Beauty (5 page)

When Maryann moved away in second grade, I was devastated. Then, the very next year, in Miss Herman’s third grade class, I met Kemper and Hayley. I remember thinking that there was no way it would work, having three of us like that; someone would always be extra weight. But somehow, it worked. We were like a seesaw in a way, Hayley and Kemper on either end, and me in the middle, evening us out. It was our own kind of sturdy. But lately, I wasn’t feeling strong enough to even us out anymore. “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe Hayley just needs some time—”

The sound of honking cut me off. A group of senior boys were driving by, honking their horn as they whistled out the window at us. “Uh, Kemper,” I said, as they sped away with a final honk. “I think that was for
us
.”

Kemper looked over at me again, her eyes scanning my face carefully. “Yeah,” she agreed. “I think it was.”

And it kept happening as we rode on. A junior boy shouted out at us, offering us a ride in his truck. A group of freshmen catcalled as they rode by on their own bikes. Even a policeman on the street tipped his hat as we pedaled by. I wasn’t used to having so many eyes on me. I shook my hair out again, wishing I’d had time to blow-dry it just a little before leaving the house. It was going to be one huge ball of frizz by the time we reached school.

“Don’t look now, Molly,” Kemper said, her eyes glued to the rearview mirror her dad had insisted on installing on her bike. “But I think we’re being tailed.”

Slowly, I glanced over my shoulder. A pack of little kids was riding behind us on tricycles. They looked like they were racing each other—straight toward us. “Why aren’t they with their parents?” I gasped as one got dangerously close to my back tire.

“I think they were.” Kemper beckoned to a group of adults about a half-mile back, sprinting down the walking lane. They were waving their arms in the air, their shouts of “Slow down!” and “Wait for me, Henry!” carrying over on the wind. Another car honked as it drove by us.

“Kids on the loose,” Kemper joked, right as a tricycle bumped into my back wheel.

“Hi!” the tricycle rider called out. She was a little girl with big brown eyes and long pigtails. I lifted my hand in a hesitant wave and she broke into a huge gap-toothed smile.

“Let’s pick up the pace,” Kemper suggested. We both began pedaling harder, leaving the tricycle riders behind in our dust. At this rate, I was going to be frizzy-haired, makeup-less,
and
dripping sweat by the time we reached school.

“So,” Kemper said as we turned into the school lot a few minutes later. We were both panting a little from our bicycle sprint. “What happened to you at the fair yesterday, anyway? I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“I just needed to get away from everyone for a bit,” I said quietly. On the other side of the lot, I noticed Josh climbing out of his SUV. I let out a groan. “Oh, God, I ran into Josh last night and I was a total jerk.” Kemper followed my glance across the parking lot as we locked our bikes to the bike rack. Josh was smiling as he joined a group of guys from our grade, clustered by the bushes at the edge of the parking lot. “He was just trying to make me feel better, and I completely snapped at him. You think I should go apologize?” I cringed. The idea of walking over to that group of guys made me feel as queasy as if I’d just finished a burgnut-eating race.

Kemper didn’t say anything. Her eyes were fixed on Josh as he talked to his friends, his hands moving animatedly through the air. “Kemp?”

Kemper turned to me with a start. “Sorry, what?”

“I was just … never mind.” I turned my back on Josh and his friends. I would apologize later, without an audience. “Let’s go in.”

We had just gotten through the doors when Kemper glanced over her shoulder. “You know what?” she said suddenly. “I completely forgot I have to ask Josh something. You go ahead. I’ll see you in Mr. G’s.”

I raised my eyebrows at her. Did Kemper have a thing for
Josh
? “Oh, yeah? What do you need to ask him?” I teased. But she was already gone, slipping back out through the doors, a determined look on her face.

I craned my neck to look after her—and walked right into Zach Martin. His binder went flying to the floor, papers scattering everywhere.
Typical
, I thought, my face immediately flushing red. Of all the people I could bump into, of course I’d have to choose the captain of the basketball team. There were only two sports that really mattered in Miracle: football and basketball. If you were a starter on either one, you were at the top of Miracle High’s food chain. Which put Zach Martin squarely up there. Right next to the running back of the football team, Hudson Taylor.

“I’m so sorry,” I said breathlessly, bending down to scoop up the fallen papers. I waited for him to groan or grumble or make any of the other usual responses, but he just smiled.

“No biggie,” he said, squatting down next to me. “I’m always up for a run-in with a beautiful girl.” He laughed, and I joined in cautiously. He kept looking up at me from beneath his dark lashes as we gathered up the papers, like he couldn’t seem to get enough. Wait. Was he … flirting with me? I stood up, passing him the pile I’d collected. No. There was no possible way that Zach Martin—I-could-have-any-girl-in-school Zach Martin—was flirting with me. I wasn’t about to make
that
mistake again.

“Thanks,” Zach said. He adjusted the Ohio State baseball cap on his head. “Do I know you?” he added. “You look really familiar.”

I opened my mouth to say that we’d only gone to the same school for the past two years, when Ashley and Blair stopped next to us. “Hey, Zach,” Ashley said. She glanced over at me. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your frien—?” She stopped mid-sentence, her jaw dropping so wide she reminded me of one of those baby birds begging for a worm. A blonde, beautiful, popular baby bird, of course. “Wait—
Molly? Molly Davis?
”

My hand flew instinctively to my chin, in an attempt to cover up my pimple. I knew I couldn’t look
good
, but did I really look so bad that Ashley didn’t even recognize me? Next to her, Blair’s jaw dropped just as wide. “
Molly?
” she repeated. Blair had always reminded me of a parrot—mimicking everything Ashley said and did—and now, with her mouth opened like that, she even kind of looked like one.

I cleared my throat. “Yeah? What is it?”

Ashley took a few steps back, snapping her jaw shut. “Nothing …” she said slowly. She shook her head. “See you later, Zach,” she added, never taking her eyes off me. “Later, Molly.”

“Later, Molly,” Blair repeated.

“I better get to class too,” Zach said. “But thanks for helping with this.” He waved toward his binder, beaming at me as if I’d just done him some huge favor.

“Uh, sure,” I said, oh-so-eloquently.

He started to leave, but at the last minute he turned back. “So it’s Molly, right?” I nodded. “Cool. Well, bump into you later, Molly. Though hopefully”—he grinned—“not literally.” With a wave, he took off down the hall, leaving me standing there completely and totally dumbfounded. This morning could not get any stranger.

Shaking my head, I hurried to my locker, grabbing the books I needed for first period. It was Monday—the day Miracle High forewent homeroom because of budget cuts—so I was heading straight to Mr. G’s history class. I slammed my locker shut, trying to decide if I had enough time to stop by the bathroom and attempt to do something with the Brillo Pad I was sure was my hair after that bike ride. I’d risk it, I decided, even though last week Mr. G had given Kemper detention for coming in twenty-nine seconds late. Better to suffer detention than sit in class for forty minutes with Brillo-head.

The bathroom was unusually empty as I headed inside: no one at the sink, and just one stall door shut. It was usually a zoo right before first period, which meant I was definitely running late. Hurrying to the sink, I dropped my bag on the ground and faced the mirror to assess the damage. But as I looked into the mirror, I felt a gasp escape my throat.

The image staring back at me was me … yet it wasn’t. It was still my face, my hair, my body, but they were different somehow. I was just as tall, but I seemed graceful now, elegant even. Like my body suddenly made sense, all its pieces fitting together. My pimple from yesterday was gone, my skin so clear it looked almost dewy. My hair was silky and shiny, not a single strand kinking with frizz. My eyes were bluer than ever, my cheekbones glowed pink, and even the tilt of my head seemed different. Mysterious, almost.

And it wasn’t just my features. It was something else too—a certain
je ne sais quoi
as my dad would say—something that drew my eyes to the mirror and made them never want to look away. Something that seemed to emanate out of me, warm and alluring, like a fire on a freezing night. Something that made me want to step closer, look closer, like there was this magnetic pull to me. I was captivating. I was enchanting. I was … beautiful.

This was
not
possible.

I pulled my phone out of my backpack and held it in front of me, snapping a photo. I gave another little gasp as my image appeared on the screen. It was just as beautiful as the one in the mirror. Airbrush beautiful. But no. It had to be a fluke. I made the ugliest face I could think of—eyes crossed, tongue sticking out, nose squished up—and snapped another picture. But still, I somehow looked beautiful. It was like I could do no wrong.

I didn’t care about being late to class anymore. I turned back to the mirror, my eyes running slowly over my face. My features were all the same—same straight nose, same wide eyes, same button-shaped lips—but they suddenly just
worked
. It was like my face was a canvas, and someone had painted the final stroke, making the painting come alive on the page.

A toilet flushed behind me, and a girl I recognized from the freshman class, one of Ashley’s little clones, walked up to the sink. She looked over at me as she washed her hands, and I could feel her eyes trailing admiringly from my hair to my skin to the way my shirt clung just-so to my body. I’d never been so blatantly checked-out before, and I blushed, looking away as I pretended to wash my own hands.

“I love your hair,” she said, her voice dripping with jealousy. “How do you get it so shiny like that?”

I ran a hand through my newly silky-smooth hair. The freshman was staring at me with utter anticipation, like she thought my answer could change her life. But all I could do was offer up the truth: “I have absolutely no idea.”

Welcome to the Twilight Zone

TWENTY PAIRS OF eyes landed on me as I walked into history class. At the front of the classroom, Mr. G fell silent, his jaw unhinging slightly. “
Molly?
” he said, his voice squeaking on the
y
. He quickly cleared his throat.

“Sorry I’m late, Mr. G,” I said hastily. From the clipboard in his hands, I could tell he’d already started on his daily oral pop quiz—or pop torture as Hayley liked to call it. “I, uh, got stuck in the bathroom.” I’d meant to say stuck
helping a freshman
in the bathroom, but with all those eyes staring at me, my words got lost in translation. I waited for the laughter to start (who says they got
stuck in the bathroom
?) but not one person even snickered. They were too busy gaping at me.

“No problem, Molly, no problem,” Mr. G said, ushering me in. “Just go on and take a seat.” I stared back at him in disbelief. “Go on,” he said again, winking at me.

I exchanged a stunned look with Kemper as I sat down. We had this theory that Mr. G was massively, pitifully unpopular when he was in high school, and was trying to make up for it now that he was a teacher. He
lived
to give his pop quizzes, and as far as we could work out, his scoring system made about as much sense as a flamingo in the North Pole. You could tell him that, in 1983, the King of France took over America, and if you were Ashley Coolidge or Blair Duncan, he’d just smile and say, “Close enough! One point!” But if you were me or Kemper, you’d get a disapproving, “
Someone
didn’t do the reading last night. Negative two points!” Kemper called it the Pretty Factor. The prettier you were, the higher your odds became of scoring an A in Mr. G’s class.

A note landed on my desk as I sat down. While Mr. G grilled Steph Hanover about exactly how many soldiers were killed during the Civil War, I unfolded it quietly.
Your odds just tripled!
it said.

I glanced over my shoulder to smile at Kemper, but as I did, someone tossed me another note. I recognized the curlicue handwriting and fat circles over the
i
’s right away.
What happened to you
??? Hayley had written.
Did your mom finally talk you into a makeover!? Is THAT why you were late?

“Molly?” My head snapped up at the sound of Mr. G’s voice.

“Sor—” I began, sure Mr. G was calling me out for reading notes in class. I could only
begin
to imagine the number of points he’d subtract from my grade for that. But then I noticed that he was standing patiently at the front of the room, tapping his pointing stick at the big pull-down map. I recognized that stance. He was waiting for me to answer a question. “Sorry,” I continued. “Can you repeat the question?”