Beauty (10 page)

“Mmm,” I agreed. I took a long sip of my milkshake, watching as Dylan and Mike bustled around the kitchen preparing the lasagna. At the other end of the table, Seth let out a long, annoyed sigh. I couldn’t help but smile. For the first time in my life, people weren’t just noticing me—they were
listening
to me. And as I sat there, sipping my milkshake with my brother glowering over at me, I couldn’t help but think: if this was being beautiful, I’d take it over ugly any day of the week.

Just a Little Puppy Love

KEMPER WENT HOME to feed her parrots a little while later. As soon as she left, Spaghetti wouldn’t leave me alone. He kept nudging at my legs and looking longingly toward his leash. “What?” I murmured. “You want a walk, boy?” Spaghetti leapt up at the word
walk
, dashing to the front door. I laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes. Hey, Seth!” I stuck my head into the kitchen. His friends had left and Seth was rummaging through the cabinets, looking for a snack.

“Yeah?” He pulled down the pack of Oreos Kemper and I had put a dent in earlier and grabbed a bottle of ketchup from the fridge.

I wrinkled my nose. “Are you eating those
together
?”

“Yup. It’s the best.” Seth flipped open the ketchup and squirted it onto an Oreo. “Want to try?”

“No way.” I grimaced. What
was
it that made little brothers more disgusting than any other humans on the planet? “Did you remember to take Spaghetti out for a walk?” Since Seth was the first person to get home in the afternoon, Spaghetti’s midday walk was his responsibility. I took the after-dinner walk, my dad took the late-night walk, and my mom did the morning.

“Oops,” Seth said, his mouth full of red-speckled Oreo.

“Seth, it’s your job! You can’t just forget about it.” Spaghetti was supposed to be both of ours, but Seth was always forgetting to do stuff for him. It drove me crazy. “He’s not your homework or something. He’s a
dog
!”

“Okay, jeez. I’m sorry.” Seth squirted ketchup onto another Oreo. “I’ll take him out after my snack.” He eyed me curiously. “Seriously, Molly, what did you
do
to yourself?”

I sighed angrily. “He’s ready now, Seth,” I said, ignoring his question. Stalking into the entryway, I grabbed Spaghetti’s leash off its hook. Spaghetti let out an excited bark by the front door. “I’ll just do it.”

I didn’t wait around for a response from Seth. I hooked Spaghetti’s leash onto his collar and took him outside, letting the door slam satisfyingly shut behind me.

“Whoa, Spaghetti! Not so fast.” I tightened my grip on his leash as Spaghetti yanked me across the front yard. He looked at me over his shoulder. His tail was wagging furiously and he had this look on his face, like:
What are you waiting for?
I laughed. “All right, all right, I’ll pick up the pace.”

The truth was, as much as I hated getting stuck doing Seth’s work for him, I could never hate walking Spaghetti. It was one of my favorite things to do. I loved how his tail wagged nonstop for the entire walk. I loved the way his nose twitched excitedly when he smelled something good. I loved how, when we hit just the right pace, our steps would fall into sync, my feet with his paws. And, of course, I loved that it gave me the perfect excuse to walk by Hudson’s house as often as I wanted. It’s not like it was
my
fault that Spaghetti had a serious attachment to the azalea bushes in his front yard.

Usually when I walked Spaghetti past Hudson’s, I just got an eyeful of house. But every once in a while, I’d catch a glimpse of him through the window, doing his homework or talking on the phone. And on nice days, he’d be out front, mowing the lawn or kicking a ball around in the sun. Once or twice he’d even nodded at me, making my stomach twist up with nerves. It was funny; at school Hudson was always surrounded by friends, people crowding around his locker or packing him in at the lunch table. But at home, he was usually alone.

“Hey, Molly!” Hudson waved to me from his front lawn as Spaghetti pulled me toward his azaleas. He was squatting in the grass, yanking weeds out, but he stood up when he saw me, dusting his hands off.

I froze in my spot, my mouth going dry. In all the times I’d walked by Hudson’s house over the years, he’d never once actually spoken to me. I cleared my throat nervously. I had talked to him just fine in gym class today, hadn’t I? This was no different.

“Hey,” I said. My voice cracked a little, and I quickly cleared my throat again.

Hudson walked over, and Spaghetti cocked his head, watching him. Then without any warning, Spaghetti pounced, his paws landing on Hudson’s chest as he gave him a big, fat lick on the nose. “Oh!” Hudson took a step back in surprise, laughing.

“Spaghetti, no!” I tugged on his leash, pulling him down. “Sorry,” I said helplessly. “I don’t know what got into him. He never does that.”

“It’s because he knows me. Don’t you, Spaghetti?” Hudson crouched down to scratch Spaghetti behind the ear. Spaghetti let out a contented sigh, leaning into Hudson’s hand.

“He does?” I was sure Hudson had seen Spaghetti from afar, but unless I was suffering from some kind of blackout syndrome, I didn’t think I’d ever actually introduced them.

“Your brother isn’t exactly the best dog walker,” Hudson explained, smiling up at me. “And this guy just loves to drag him across my yard.”

“It’s the azaleas,” we both said at the same time.

Hudson laughed as he stood back up. “Exactly.”

“Sorry about my brother.” I rolled my eyes. “He’s not exactly the best anything.”

“He’s definitely no you,” Hudson grinned.

My heart picked up speed. What did he mean by
that
?

“You have your walk down pat,” he went on, absently ruffling the fur on Spaghetti’s head. “Down to the end of the block and back. Straight line all the way.”

Oh
. Not exactly where I’d hoped he’d been going with that. But still, Hudson had noticed how I walked my dog? I blushed a little, wondering if he’d seen me peering at his house all those times.

“No foul play with Molly at the end of the leash,” Hudson joked. “Right, Spaghetti?” At the sound of his name, Spaghetti leapt back up, his paws crushing into Hudson’s chest.

“Spaghetti! Stop!” I pulled him down again. “Sorry,” I groaned.

“I don’t mind.” Hudson gave Spaghetti’s head another scratch. “I love dogs. I’ve been trying to convince my mom to get one forever, but no such luck.”

“Let me guess,” I said, launching into an imitation of my mom’s not-over-my-dead-body voice. “They’re too expensive! Think of all the food and vet bills!”

“Who’s going to walk him in the rain and the sleet and the snow?” Hudson chimed in, clearly mimicking his own mom. “I can bet right now it’s not going to be you, Hudson Taylor.”

“Plus,” I continued in my spot-on mom voice, “they shed. Everywhere!”

“They slobber,” Hudson added solemnly.

“They’re loud.”

“They have
dog
breath.”

Spaghetti panted up at me, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. I laughed. It surprised me how easy it was to joke around with Hudson. “I can vouch for that one.” I reached down to pet Spaghetti. “It took me and my brother like three years to convince my parents to get Spaghetti.”

“But you did it.” Hudson looked impressed. “You’ll have to give me pointers some time.”

“Hudson?” Hudson’s mom came out onto the front stoop. In her apron, with her hair tied back in a no-nonsense bun, she looked like any mom on the block. But when the wind picked up her apron, I could see how small and thin she was underneath, fragile almost. “Will you come in and help with dinner?”

“Be there in a minute, Mom,” Hudson called out. “Duty calls,” he said to me. “See you later, Molly. And Spaghetti.”

“See you,” I said. I stood there for a moment, watching him jog into his house. The door closed behind him, and I gave Spaghetti’s leash a pull, leading him home.

It was strange; when something you’d imagined happening a million times
actually
happened, you’d think everything would feel different after. Altered. Like there had been some monumental shift in the universe. But it didn’t feel that way at all. Talking to Hudson in his front yard had almost felt natural. Like I hadn’t been imagining it all this time, but waiting for it.

When I got home, I plopped down on my bed with my cell phone. Spaghetti leapt up next to me as I dialed Kemper’s number.

“Hey,” Kemper answered after only one ring.

“I think this new face might be the best thing that ever happened to me,” I announced.

“Hmm?” she murmured. She sounded distracted. “One sec, Mol.” There was some static, and then I heard her call out, “Hey! Sunny outside today, isn’t it?” Someone said something back, but it was too muffled for me to make out. “Sorry, Mol,” Kemper said a second later.

“Uh, what was that, Kemp?” I asked, momentarily distracted from why I’d called. “Did you just talk to someone about the
weather
?” Kemper hated small talk. She was always saying that she’d rather stay silent than talk senselessly about whether or not it was going to rain.

“Yeah,” Kemper said, sounding a little defensive. “So what? It’s nice out, and Josh just walked by on the way to the park.”

Josh.

The rush back to the parking lot.

The giggle in the car earlier.

The talk about the weather.

There was no doubt in my mind now. “Admit it, Kemper! You like Josh, don’t you?”

Kemper didn’t say anything.

“You do! You totally like Josh!”

“It’s no big deal,” Kemper said, which made me squeal. Because it was a big deal. Kemper wasn’t like Hayley. She didn’t go around liking just anyone. “Really,” Kemper insisted. “It’s not like he likes me back.” She sounded nervous, which surprised me. Kemper was the most confident person I knew. “I mean, he asked you about a ride home, not me.”

“He asked both of us,” I corrected her. “I can’t believe this, Kemper! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I guess the same reason you haven’t told me you like Hudson.”

I felt a blush creep onto my cheeks. “You can tell?” I asked shyly.

“Oh come on, Molly.” Kemper laughed. “I’m your best friend. Of course I can tell. It’s my
job
to tell.” I heard a noise in the background, and Kemper paused. “Sorry, that was my dad. I’ve gotta go. But not a word to anyone about the whole Josh thing, okay?”

“Not a word to anyone about the whole Hudson thing,” I countered.

“Deal,” we both agreed.

A little while later, as I was attempting to focus on my history reading, I heard Spaghetti let out several loud warning barks downstairs. The front door slammed shut soon after.

“Molly, Seth, I’m home!” my mom called out.

I froze in my spot, my hand flying to my newly rearranged face. Kids at school might be too busy admiring my newfound beauty to notice what had really caused it, but I had a feeling my mom wouldn’t. If there was anyone in the world who knew my medium-height cheekbones and slightly-too-far-apart eyes as well as I did, it was my mom. I walked over to the mirror. My beautiful face stared back at me.

What if my mom freaked out? What if she was convinced I’d had some kind of plastic surgery? What if she somehow found a way to change me back? Or—and I wasn’t sure which would be worse—what if she liked me
better
this way? That’s what my mom had always wanted for me, after all. Beauty. Superiority. Perfection. She entered me in my first beauty pageant when I was five, and even then I could tell how badly she wanted it: that crown on my head announcing to the world that I was better than the rest.

My mom was a pageant queen herself, paying her way through four years of college with the scholarships she racked up over the years. At the pageants she was my manager, my teacher, my mentor, all wrapped up into one. Before each show, we’d squeeze into our little corner of backstage and she’d spray my hair and adjust my outfit and lather on my makeup. Then she’d tilt my head from side to side, examining me for any flaws. She’d tap her foot the whole time, her shoe drumming out a rhythm against the floor, until finally she’d fall perfectly still and breathe: “Perfect.” That’s what I remember most about my pageant days: the
tap tap tap
of my mom’s foot, a steady backdrop to the preshow chorus of “shoulders back!” and “stand up straight!” and “smile big!” and then my mom’s breath on my face,
perfect
.

It’s funny, but I remember the winning least of all. It was always a blur hearing my name called and feeling the crown placed on my head, its base digging into my temples. But I did win, over and over again. I was a cute kid, with big blue eyes and ringlet hair that hadn’t yet figured out how to frizz. And I had my mom as a teacher. By the time I reached the age of eight, I’d already been crowned Little Miss Ohio twice.

Then the year I turned nine, I had my first big growth spurt. Suddenly l felt lost inside my body, like I wasn’t quite in control anymore. That pageant was a disaster. I tripped and fell during the formal attire catwalk, landing face down in front of the judges. My usually adorable dance routine was clumsy and off, like it was being danced by a giraffe. And by the time the question section rolled around, I was so nervous I’d sweat off most of my makeup and ended up stammering my way through the answers I’d rehearsed for weeks with my mom. My mom assured me that it was okay, that we’d make up for it next year, but I could read the truth in her face. She’d never been more disappointed in me.