If Mom knew about the near-nude boy chained to my locker, that mask, a whole hall of guys howling when I walk by, all the creative ways high school boys can remind a girl she’s
damn ugly
. Less than human. Worthless. The way the girls shun me, too. No one ever wants to get stuck with me. If Mom knew, it would destroy her. “I look fine now.”
“What about your glasses?”
“I won’t wear them when we perform.”
“Not good enough.”
“You find some space-age contacts?”
“Better.”
A huge billboard I’ve driven by hundreds of times on my way down to choir unfurls through my brain. “Oh, no. Not more lasers.”
“This will be easier than fixing your face. It just takes a few seconds.”
“No, Mom. Please. Burning off zit scars is one thing, but that thing in my eyes?”
Her voice gets firm. “Suck it up, girl. Just one more step toward your genetic independence.”
The hair. The acne. My awful eyesight. All from him. Now I see what she wants. No more reminders. No more guilt. Her daughter released from every curse he left behind. She wins. No way can I argue that one.
Monday I go to school for the first time without glasses. It’s like I’m invisible. No one notices. No one says anything. Not even a single bark. I’m nuts, but negative attention is still acknowledgment.
I don’t see Scott until choir.
“You trying contacts again? Not a good idea, Beth. You’ll end up blind or something.”
“Nope.” I try to smile. “This is something more permanent.”
“Did they dye your eyes now? They’re really blue today.”
“Maybe it’s the drops. I had laser eye surgery Friday. Cool, huh? It makes me dizzy, but the doctor says my brain will adjust, and I’ll have almost perfect vision.”
“Whoa. You don’t need glasses at all?”
“Don’t lecture me, okay. I’m kind of shaky. Probably should have stayed home.”
“No, no, of course not.” He puts his arm behind me for support, rests his hand in the middle of my back, guides me up the tiers to our tenor seats. “This actually makes sense. It’ll change your life. I can’t believe the
Cosmo
team came up with it.”
I don’t sit yet, lean back against his hand—it feels so good. “It wasn’t them. My mom kind of insisted on it. Remember grade school?”
Scott’s empathetic, “Yeah,” floats into my ear.
Squirrel Face
.
Viper
. Boys stealing my glasses every recess. Four pairs got broken. The lenses were so heavy—always popping out. Scott rescued one pair from the boys’ bathroom and got beat up for his trouble. “It still haunts my mom.”
“Not you?” His hand moves to my elbow, and he steadies me into my chair.
“It is me.”
“Not anymore, Beth.” He sits beside me.
“It’s not so easy to not be that girl anymore. You know what I mean?”
He nods. He’s been there, too. And, snot that I am, I assumed he could shrug it off and go act like Mr. Charming to snag a girlfriend. He’s a guy. No feelings allowed. He’s supposed to just want action.
“Let’s turn over a new leaf together.” His hand returns to my back, moves up and down, gently soothing. “What do you say?”
“Remember when we were going to run away? In fifth grade? I’ll make the sandwiches again, and we can take my car. How much cash do you have?”
“I was thinking we should face it this time.” His hand stops moving. “Let’s go to prom.”
I laugh at that. “Like I could ever get a date.”
He leans in closer. “I just asked you, stupid.”
I stare at him. “You want to go with me?” My head shakes back and forth at how impossible that is. “I’m too tall.”
“And I’m too short.” He grins.
Crap, this is for real. “Will you make me dance?”
“Can you?” His hand, with arm attached, moves to my far shoulder.
“I doubt it.”
He squeezes a hug into a split second. “I can teach you if you want.” Scott dances? “I’ve been to loads of family weddings.”
“Isn’t there someone else you’d like to take?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“You’re sweet, Scott, but maybe this isn’t a good idea.” My head won’t stop slowly shaking
no way
. “I don’t want to muck up our friendship.”
His arm drops, hangs casually between us. He frowns. “Why can’t friends go to prom together?”
“It won’t creep you out?” I can’t look at his face. “Going with me?”
“Hardly.”
“Guess I need a dress.” I stick my tongue out at him. “Meadow will be thrilled.”
Scott sits up as tall as he can. “This I gotta see.”
chapter 8
PROM
Prom ends up being the same night as our concert. Such a pain. Scott comes to the concert in his black tux, looking way too good to be my old grade school bud. We’re leaving right after. Port High has a tradition of having its proms at a country club. We’re going to be way late, but that’s good. The party will be hopping, and we can lurk quietly in the back for a few songs and then leave.
Meadow peeks through the side door of the sanctuary before the concert starts and spots Scott in the audience. She takes him for an Amabile spy, searches the crowd wildly for Derek.
“No, that’s my friend, Scott.”
“Your prom date?”
“Yeah. We’ve been friends forever.”
“He’s way hot,” Sarah chimes in. “Introduce me after.”
Not on your life. I’d never sic Sarah on my poor, defenseless Scott.
Terri walks in from the side and takes a bow. She’s in a gorgeous black outfit. Guess Meadow’s mom got to her, too. She welcomes the crowd, says a spiel about golden Olympic dreams in Lausanne, and then we’re singing. The numbers whirl by. Each one gets a lot of applause. The audience is our family and friends. They’ll applaud anything.
Our finale is “Take Me Home.” I nail my solo. The hall goes nuts when it’s over. They are on their feet, pounding their hands together while we take a bow. Terri bows. The pianist bows. I have to step forward and bow by myself. Then we all bow together. The audience still claps. They won’t shut up until we sing it again.
I’m surrounded when it’s all over. Mom pushes her way through and gives me a big hug. “You’re beautiful. And not just the outside.” It’s her gift that shines through me. That is the only really stunning thing I have. She squeezes again. “I’m so proud of you.”
Scott’s waiting in the background. He does look nice in that tux. It accentuates his shoulders. Dang, those shoulders. Why do they get to me? He was going to get his hair cut for tonight, but I told him I wouldn’t go if he did. He so liked that. I hope I can control myself this evening. I don’t want to do something stupid and freak him out. He’s being so nice to take me.
I finally shake the last hand, hug another old lady, and break away to change.
My prom dress is cream-colored silky stuff, almost the same style as our gowns, except the skirt hits me a few inches above my knee and the scoop neck shows more than my clavicle. Meadow insisted. I’m glad the acne all over my chest is history. This outfit definitely wouldn’t have worked. I used a whole bottle of self-tanning lotion to get my legs tan. They turned out okay. My dress makes them look excessively long.
My mom’s waiting around with Scott when I come out of the dressing room. She gets all teary and tells Scott we better be in by one.
One? Like we’re going to be out that late.
“Sure.”
“And what are you driving?” She stands close enough to whiff his breath.
I turn as crimson as our choir gowns. “Mom. It’s Scott. Give it a rest.”
He laughs. “My dad’s BMW. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
We get out of there, and I can relax into the firm bucket seat. The leather smells good. Something else does, too. I think it’s Scott. Aftershave? It’s kind of intoxicating. I reek like hairspray—or worse. That concert was hard work. But it’s not like Scott’s even aware I’m in the car. He’s way into driving. Guys are so easy to please. A powerful car at his fingertips, and Scott is in heaven.
“Hey”—he adjusts his grip on the steering wheel—“grab that cooler from the back.”
I’m disappointed. I didn’t expect Scott to bring booze. He’s so not like that. He knows I’m not. “I can’t believe you—”
“Open it.”
I lift the cooler out of the back, put it on the floor between my feet, and flip up the lid. There’s a large, pink cloth napkin on the top.
“My mom made me put that in—for your dress.”
I peek under the napkin. There’s a bottle of sparkling cider, plastic wine glasses, a couple of bulging wraps encased in plastic, and six big fat brownies. “What is this?”
“Ultimate chick food—according to my big sisters. I wanted to take you out to a nice place, but with the concert—”
I get a lump in my throat. “This is so sweet.”
“Dig in. You must be starving.”
I start with the brownies.
We get to the hotel in time for pictures. “You better hurry.” The teacher who takes our tickets pushes us down the hall. “They close up in ten minutes.”
“We get pictures?” How can Scott be so stunned? Even I know that.
“I need to fix my face.”
He frowns at me. “No, you don’t.”
I quick put fresh lip gloss on while he pays the photographer.
“So if they turn out, we can order extras?”
“Scott! ”
“Just checking. My grandmother might want a copy.”
“She can have mine.”
His face falls.
“I didn’t mean
you.
I’m hideous in pictures.”
“Twenty years from now, we’ll need these to prove to our kids that we actually went to the prom.”
“Our kids?”
He gets pink around his edges. “Your kids. My kids. Future hypothetical miserable adolescents.”
“Like us?”
The photographer motions us to stand in front of a cheesy archway wrapped in silk leaves and twinkle lights. She looks from me down to Scott. “I think we need a chair. You should sit, hon.”
Scott glares at her. “No way.” He points to my legs. “I want those in the picture.”
“You sneaky brat.”
“I’ve never seen them before. Who knows when you’ll show them off again?”
The photographer’s laughing at us now, but Scott gets his way. She has us stand facing each other, puts Scott’s arms around me—adjusts them so his hands rest in the small of my back. She has me clasp my arms behind his neck, shakes her head, repositions my arms to mirror Scott’s. “Now, turn your heads. Chin down, dear. Stand up straight. Smile a little. This isn’t a funeral. Look here.” She holds up her hand and wiggles her fingers. “That’s good.” The camera flashes.
I feel stiff and awkward and blink.
Scott, the little sneak, tickles me. I laugh, and she snaps another shot. “Oh,” she says, “that one is nice.”
Scott keeps one hand on my back and guides me into a blue plush room with chandeliers turned low. A slow song is playing. “Let’s dance.”
I hesitate. He knows I’ve never been to a dance. Enemy territory. He went in junior high. Maybe some in high school. Guys can do that—watch from the sidelines. Maybe he even danced. I don’t know. I was home writing sad songs that I tore into tiny bits and threw out my window.
“Come on, Bethie.” He slips off his jacket and hangs it on the back of a chair at an empty table in the back. “Slow ones are easy.” He glances at the sparkly clutch Meadow loaned me. “Anything valuable in that? ”
“Just my face.” Who knows what that’s worth? Hundreds. Thousands. I toss the bag on the table and glance around. There are a couple teacher chaperones watching stuff at the tables. One of them nods at me.
Scott grabs my elbow and pushes me onto the dance floor. He puts his arms around my waist again. I rest my hands lightly on his shoulders, barely touching him. He’s staring straight at my cleavage.
“Stop looking at that.”
“Didn’t you wear this dress so I
could
look at it?”
“I wore this dress because Meadow made me.”
“Thank you, Meadow.”
“You’re creeping me out. Knock it off.”
“Where should I look?”
“How about my face?”
He tilts his head back, and we move around in a slow circle. “This isn’t going to work. My neck’s getting stiff.” His eyes drop back to my cleavage.
I step on his toes—hard. “Look to the side then.”