with me. If you get your application in for this fall, we could even find a place together.”

  “Whoa, put on the brakes, speedy. I have at least one more surgery this summer, which will probably snowball into more. Remember the drill? No idea when I’ll be ready for university, but based on my last recovery, it won’t be this fall, that’s for sure.”

  “Well, if I get accepted to med school, I’ll be in university for about a decade, so there will be plenty of time to make plans.”

  A text bloops.

  “Just got a text from Grace. I should say good-bye.”

  “Go to the party tonight for crying out loud. Have fun. You deserve it.”

  The bush party is at an old campground by a creek off Highway 22. Part of me wants to bail, and part of me wants to put on some concealer and get the heck out of the house for a change.

  Tell me you’re coming tonight

  Maybe

  No maybe. No way

  Okay, then I’ll be DD

  No way-got my mom’s car–I want u 2 have fun tonight

  You know I’ve never been much of a drinker

  Tonight would be a good night to start-u got lots of catching up to do

  Nope. Remember the words of every self-respecting partier-don’t waste a good party when you’ve got a willing DD

  U sure?

  Yup

  K, see u later!!!!!

  ***

  Cows hang their heads over the barbwire fence, munching on grass. I guess the grass is greener on the other side. They moo at us as we turn off the highway and drive down a long, bumpy road through the thick bush. The sun is almost touching the mountains on the horizon. Music thumps through the trees as we get closer.

  “Sounds like the party started without us,” Grace says.

  My first party in about a year and I feel as jittery as I did on my first day back at school. At the end of the road are dozens of cars. The whereabouts of the party probably got texted, tweeted, and Facebook-messaged to friends and friends of friends. I see Mason’s truck. My heart hammers against my ribs. In my mind, I repeat my new mantra over and over: I am strong. I am courageous. I am confident. I have my own kind of beauty. I am worthy. I look around for Liam’s mom’s car, but it isn’t here. Not sure if I feel relieved or disappointed.

  When we walk toward the roaring fire in the large fire pit, the techno music hits me like a slap—throbbing bass and the synth that sounds like a buzz saw. I hate techno. Except for all the people I don’t know, this party is like déjà vu. The rugby jocks—Brandon, Keegan, Devin, and Miles—and a rowdy crowd of other guys whoop and holler it up playing drinking games at picnic tables. No Liam.

  Grace and I squeeze through a group of people where Serena and Briar are drinking bottled Caesars. On the other side of the fire I see Mason, Dax, the posse, and a bunch of others pounding back beer. I haven’t missed a thing this past year—the usual suspects doing their usual things. I walk around the fire and get as close to them as I can without being noticed. I pull out my phone and take photos of them—one of the posse opening a bag of pot, another one rolling a joint, Dax passing a joint to Mason, Mason taking a toke. With the fire close by, the photos come out pretty well. I walk back to where Grace is.

  “Hey, bitches,” Briar says in a loud Caesar-induced voice and throws her arms around both of us. I can smell the alcohol and spicy Clamato juice on her breath. Not pleasant.

  I wave at Serena. She gives me a half-hearted smile.

  “Want one?” Briar holds up her drink.

  “No need,” says Grace, pulling two bottles of cider out of her purse. “My mom donated this to the cause.”

  “Abby? How about a Caesar, or should I say, seizure?” Briar asks.

  “Had enough seizures in my day, but thanks. I’m driving.” I reach into my purse for an organic mango and orange juice.

  “Your mom is so cool,” Serena says to Grace. Serena is weaving and having trouble focusing—she’s obviously downed a few “seizures” already.

  “She’s just practical. She knows I won’t drink and drive, and if I’m not driving and going to a party, she knows I’m going to drink. So I tell her if she gives me two bottles, I’ll stop there.” Grace opens one of the ciders.

  “But do you always stop at two?” Serena asks.

  Grace says, “Well…usually.”

  “What about the party at Liam’s cabin last fall?” Briar says. “Don’t think you stopped at two that night. Never seen someone barf so much in my whole life.” Briar lets out her loud, obnoxious drunken laugh.

  Grace never told me about Liam’s party.

  “Yes, well, remind me never to play beer pong with the basketball team,” Grace says.

  “Even if I was legal, my mother would probably still lecture me about drinking.” Serena slurs her words then guzzles the rest of her drink. “But it’s not about me getting drunk and maybe getting pregnant or dying in a car crash. It’s all about me getting fat from alcohol.”

  “Seriously?” I say.

  “Yup, that’s my mom for you.” Serena twists the top off another bottle. “Sure has her motherly priorities in the right place, doesn’t she?” Takes a big gulp. Burps. Hiccups.

  Dax and Mason muscle their way through the crowd. Mason pounds his chest and lets out an intoxicated Tarzan yell to announce himself. When Dax sees me, he elbows Mason. I put my juice down on a picnic table to stop it from spilling out of my shaking hands. Steady, girl, I say to my pounding heart. Even though my face feels tense, even more crooked than usual, I smile at them. Hold my shaking hands so tightly, my nails dig into my skin.

  “Better watch how much you drink tonight,” Mason says to me. “Wouldn’t want you to get off balance or anything.” Dax snorts.

  I hold up my juice. “Doubt that’s going to happen.” It comes out sounding so lame. Grace gives me a questioning look. I shrug.

  Mason slams into me, almost knocks me to the ground. My juice spills all over me.

  “Don’t be such an asshole, Mason,” Grace says. Mason gives her a goofy smile, and he and Dax join the drinking gamers. Briar and Serena follow.

  “Want to join the crazies?” Grace asks.

  “I think I’ll just hang here for a while,” I say. �
�I’ll be there soon.” Grace nods and follows the rest. I find a used Kleenex in my pocket and try unsuccessfully to mop up the juice on my jacket and jeans.

  I walk away down a long path to drown out at least some of the thumping music. I come to a clearing and climb on top of a picnic table. The night air is cool and fresh, the sky sprinkled with stars. Why did I even come to this party? I feel like a poser trying to fit in with Serena, Briar, and Grace. It’s so clear none of us are the same people we were a year ago. Especially me. So why am I even trying?

  Rowdy voices echo down the path. Mason, Dax, and others appear through the trees.

  “It’s Bear Bait,” Dax says, pointing at me.

  Oh my God, oh my God! I want to jump down from the picnic table and run as fast as I can, but my whole body is frozen in place, too terrified to budge. As they come closer, I rummage in my purse to find my phone. Shit, where is it?

  In about a nanosecond, Mason is right in my face. The smell of beer and pot on his breath makes me want to barf.

  “Who invited you to this party? Huh, Abby? My invitation said no sluts allowed,” says Mason. “Yours, too?” He looks over at Dax.

  “Yup, mine, too,” Dax says.

  I finally have my hand on my phone. I peer down into my purse and type in my passcode.

  “Hey guys,” Mason says to his friends. “Abby and I need a little privacy to, you know, get reacquainted.”

  Dax snorts as he and the others slowly head back down the path toward the bonfire. I search for Grace’s contact. Mason reaches over me. I struggle as he digs his hand into my purse and snatches my phone.

  “Give it back, Mason.” I swipe at the air as he easily holds me back with one hand while searching my phone with his other.

  “Let’s see who you’ve been texting.” I keep fighting to reach for my phone as he scrolls through my texts. “Your father…your grandmother…your sister…Grace. That’s it? One friend? Fuckin’ pitiful if you ask me. I’d say this is a waste of a good iPhone.” He launches my phone far into a thick grove of trees.

  “You’re such an asshole,” I yell. I climb off the picnic table and start toward the trees to find my phone. Mason grabs my arm and pulls me closer to him. I try to wriggle out of his grip, but his hand is like a shackle.