Plastic (3 page)

Chapter Five

The next day I use my study period at school to google local plastic surgeons. There are a lot of them. All of them are men. Google kindly tells me that not all plastic surgeons are men. Just the majority. I decide to call Leah's mom's surgeon first. Then I will randomly pick two more names and set up appointments with them as well. I will pretend to be a teenage boy who wants to have a nose job. Only part of this is a lie. I don't like lying, but I do like my nose, even though it has a big bump in it from the time a swing hit me in the face when I was four. A swing Mike aimed at me because I was wearing his precious Batman cape. I didn't even know who Batman was at the time.

At lunchtime, I call and set up the appointments. No one asks my age, and wait-time doesn't seem to be an issue with these guys. All of them can see me for a “free consultation” the following week. So far, so good. I wish I could tell Leah what I'm doing, but she's not talking to me. I'm pretty sure what I'm doing would make her even angrier than she already is.

I spend the weekend hanging out with my dad and thinking up questions to ask the plastic surgeons. By the time Wednesday rolls around, I've got a list of questions on my laptop. I have also given the school a forged note that says I'm going to miss two days' classes to go on a field trip with my dad to a salmon farm up island. The Warren Academy approves of independent study with qualified individuals. I feel bad about involving Dad, but it can't be helped. It is for the greater good.

Dr. Marvin Thompson's office is on the ground floor of an older apartment complex near the hospital. I sit on a duct-tape-patched chair and fill out an information sheet while I wait. The waiting room is full of women—young, old, fat, skinny, flat-chested, busty. They all glare at me, like I shouldn't be wasting the doctor's time with my petty male problem. I was expecting Dr. Thompson to look like one of those guys from
Nip/Tuck
. Chiseled jaw, straight nose. The man who shakes my hand across his desk has jowls, no hair and a nose that looks as if it has a ball on the end of it, like a clown. He has really hairy hands and arms. No white coat. His short-sleeved plaid shirt is tight over a basketball-sized belly. Physician, heal thyself, I think. There is a photo on his desk of a little boy with a big head and the same clown nose. On him it looks kind of cute.

“Sit, sit,” the doctor says, waving a hairy arm at a chair opposite his desk. “What can I do you for?

I open my laptop and clear my throat. “Um, I've got some questions. About my nose.” I feel stupid saying anything about my nose, now that I've seen his and his kid's.

He leans forward in his chair and peers at my face. “You want rhinoplasty?”

I nod. “It's, um, deformed. I hate it.” I use the buzzword
deformed
on purpose. I'm not sure I sound convincing, but he comes around the desk for a closer look. It's very strange having someone stare at your nose. I look down at my laptop and ask my first question. “Where did you train?”

He perches on the edge of his desk and points to a wall of framed diplomas. “Undergrad, UBC.
MD
, McGill. Residency, U of T,” he says. “Board certified. Next question.”

I type while I ask, “Do you have experience with this procedure?”

He laughs. “I could do it in my sleep. Or with my eyes closed. Or with one hand tied behind my back.” I stop typing and stare at him. “Not that I do,” he says. “Awake, eyes open, two hands. Scout's honor.” He lifts his hand and gives the Scout's salute. I wonder if his son is a Cub Scout. I can totally see Dr. Thompson as a Scout leader. Tying knots, building safe campfires, telling not-too-scary ghost stories.

“So, uh, how much does it cost?”

“More than you can afford, I would think,” he replies. “Let's back up a bit here. You don't like your nose. Why?”

I nod and run my finger over the bump. “Isn't it kinda obvious?”

“Not really,” he says. “Looks fine to me. Can you breathe properly?”

“Yes,” I say. “I just don't like the way it looks.”

“Ever had surgery?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Just some stitches when I fell one time. And a cast when I broke my arm.”

“There are risks,” he says. “And there can be complications.”

“I know.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“I went online,” I say.

“Ah yes, the Internet. Font of all dubious wisdom.”

“So, can you help me out?” I close the laptop and lean forward in my chair.

“How old are you, son?” he says.

“Almost sixteen.”

He shakes his head sorrowfully. “Then the answer is no.”

“Even if my parents sign off on it?”

“Even then.” He picks up a pen from his desk and twirls it between his fingers like a tiny baton. “I don't do cosmetic surgery on anyone under eighteen. Not unless there's a true deformity or a health risk. My receptionist should have told you. I'm sorry you wasted your time.”

I stand up and shake his hand, trying to look disappointed when I am actually elated. He's one of the good guys. He's got standards. Standards he acts on.

“Is there anyone else in town you could recommend?” I ask.

“Oh, I'm sure you'll find someone to do what you want,” he says wearily. “But you won't hear about them from me. Just be sure to ask your questions.” He looks so sad I almost tell him the truth. I don't want him to think I'm shallow and vain. But it's too soon. I need to get to my next interview. I need to find someone who isn't a grown-up Boy Scout. Someone greedy. Someone who thinks
Be Prepared
means having an anesthetist on call at all times.

Chapter Six

The next guy, Dr. Sanderson, stands me up. I get to his office, and his receptionist says he was called in to perform emergency surgery.

She looks up at me, frowns and says, “Dr. Sanderson won't see you unless your parents are with you. No point.”

“Good to know,” I reply. “Wouldn't want to waste his time. I'll be in touch.”

She nods and turns back to her computer screen. “You do that.”

On Thursday I have an appointment with Dr. Ronald Myers, Leah's mom's doctor. Dr. Myers's office is in a brandnew high-rise overlooking the harbor. His waiting room is painted in soothing shades that probably have names like Pistachio Parfait and Bahama Lagoon. A low, sleek couch faces an oval coffee table. The magazines are all glossy. Not a battered
People
magazine in sight. A receptionist with perky tits and a nose to match offers me a cold drink or a “coffee beverage.” I ask for a double espresso, even though I hate coffee. It just sounds more mature than asking for a Coke.

She smiles and says, “Absolutely, sir.” Her teeth are perfect. No mention is made of parents.

There is only one other person in the waiting room—a woman about my mom's age with a bandaged nose and bruises under her eyes. She looks over at me and grins.

“Gonna have that fixed?” she asks, pointing a manicured finger at my face.

I reach up and stroke my nose. “That obvious?” I ask.

“Oh, honey. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. It's just that, well”—she points at her own nose—“I feel your pain. And you've come to the right place. Dr. Myers has done all my work. And my daughter's. He's a prince. He'll have that bump off in no time. He's got his own clinic, you know. Just down the hall. All the best equipment. Fabulous staff. You won't regret it.”

“Uh, thanks,” I say. The receptionist calls my name, and I'm ushered into the presence of Dr. Ronald Myers. The room is enormous, and the view from his window is spectacular. Ocean, mountains, sky. He sits with his back to it, as if it's as boring as a brick wall. The huge pictures on his walls look expensive, but kind of generic. They work well with the color scheme, which is London Fog and Ace of Spades. In other words, gray and black. Very manly.

He stands up and walks around his gigantic glass desk to greet me, clasping my hand in both of his. Chiseled jaw, straight nose, athletic build. Armani suit, Rolex, fake tan. Or maybe it's not fake. Maybe he got it skiing at Aspen or sailing in Barbados. It is a bit orange though.

“Jack,” he says. “Have a seat. Did my girl get you something—coffee, a Perrier?”

I nod as he waves an arm at one of the two white leather chairs that face his desk. I'm starting to feel jittery. Maybe from the coffee, maybe because his perfection makes me nervous.

“Sit, sit,” he says. “Tell me how I can help.”

He sits in the chair beside mine and leans toward me as if I am the most fascinating person on the planet. This guy is good. Talk about selling ice cream to the Inuit. I clench my teeth and say, “It's about my nose.”

He nods and leans a bit closer—he smells good. Like he's just come back from a long walk on a misty beach. Cedar, ocean, a whiff of wood smoke. I'm tempted to ask what cologne he uses. He smiles, and guess what? His teeth are straight and very white. I hate him more by the second.

“May I?” he asks, his hands moving toward my face. I nod, fixated on his manicured nails. His touch is soft, almost feminine. It's all I can do not to pull away. As he runs his fingers down my nose, he makes a noise in his throat that is almost like a purr.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” he says . “Definitely deformed. Let's just have a look inside.” He gets a small light from his desk and shines it up my nose. Then he goes over to his computer, swivels the screen to face me and says, “What shape were you thinking? The Johnny Depp is still very popular. So is the Robert Pattinson. Here, have a look.”

He clicks through screen after screen of noses. It's overwhelming. How does anyone ever choose?

“Um, can I ask you something?” I say as the images flicker by.

“Ask away,” he says. He leans back in his leather chair.

“What about my parents? Don't they need to sign something? I mean, what if they don't want me to do this?”

He laughs. “They'll come around when I explain all the problems you'll have if you don't have it fixed. Breathing problems. Infections. Post-nasal drip. You'd be surprised how quickly parents change their minds when they hear that.”

“But I won't have those things, right? I mean, if I don't have the surgery?”

He laughs again. “Well, if you get a cold, there's no telling what can happen, but no. It's just a bump. A bump that you want to get rid of. Give me a few minutes with your folks and we can set the date.”

I pretend to think about it, although I want to say, You haven't met my parents, buddy. Instead I ask, “So, if my girlfriend wanted to get, uh, bigger, uh—”

“It's called breast augmentation. ‘Boob job' is so crass, don't you think? And most parents—most mothers, really—are happy to help when I explain the psychological benefits. Happier girls equal happier moms, right? It's a win-win situation. Let me show you something.”

He pulls a silver attaché case off a bookshelf and motions me toward the desk. He pops the clasps on the case to reveal six different compartments. Each compartment holds a different implant. It's totally freaky.

He picks one up and tosses it to me. I fumble it, and it slips to the floor. “Not on the baseball team, I see.” He laughs.

I pick up the implant, which is soft and squishy and really, really creepy. I put it back in its little compartment and step away from the desk. It makes me sick to think of this guy cutting into Leah and inserting those…
things
…into her body.

“I'll talk to my parents,” I say, trying to smile. “And my girlfriend.”

“My clinic's just down the hall.” He stands up and shakes my hand again. “Call anytime. I can get you in pretty quickly.”

I bet you can, I think.

I walk out past the cute receptionist. The nose-job woman gives me a thumbs-up as I cross the waiting room. I try and look cheery, but all I can manage is a feeble wave. I race down the stairs. When I get to the street, I realize that I didn't ask him a single one of my questions.

Chapter Seven

Dad is barbecuing pizzas for dinner. They're a bit crunchy in places, but tasty. If you don't mind a bit of charcoal with your cheese and pepperoni. Mom has made a salad and her signature dessert: store-bought angel food cake and strawberry ice cream with Hershey's chocolate sauce on top.

“Here you go,” she says. “The perfect dessert. Fruit, dairy, low-fat cake, chocolate. The health benefits of chocolate are well known.”

“Fruit?” I say, peering at the pile of fat, sugar and carbs on my plate.

“In the ice cream, silly.”

My dad laughs and pours a slug of Grand Marnier over his dessert. “And this is made with oranges. Want some?” He holds the bottle out to my mom, who shakes her head.

“So, Jack,” Dad says. “What's new?”

“Not much. I'm doing a bit of research about plastic surgery. Scary stuff. I mean, thirteen-year-olds having boob jobs? Oh, sorry, I mean ‘breast augmentation.' I just want Leah to know what she's getting into.” I'd really like to tell my parents about my visits to the doctors, but they take a dim view of me skipping school. And an even dimmer view of lying and forgery.

Mom wipes some chocolate sauce off her chin and says, “You should talk to Roberta Smithson. She's a therapist who teaches a course on body-image issues. I bet she'd be able to give you all sorts of insights.”

“Sign me up,” I say.

Dad chuckles and helps himself to some more cake. “Dr. Smithson is”— he shoots a glance at my mom, who glares at him—“interesting.” I have a feeling he'd like to say more. Maybe Dr. Smithson is super-butch: buzzcut hair, camo pants, lots of piercings and tattoos. Mom would say that's a total stereotype, but at least two of her colleagues look like they just got out of the Marines.