Beauty (11 page)

The following year, when she brought home three dress options for auditions—three poufy, frilly numbers—I’d felt every nerve in my body tense up. And then it burst right out of me. “I can’t.” My hair had started to frizz that year and the idea of getting up on that stage, too tall and too clumsy and too frizzy, as hundreds of people watched and judged me … I just couldn’t do it.

My mom had looked over at me in surprise, one of the dresses slipping from her grip. “What did you say, honey?”

“I can’t,” I repeated. I hung my head, tears gathering in my eyes. “I’m sorry, Mom. I just can’t.”

For a few years after that, my mom tried to get me to change my mind. But when I turned thirteen, she finally gave up. I think at last she saw what I’d been seeing all along. I was no longer pageant material. Even still, some years I’d catch her watching the pageant on local TV. She’d change the channel as soon as I walked into the room, but I always knew what I’d seen: my mom watching other girls give their moms what I couldn’t give her.

And now I finally could, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Because what if this modelesque daughter was the one she’d always wanted? What happened then if I turned back tomorrow? Would she ever look at me the same? Or would I just be that gut-wrenching disappointment all over again? I wasn’t sure I was ready to find out.

“Molly?” I heard her footsteps on the stairs, coming closer.

Quickly, I dove into bed and buried my face in my pillow, pulling my blanket tight around me.

I heard my bedroom door creak open. “Molly?” she said again.

I lay as still as I could, measuring my breaths so they were slow and rattly. Hopefully she’d think I had a long day and crashed early. I could feel her eyes on my back as she stood there for another minute. Spaghetti was panting softly at her side. “No,” I heard her whisper. “No, Spaghetti, not tonight!”

But Spaghetti clearly wasn’t listening because a second later I felt a big furry body land on my feet. I shifted a little, but pretended not to wake up. Spaghetti had slept in bed with me since the first night we brought him home, when he was just a tiny squirmy puppy. That night, I’d lain in bed listening to the sound of his cries drifting up from the crate in the living room. Finally, my ten-year-old heart couldn’t take it anymore. Creeping downstairs, I snuck him out of his crate and into bed with me, where he’d cuddled into my chest, his heart beating against mine, and fallen right asleep. My bed hadn’t felt the same without him since.

I heard my mom let out a sigh. “Fine, but be good, Spaghetti,” she whispered. “Love you, Molly,” she added, so softly I could barely hear her. Then she turned off my light and let the door click quietly shut behind.

I counted to sixty before sitting up. “Here, Spaghetti,” I said, patting the spot next to my pillow where he always slept. He bounded over, snuggling up next to me. It was still pretty early—only nine thirty—but as I lay there, my arms wrapped around Spaghetti, I realized just how tired I was. It had been quite a day.

“So, what do you really think, Spaghetti?” I whispered as I snuggled deeper into my pillow. “You like my new look?” Spaghetti nudged my cheek with his nose, cuddling closer to me. I tightened my arms around him. “I’ll take that as a yes,” I murmured. Then, curled together like that, we both drifted off to sleep.

Prison Break

THE SECOND MY alarm went off Tuesday morning, I leapt out of bed, sprinting straight to the mirror. I was all but ready to assess the damage, but when I saw the image staring back at me, I sagged with relief. I looked glossy. I looked sparkly. I looked perfect. I looked like the new Molly. Whatever it was that had changed me hadn’t evaporated overnight. I did a little dance around my room, feeling giddy. I was still beautiful.

After a brief chat with Seth—in which I promised him that if he breathed a word about my new look to either of our parents, I’d show up at his school and let every boy in his grade go gaga over me—I managed to slip out of the house while my mom was in the bathroom. There was no way I was risking having my mom make me spend the day at the doctor’s getting my face examined, when I could instead be in school, talking to Hudson.

Kemper was waiting out front for me on her bike. “Whoa,” she said when she saw me. She shook her head. “I’ve got to get used to seeing you like this.”

I grinned, hopping onto my bike. “Nice shirt.” Kemper was in a newly minted T-shirt. KISS MY (GR)ASS! it said in bold letters across the front. She twisted around so I could see the back: RUN AND HIDE FROM PESTICIDE! “You are a slogan machine, Kemper,” I laughed. My all-time favorite Kemper slogan had been when she fought for better recycling in our school last year. For weeks she’d stomped around waving a huge sign that said: RECYCLE YOUR CANS OR I’LL KICK YOUR CAN!

Kemper buffed her hand against her chest. “Thank you. And within dress code this time, too.”

“Not a feather in sight,” I agreed. Once, during some kind of protest for local birds, Kemper had come to school wearing an outfit made entirely of feathers. By fifth period, the feathers had all fallen off, leaving Kemper in a not-exactly-school-appropriate outfit. She’d gotten detention for two weeks.

We took off, riding down the street. “So it’s pesticides this week?”

Kemper’s eyes took on that determined look they always got when she talked about one of her causes. “Did you know that pesticides are the second most common source of childhood poisonings?”

“I did not,” I said, swallowing back a smile.

“Or that children have a greater risk of developing asthma by age five after pesticide exposure their first year of life?”

“No way,” I chimed in.

“Plus, pesticides kill beneficial bugs and birds and worms in the area, causing the end of biodiversity!”

“Mm-hmm.” I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure I even knew what biodiversity was. But I’d learned long ago that there were only three correct reactions to one of Kemper’s save-the-world rants: smile, nod, and above all else, agree.

“According to my research …” Kemper kept talking, but a sudden stream of yells and laughter from behind us drowned her out. I glanced over my shoulder to see what all the ruckus was about. The same group of kids from yesterday was rounding a corner on their bikes—and racing straight toward us. “Uh, Kemp?” I said.

But Kemper was too caught up in her verbal obliteration of pesticides to notice. I steered my bike closer to her, catching a couple words “Acute toxicity … chronic effects … cancer!”

“Kemp,” I said again, interrupting her.

“Sterility … crop residues …”

“
Kemper!
”

Kemper’s head snapped up. “What?”

I nodded toward the line of kids now officially bike-stalking us. “They’re back… .”

The kids gained on us, their voices and laughter growing louder and louder. It looked like Kemper was saying something, but with one of the kids shrieking, “Race! Race! Race!” behind us, I couldn’t hear a word of it.

“What?” I screamed back.

“I said …” But once again her words were drowned out.

Beep
! I started a little as a familiar car slowed down next to us, letting out a loud honk. Josh rolled down his window. “You ladies need a knight in shining armor?” he yelled out. I waited for Kemper to respond, but she just broke into a huge goofy grin.

I quickly stepped in. “I don’t know about a knight,” I yelled back, “but we could definitely use a ride!”

It only took us a minute to outrace the bikers in Josh’s car. “Thanks, Josh,” I said, relieved. I leaned back against my seat, enjoying the peace and quiet of the backseat, which I’d taken to force Kemper into the front with Josh.

“You two have quite the entourage,” Josh said.

“It’s Molly,” Kemper said, finally piping up. “I keep telling her to stop tossing out candy behind us, but she refuses to listen.” She shook her head in mock-frustration.

“Not good,” Josh said gravely. “In fact, you might have to make a shirt for her. How about: When it comes to candy, don’t get randy?”

Kemper laughed. “I like it.”

The main lot was full by the time we got to school, so Josh said he’d drop us off before grabbing a spot in the back lot. “I’ll go with you,” Kemper said quickly. “I, uh, need the exercise. You know, since we didn’t get to ride our bikes.”

“Well
I
don’t,” I declared, hopping out of the car and grabbing my bike to lock up out front. I shot Kemper a knowing look before heading toward school.

I was in the middle of jiggling at my locker, which like always was stuck, when I noticed Ashley and Blair walking in my direction. I gave the locker a smack with my shoulder and, miraculously, it popped open.

“Nice one,” Ashley said as she and Blair stopped in front of me.

“Years of practice,” I said.

“So,” Blair said, wagging a foot in the air. “Like?” My eyes widened as I realized they were both sporting identical pairs of blue Keds.

“We went to the Shoe Hut last night,” Ashley explained.

“Oh,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

“So,” Ashley pressed. “What do you think?”

“I, uh …” I cleared my throat. “I love it, I declared, wagging my own identically garbed foot in the air.

Ashley grabbed my arm, squeezing hard. “You should totally come with us to Eddie’s after homeroom.”

“We go every Tuesday for the Tuesday Tot Treat,” Blair added. “Free tater tots all day long, with any purchase.” She smacked her lips. “Delish!”

My stomach grumbled a little at the thought. It had yet to get used to my new wake-and-run routine. But still, I was confused. Eddie’s was a diner a few blocks away from school—and school hadn’t even started yet. “What about Mr. G’s class?

“Don’t worry about it,” Ashley said. She bent her head toward mine conspiringly. “Mr. G never writes us up for cutting. So …” She shot me a devilish grin. “You in?”

I blinked at her. Was Ashley Coolidge really inviting me to hang out with them?

“Sooo?” Blair nudged me in the side. “I’m telling you, tater tots taste so much better when they’re free.”

I tossed my history book back into my locker, slamming it shut. “I’m in.”

We snuck out after homeroom. I kept waiting for alarm bells to sound or Principal Markoff to come chasing wildly after us, but the hallway was quiet and still as we slipped out the front door. Jennifer, the hall aide—or prison patrol as she was more often known—was sitting out on the front step, knees tucked against her chest, dragging on a cigarette. I stopped short in my tracks. Here it came, I knew it: scolding, detention, trouble … three things I did not fare well with.

“Hi Jennifer,” Ashley sang out, waving to her as we strolled past.

“Why isn’t she stopping us?” I hissed.

“We have an understanding.” Ashley waved her hand through the air dismissively. “We don’t report her for the cigarette she has on school grounds every morning from seven fifty-five to seven fifty-seven, and she lets us go to Eddie’s.”

I looked over at her in disbelief. Could everything in Ashley’s world really be that charmed? It was like she could get away with anything. Ashley tossed her long hair over her shoulder, hooking one arm through Blair’s and one through mine. “Tater tots, here we come,” she cheered.

Thirty minutes later, we were crowded into a booth at Eddie’s, trying to keep our voices down as we played Pick Your Poison. “Definitely sex,” Blair declared, popping a tater tot into her mouth. The Pick Your Poison had been: die while skydiving, or while having sex?

Ashley cocked an eyebrow at Blair. “And how would you know?”

Blair laughed, her cheeks reddening a little. “I just think if you’ve got to go, you might as well go in style, right?”

“Ooh, I’ve got one,” I announced. “Okay, Pick your poison: Get trapped in a room full of spiders, or in a room full of Mr. G clones?”

Ashley and Blair burst out laughing. “Spiders,” Ashley screeched. “Millions and millions of spiders!”

Behind the counter, the waitress gave us yet another dirty look. Ashley bent forward, taking a pointed sip of her Diet Coke. Apparently, when Eddie came up with the free tater tots with purchase deal, he hadn’t thought to include a clause about what that item had to be. “Believe us,” Ashley had promised. “We talked to Eddie himself. Diet Cokes totally count.” But our waitress clearly wasn’t happy about it.

“Okay,” Ashley said, straightening back up. “I’ve got one for Molly. Pick your poison.” She leaned across the table, locking eyes with me. “Go to prom with Zach Martin or with Hudson Taylor?”

“Hudson Taylor,” I answered automatically. My hand flew to my mouth when I realized what I’d said. “Actually Zach,” I corrected quickly. “Definitely Zach. I mean, Ashley, I know you and Hudson are …” I trailed off. What
were
she and Hudson exactly?

Ashley laughed. “Relax, Molly. Hudson and I are nothing. I mean, sure, maybe he has a thing for me. And for a while I thought I liked him too … but as of today, I have my eyes set on someone else.”

“
Who
?” Blair squealed.

Ashley smiled mysteriously. “You’ll just have to wait and see.” She turned her attention back to me. “Anyway,” she said, her eyes running approvingly over my face. “I definitely think you could be his type, Molly.”