Making Faces (11 page)

“Hey, Fern.”

“Uh . . . hi Grant.” Fern straightened,
hiding her jagged nails in her lap. Grant Nielsen had his hands
shoved into his pockets as if he were as comfortable in a tux as he
was in blue jeans. He smiled at her and tossed his head toward the
dance floor.

“Wanna dance? Bailey won't mind, right? Since
he's dancing with Rita?”

“Sure! Okay!” Fern stood up a little too fast
and wobbled in the heels that gave her three inches and made her a
staggering 5'5. Grant grinned again, and his hand shot out to
steady her.

“You look pretty, Fern.” Grant sounded
surprised. His eyes roved over her and settled on her face, his
eyes narrowed as if he was trying to figure out what was
different.

The song changed about twenty seconds after
they started dancing, and Fern thought that was all she was going
to get, but Grant looped his arms around her waist when a ballad
began and seemed happy to partner up for another song. Fern
swiveled her head around to see if Bailey had relinquished Rita,
only to discover he hadn't. He was making lazy figure eights around
the other dancers, Rita's head against his shoulder as they
mimicked slow dancing as best they could. Becker was standing by
the punch bowl, his mouth twisted and his face red.

“Sheen's gonna get pounded if he isn't
careful.” Grant laughed, following Fern's gaze.

“I'm more worried about Rita,” Fern said,
realizing suddenly that she was. Becker made her nervous.

“Yeah. Maybe you're right. You'd have to be
pretty messed up to hit a kid in a wheelchair. Plus, if Garth
touches him, all heck would break loose. No wrestler in here would
allow it.”

“Because of Coach Sheen?”

“Yeah. And because of Bailey. He's one of
us.”

Fern beamed, glad to know the feeling was
mutual. Bailey loved every member of the wrestling team and
considered himself the team's assistant coach, mascot, personal
trainer, head statistician, and all-around wrestling guru.

Next, Paulie asked Fern to dance. He was his
sweet, distracted self, and Fern enjoyed dancing with him, but when
Beans sidled up and invited her onto the dance floor, Fern started
wondering if maybe she wasn't the butt of a private joke, or worse,
a bet. Maybe Ambrose would be next, and then they would all ask her
to pose with them in a picture, laughing uproariously at their sham
of a prom. Like she was a circus sideshow.

But Ambrose never asked her to dance. He
never asked anyone. He stood head and shoulders above most of the
crowd, his hair pulled back tightly in a sleek tail at his nape,
accentuating the plains and valleys of his handsome face, the wide
set of his dark eyes, the straight brows and the strong jaw. The
one time he caught Fern looking at him he frowned and looked away
and Fern wondered what she'd done.

On the way home, Bailey was unusually quiet.
He claimed fatigue, but Fern knew better.

“You okay, B?

Bailey sighed and Fern met his gaze in the
rearview mirror. Bailey would never be able to drive, and he never
sat in the front seat. Whenever he and Fern cruised around town,
Fern would borrow the Sheen's van because it was rigged for
wheelchair use. The middle seat of the van was pulled out so Bailey
could drive his wheelchair up a ramp and into the body of the
vehicle. Then his wheels were locked and he was strapped in with
belts that were anchored to the floor so he wouldn't tip over in
his chair. Dragging Main Street wasn't much fun with Bailey in the
backseat, but Fern and Bailey were used to it, and sometimes Rita
would come along so that Fern didn't feel like a chauffeur.

“Nah. Tonight's one of those nights,
Fernie.”

“Too much reality?”

“Way too much reality.”

“Me too,” Fern said softly, and felt her
throat close against the emotion that rose in her chest. Sometimes
life seemed particularly unfair, unduly harsh, and beyond
bearing.

“You looked like you were having a good time.
Bunch of the guys asked you to dance, right?”

“Did you ask them to dance with me, Bailey?”
The realization slammed into her.

“Yeah . . . I did. Is that okay?” Bailey
looked stricken and Fern sighed and forgave him instantly.

“Sure. It was fun.”

“Ambrose didn't ask though, did he?”

“Nope.”

“I'm sorry, Fern.” Bailey was well-aware of
Fern's feelings for Ambrose Young and her despair after the debacle
with the love letters.

“Do you think there's any way someone like
Ambrose could fall in love with someone like me?” Fern caught
Bailey's gaze in the mirror again, knowing he would understand.

“Only if he's lucky.”

“Oh, Bailey.” Fern shook her head, but loved
him for saying it . . . and even more for meaning it. She and
Bailey had agreed they weren't ready to go home, so they cruised up
and down the dark Main Street, the darkened windows of the
businesses reflecting the bright headlights of the old blue van and
the dim prospects of the lonely pair inside. After a while, Fern
turned off the main drag and headed for home, suddenly tired and
ready for the uncomplicated comfort of her own bed.

“It's hard to come to terms with sometimes,”
Bailey said abruptly.

Fern waited for him to continue.

“It's hard to come to terms with the fact
that you aren't ever going to be loved the way you want to be
loved.”

For a moment, Fern thought he was talking
about her and Ambrose. But then she realized he wasn't talking
about unrequited love . . . not really. He was talking about his
illness. He was talking about Rita. He was talking about the things
he could never give her and the things she would never want from
him. Because he was sick. And he wouldn't be getting better.

“There are times when I think I just can't
take it anymore.” Bailey's voice cracked, and he stopped talking as
suddenly as he had begun.

Fern's eyes filled with sympathetic tears,
and she wiped at them as she pulled the van into the Sheen's dark
garage, the automatic light flickering on in sleepy welcome
overhead. She slid the car into park, unlatched her seat belt, and
turned in her seat, looking at her cousin. Bailey's face looked
haggard in the shadows, and Fern felt a flash of fear, reminded
that he wouldn't be beside her forever–he wouldn't even be beside
her for long. She reached out and grabbed his hand.

“There are times like that, Bailey. Times you
don't think you can take it anymore. But then you discover that you
can. You always do. You're tough. You'll take a deep breath,
swallow just a little bit more, endure just a little longer, and
eventually you'll get your second wind,” Fern said, her smile
wobbly and her teary eyes contradicting her encouraging words.

Bailey nodded, agreeing with her, but there
were tears in his eyes too. “But there are times when you just need
to acknowledge the shit, Fern, you know?”

Fern nodded, squeezing his hand a little
tighter. “Yep. And that's okay, too.”

“You just need to acknowledge it. Face the
shit.” Bailey's voice grew stronger, strident even. “Accept the
truth in it. Own it, wallow in it, become one with the shit.”
Bailey sighed, the heavy mood lifting with his insistence on
profanity. Swearing could be very therapeutic.

Fern smiled wanly. “Become one with the
shit?”

“Yes! If that's what it takes.”

“I've got Rocky Road ice cream. It looks a
little like poop. Can we become one with the Rocky Road
instead?”

“It does look a little like shit. Nuts and
everything. Count me in.”

“Sick, Bailey!”

Bailey cackled as Fern climbed in the back,
unhooked the belts that secured his chair and shoved the sliding
door open.

“Bailey?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Fern.”

That night, after her shimmery dress was put
away, her curls unpinned from the complicated twist, and her face
scrubbed free of makeup, Fern stood naked in front of her mirror
and looked at herself in frank appraisal. She'd grown up some,
hadn't she? She was almost 5'2. Not that small. She was still on
the scrawny side, but at least she didn't look twelve anymore.

She smiled at herself, admiring the straight
white teeth she'd suffered so long for. Her hair was recovering
from last summer's hair disaster. Convinced shorter hair would be
more manageable, she'd directed Connie at Hair She Blows to cut it
short like a boy. Maybe it wasn't short enough, because it had
sprung out from her head like a seventies fro, and she'd spent most
of her senior year looking like Annie from the Broadway play,
further accentuating her little girl persona. Now, it almost
touched her shoulders and she could force it into a ponytail. She
promised herself she wouldn't cut it again. She would let it grow
until it reached her waist, hoping the weight of longer hair would
relax the curl. Think Nicole Kidman in
Days of Thunder
.
Nicole Kidman was a beautiful redhead. But she was also tall. Fern
sighed and pulled her pajamas on. Elmo stared back at her from the
front of her top

“Elmo loves you!” she said to herself in her
best squeaky imitation of the puppet's voice. Maybe it was time to
get some new clothes, maybe a new style. Maybe she would look older
if she didn't wear Elmo pajamas. She should buy some jeans that fit
and some T-shirts that actually revealed that she wasn't
flat-chested . . . not anymore.

But was she still ugly? Or had she just been
ugly for so long that everyone had already made up their minds?
Everyone, meaning the guys she went to school with. Everyone,
meaning Ambrose.

She sat at her little desk and turned on her
computer. She was working on a new novel. A new novel with the same
story line. In all her stories, either the prince fell in love with
a commoner, the rock star lost his heart to a fan, the president
was smitten by the lowly school teacher, or the billionaire became
besotted with the sales clerk. There was a theme there, a pattern
that Fern didn't want to examine too closely. And usually, Fern
could easily imagine herself in the role of the female love
interest. She always wrote in the first person and gave herself
long limbs, flowing locks, big breasts, and blue eyes. But tonight
her eyes kept straying to her mirror, to her own pale face with a
smattering of freckles.

For a long time she sat, staring at the
computer screen. She thought of the prom, the way Ambrose ignored
her. She thought of the conversation afterward and Bailey's
surrender to the “shit,” even if it was only temporary surrender.
She thought about the things she didn't understand and the way she
felt about herself. And then she began to type, to rhyme, to pour
her heart out on the page.

If God makes all our faces, did he laugh
when he made me?

Does he make the legs that cannot walk and
eyes that cannot see?

Does he curl the hair upon my head 'til it
rebels in wild defiance?

Does he close the ears of the deaf man to
make him more reliant?

Is the way I look coincidence or just a
twist of fate?

If he made me this way, is it okay, to blame
him for the things I hate?

For the flaws that seem to worsen every time
I see a mirror,

For the ugliness I see in me, for the
loathing and the fear.

Does he sculpt us for his pleasure, for a
reason I can't see?

If God makes all our faces, did he laugh
when he made me?

Fern sighed and hit print. When her cheap
printer spit out the poem, Fern stuck it to her wall, shoving a
thumbtack through the plain white page. Then she crawled into bed
and tried to turn off the words that kept repeating in her head.
If God makes all our faces, if God makes all our faces, if God
makes all our faces . . .