The Pretty One (24 page)

twenty-eight

break a leg (interjection): a traditional good-luck greeting between cast and crew before a performance.

The minute I step into the house I'm confronted with silence. Absolute, total silence.

“Lucy?” I call out. No answer. “Mom?” Still no answer.

I'm really hoping Lucy is here. By the time I got to the gym, big-mouthed Annie had already spilled the beans and word on the street was that my sister had left in a huff.

“Lucy?” My parents' door is shut. I turn the knob but the door is locked.

“Lucy,” I say loudly and firmly. “We need to talk.”

Silence.

“This isn't fair, Lucy. You didn't even like Drew before this year. You couldn't have cared less about him until you found out he was directing the spring musical.”

Silence.

“I've liked him for a long, long time. Since the first time I ever saw him.”

The door flies open. My sister is standing in front of me. I've never seen her like this. Her carefully coiffed updo is half down. Her eyes are red and puffy and her mascara is smeared. “You are such a liar,” she spits.

Her uncontrolled venom takes my breath away. I have never seen her so angry. “It's true,” I say calmly. “I liked him from the first time I saw him…”

“You never
ever
mentioned a word about liking Drew…”

“What difference does it make? You knew how I felt about him. You had to know.”

She pauses just long enough for me to know I'm right.

“So what is this all about?” I ask. “You think you deserve him because you were the first to call dibs?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I'm trying to understand you,” I say. Due to Lucy's obvious state of hysteria, it's more important than ever that I stay calm, cool, and collected. “You outright lied to me. First you tell me that he asked you to Marybeth's party, which was a lie, then you tell me he asked you to the fall festival, which was a lie…what the
hell
is your problem?” A reasonable question, worthy of a reasonable answer.

“I didn't lie! Everyone kept telling me how much he liked me and he is the one who asked me if I had a date…and even though I suggested that we all go together he seemed really happy and excited and I assumed he wanted to be with me and was just too shy…”

“Assumed?” I cross my arms, just to hammer the point home.
“Assumed?”

“Stop it! Stop it!
Stop it!
” Lucy screams, holding her hands to her ears. “Stop being so terrible to me. It's like you're out to get me! It's like you're obsessed with me. You want to be an actress, wear my clothes, eat what I eat, date the guy I like, take over my friends…you're trying to steal my life.”

Steal her life? Just because I eat whatever she does, just because I sit with her friends at lunch, just because I sometimes wear her clothes, just because I tried out for the part she wanted…

“I don't want your life. I just want Drew.” I take a step back and take a deep breath. “And the truth of the matter is, he wants me, too. He asked me to the fall festival, Lucy.
Me.
Not you.”

“So why didn't you accept? Why did you go with Simon instead?”

“Because…because you liked him and also…I thought Drew only liked me because I was pretty.”

“You're pathetic!” Lucy yells. “You've become such a…such a conceited, selfish bitch.”

Lucy never swears. The sheer force of her words sends me reeling backward, clutching my chest. She bursts into tears, hysterically sobbing, and sits back down on the edge of our parents' bed. “I just want things to be the way they were.”

“The way they were?” Suddenly I'm strong again. “You mean with you always being the one in the spotlight and me always stuck in the shadows, cheering you on? With you always being the strong one, the confident one, the one who always has to take care of her poor, lonely, ugly little sister? Is that what you want? Is that what you miss?”

Lucy doesn't answer.

“You know why you're so mad at me?” I'm yelling, but I don't care. “Because I finally got something that you wanted. And you can't stand it.” I'm breathing hard. “I thought I wanted things to be like they were between us before, too. But I'm realizing I don't. I want to be able to win sometimes, too. I want to be able to get what I want, too.”

She clenches her fists, and for a moment I think she's going to slug me. Instead she pushes past me and stomps down the stairs.

“Where are you going?” I shout, as Lucy unlocks the front door.

“I'm going back to the dance and you can sit here by yourself. Eat a bag of Oreos while you're at it.”

It is a low blow, made even worse by the fact that we don't have any Oreos. I already ate them.

         

Fortunately, I have not eaten the Doritos. Still in my dress, I grab the Doritos and head back upstairs to the hall bathroom. I turn on the light and stop, staring at my reflection. As I look at the high cheekbones; the small, almost perfectly shaped nose; the straight white even teeth, there is no sense of recognition or familiarity. I'm looking at the face of a stranger.

I turn on the water and grab a bar of soap, scrubbing all the makeup off my face. I let down my hair and yank it back in a ponytail. I take off my dress and put on my pajamas. I leave my dress in a pile on my floor and head back downstairs. I sit on the couch facing the door, waiting for Mom to come home, my ire at her absence increasing by the minute. By the time she arrives (two hours later), I have not only finished off an entire one-pound bag of Doritos, I'm working my way through an old, stale bag of chocolate chips that I found in the freezer.

“Hello?” Mom calls out, opening the door.

“Hello,” I say calmly from the kitchen.

“Megan?” she says, walking into the kitchen and turning on the overhead light. She takes one look at me and stops still. “What's wrong?”

“Where have you been?” I ask.

“I dropped your dad off at the airport and then I met Francis for dinner in Little Italy. What's going on?” she asks, concerned.

“Why are you home so early?”

“You missed it,” I say quietly. “You missed it all per usual.”

“Missed what?”

“Lucy and me…it was terrible.”

“Did you guys have a fight?” Mom says gently, sitting next to me.

“Drew and I kind of got together at the dance and Lucy's big-mouthed friend Annie saw us.” I say this like the whole thing is Annie's fault.

“Oh,” Mom says. I half expect her to jump away from me in horror, but instead she puts an arm around me and hugs me.

“I didn't mean for it to happen,” I say, slobbering on her shoulder. “It's just…after our talk, I started to think that you were right, that Drew only liked me because of the way I look. And I thought, at least Simon loves me for who I am. And if I went to the dance with Simon, then he would be happy, Lucy would be happy…”

“But what about you?” Mom asks.

“Exactly! And you know what else? Drew didn't even ask Lucy to the dance, Mom. She made it all up. She knew I liked him and still…”

“I don't know if you can blame this on Lucy. You were already going with Simon, right?”

My mom has a point. Not that it makes me feel any better.

“Yes, but you know how I feel about Drew. And she knows, too. She knew all along. She was trying to hurt me.”

“I'm not saying what she did was right, but I'm not so sure she was just trying to hurt you. Lucy's been struggling lately, too, just like you. Sometimes people find themselves in a situation that's new and unfamiliar and they get swept up in the emotion of it all. As a result, they say and do surprising things.”

I hate it when Mom does her Dr. Phil imitation. I start crying again. I grab the last tissue and blow my nose. “I've made such a mess of everything. I kept trying to make everybody happy and it just made things a million times worse.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself,” Mom says and sighs. “Anyone would be having a tough time right now. To have everything coming at you at once, all this attention and on this magnitude, well, it has to be overwhelming.”

I take another tissue and blow my nose.

“I want you to know that what happened to you—your new face—was never anything I would have chosen for you. I thought you were perfect before. But after the accident, well, we didn't really have any choice. I told myself that maybe it would all work out for the best, that perhaps your new face would give you more choices. And it has. Unfortunately, you've also inherited all the complications of being beautiful without having the skills to deal with it all.”

“I've been trying but I keep screwing up. Everybody hates me.”

“That's ridiculous!”

“What about you? You used to love spending time with me. And now…”

“I've been busy with work. You know that.”

“You haven't been working Saturday nights. You've been going out with your friends.”

“Oh, Megan,” she says sadly as her eyes well with tears. “You know why I keep making plans on Saturday nights? I was afraid if I didn't have plans you would feel too guilty to go out. I wanted you to have some fun and develop your own social life and I didn't think you would if you felt obligated to me.”

My mom has been making plans to go out every Saturday night for me? “But I loved our Saturday nights.”

“I know, but that was before you had other choices…better offers, so to speak.”

“Oh, Mom,” I say as I begin to cry again. “I don't even know who I am anymore.”

“I do,” my mom says, grabbing another tissue box out from under the sink. “And I think deep down, you do, too.”

“So who am I?”

She pulls out a tissue and wipes my nose for me. “You're who you've always been and who you'll always be. And it has nothing to do with the way you look.”

I appreciate where my mom is going with all this, but she's wrong. As much as I hate to admit it, Lucy's right. I
have
changed.

And it has everything to do with the way I look.

twenty-nine

feedback (noun): a loud whistle or rumble emanating from a sound system in an auditorium, caused by a sound's being amplified many times.

The morning after the fall festival, the school is quiet, the halls empty. I walk toward the auditorium with a pit in my stomach. I enter through the back door and wander toward the center of the stage. I arrived early so that I could practice my lines onstage before our last rehearsal, but as I take my place and look out at the empty auditorium, I realize I don't want to be here by myself.

I turn to leave and stop as I notice a stack of freshly painted screens leaning against the back of the stage. I walk over to the screens and thumb through them, silently evaluating each one until I reach the end. There, up against the wall, is an old background scene that Simon and I painted our freshman year for a senior production of
The Wizard of Oz.
It was our first project together and Simon and I worked hard on the design, creating a stylized farmhouse that was designed in three pieces so that when the tornado hit it could fly up and off to the sides simultaneously while splitting up. Instead of making the farmhouse all drab and gray like it was in the film, we took the opposite approach. We researched the era and decided that Aunty Em would have too much pride to let her house get all trashed. After all, why would Dorothy keep saying “There's no place like home” if her house was a pit? And so Simon and I had created the farmhouse of our dreams, using the brightest, most cheerful colors we could find.

I feel like whistling the theme to “Moon River” (an old song I have always found inherently sad). Everything seemed so simple back in the days when all Simon and I would argue about was the color of the paint we should use. I let the background screens fall back into place and turn away from the stage, heading toward the production studio. I walk to the door and stop, staring through the glass window at all the hubbub inside. Besides Simon and me (and Laura, who ended up attending the dance with George), no techies were at the dance and therefore were no more bleary-eyed than usual. The sound of laughter ricochets off the walls as everyone rushes to take care of the last-minute details, putting the final touches on the various sets for the senior productions. They're so busy that no one notices me as I open the door. I pause for a minute, taking time to listen to the comforting whir of the circular saw while breathing in the familiar smell of wet paint and turpentine. I suddenly wish that I was at school this morning not to act, but to design the sets; that tomorrow I would be at the performance not standing onstage, but in the audience, watching with paint-stained fingernails.

The saw stops and I open my eyes. Simon is in the corner of the production studio, standing on a ladder, finishing up the purple and gold wildflowers for the backdrop of Drew's set. He's wearing his glasses again, along with his black T-shirt, Bermuda shorts, and trademark silver sneakers. He seems to sense my presence. He stops painting and turns to face me.

Catherine and Laura are standing beside the table saw, just staring at me. I'm a little bothered to see that even normally cheerful Laura is now giving me the same evil eye as Catherine. Simon has obviously told them what happened at the dance. Or Annie.

“Simon, can I talk to you for a minute? Please?” I beg.

Finally, with what appears to be considerable thought, Simon puts down his brush and climbs down the ladder. We walk out of the production studio and down the hall and up the marble staircase, to the deserted second floor. When we reach the top of the stairs, I notice his shoe is untied. I attempt to point it out to him by tapping it with my foot but he moves away from me as if he can't stand to have me touch him, even with my foot.

I swallow back the lump in my throat. What can I possibly say to make things better? “So you gave up on your contacts, huh?”

He sighs as if he's not sure whether to answer me or not. “I hated them,” he said. “I was just wearing them to try to look a little better for you.”

“Oh, Simon,” I breathe. “I'm so sorry.”

He raises his hand as if to silence me. “It's not all your fault. I knew how you felt about Drew. I was just…stupid.”

I chew on my bottom lip while he tucks his hands in his pockets and looks at the floor. “What's going to happen to us?” I ask.

“I don't know,” he says. “I wish we could go back to how things were between us before your accident, but…I don't think I can.”

“What are you saying?” I wipe my nose on the back of my sleeve as I blink back my tears. “That you need some time apart? Some time to think things through?”

“No.” Simon closes his eyes for a minute and breathes in deep. “What I'm saying is that…I can't be
just
your friend, Megan. I wish I could, but I can't.”

“But…I love you.”

He gives me a little grin. “I know. Just not the way I want you to.”

         

After my talk with Simon I go back to the auditorium and stare blindly at my script until Drew arrives with Mrs. Habersham, who is there to give us our final critique. I nod at Drew as we take our places onstage. I'm glad that when the play opens I'm supposed to be sitting down because knowing that Mrs. Habersham is there evaluating me is making my knees so wobbly I don't think I could stand if I had to. I do my best to remember my lines, but I keep getting distracted by Mrs. Habersham, who is in the front row, watching me intently as she takes copious notes on the spiral pad in her lap. I feel totally, utterly sick to my stomach. As I forget yet another line, I can't help but feel bad for Drew. He has put so much time and energy into this whole thing and I am going to blow it for him. We finally finish and I brace myself for a lecture as I walk to the edge of the stage to receive Mrs. Habersham's critique.

“That was terrible,” she says simply.

Drew inhales deeply as he crosses his arms.

“Miss Fletcher,” she continues, as she pushes her glasses up her nose and leans forward. “I know you saw the script at the audition because I was there, but have you even looked at it since?”

I stare down at my feet. There's nothing to say. She's right. I'm terrible.

“Why haven't you memorized your lines yet?” she asks.

“I, ah, well, I'm trying.”

“With less than thirty-six hours until your performance, I would suggest you try a little harder,” she says crisply.

“She's had a lot of stuff going on,” Drew says, courageously rising to my defense.

“Let me remind you that this is
your
play Drew,” she says, almost angrily. “And casting Megan was your decision. As the director, writer, and star, you're the person who will be held accountable. Your entire grade is riding on the performance—the
entire
performance.” And with that threat, she turns and spins away, walking up the aisle with her notebook tucked under her arm.

“I'm sorry,” I say to Drew as soon as Mrs. Habersham is out of earshot.

“No,” he says. “I'm sorry. About last night…I had no idea that Lucy…I wasn't thinking.”

“It's not your fault,” I say. “It's mine.”

He takes a breath and glances toward the back of the theater. “I tried to call you.”

“I know. I just, well, I had a lot of things to think about.”

He walks toward the edge of the stage. He sits down and motions for me to join him. “How did everything go?”

“Not so good,” I say, sitting next to him. “Lucy's furious. And Simon, well, I told him I could never see him as anything more than a friend. Needless to say, he doesn't want anything to do with me anymore.”

“I'm sorry,” he says quietly. “Megan, what I said last night, about how I feel about you…if it helps at all—”

“It does,” I say quickly.

“I just want you to know that I've never felt like this about anyone before.”

I look into Drew's eyes. A year ago it would've been inconceivable to me, almost laughable that I might question whether or not someone might want to be with me because of the way I look. As of last year, people liked me
in spite of
the way I looked, not
because
. “The way you feel about me…does it…would it matter…” I swallow. “What if I looked like I used to?”

“What do you mean?”

“Would this—us—have happened if I had never been in that accident? If I was still ugly?”

And then I wait. I look into his eyes and wait for him to tell me that of course he would, that he would love me no matter what I looked like, no matter how ugly I was. That he didn't care about high cheekbones, small noses, or straight white teeth. I wait for him to reassure me that Simon and my mom were wrong, that even if I was the most horrible-looking person in the world he would still be sitting next to me telling me how he's never felt this way about anyone before.

“I don't know.” He takes my hand and squeezes it. “All I know is how I feel about you now. And I can tell you this: I love you.”