The Pretty One (5 page)

“I think it's sweet,” I say. “He wrote a song just for her.”

Simon rolls his eyes at me as George gets off his knees. George blows Michelle a kiss and pats his heart twice. Michelle says something that I can't quite make out and the two of them begin walking toward us. I move out of their way as I say, “Hi, George.”

But even though George has been at my house with Lucy and has met me a million times, he doesn't acknowledge me. He just walks right past me, like I'm invisible or something.

“Asshole,” Simon says, when George is out of earshot and past the dance studio down the hall.

“Maybe he didn't hear me,” I say. A definite possibility. After all, it was kind of a quiet hello. Still, it doesn't feel good to be ignored. I glance down at the script Drew gave me earlier that day, the script that I've carried with me everywhere since, and remind myself that my days of being invisible are almost over. Everything will change once I become a drama major.

“Right,” Simon says sarcastically, seeing through my tiny white lie. “I don't understand this. Michelle's a nice girl. Why would she go out with that jerk?”

“He's cute.”

“You think he's cute? He's got girl hair.”

Although I have never thought about it before, Simon has a point. George's hair is thick and silky straight, and it's cut in an unusual style, like someone put a big bowl over his head and trimmed around it. “Lucy says he's really funny. And that song thing was sweet.”

“I'll never understand women,” Simon says, throwing his hands up in the air for emphasis.

“You understand me.”

“Most of the time.”

Most
of the time? What does that mean?

But before I have a chance to say anything, the auditorium door opens and Simon's eyes light up like a Christmas tree. It's Marybeth Wilkens, Lucy's best friend. If I had to describe Simon's ideal woman, Marybeth would be it. She's tall and lanky, pretty but not intimidatingly so. She's a little quieter and more reserved than the rest of Lucy's friends, and according to Lucy, she's a Trekkie, just like Simon.

I wonder if Simon would have asked Marybeth if I hadn't made him ask me. As much as I want to go to the dance, I know I can't let him make that sacrifice. “You know, Simon,” I say quietly. “You don't have to go to the fall festival with me.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” he asks, as he turns back toward the production studio.

“I just mean if there's someone else you'd want to take…like
Marybeth
…”

“Look, Megan,” he says, as I follow him inside, “the only way I'm going to that dance is if you and I go together.” And then just to make his point, he picks a hammer up off the work bench and, using it as a microphone, begins to sing loudly and totally off-key,
“Megan, Megan, you are diiiiiiiiviiiiine. I am so glad that you will be miiiiiiiiine.”

As usual, Simon knows just the right thing to say. Or sing, as the case may be.

five

dramatic irony (noun): a dramatic device whereby the audience knows something that one or more characters are not aware of.

“Megan?” my sister says from outside the door. “Are you almost ready?”

“Just a minute,” I call out excitedly. It's the day of the fall festival and our house is in a hubbub. The entire upstairs has become official dance headquarters, with makeup and clothes tossed everywhere. I carefully (so as not to mess up my elaborate updo) take my dress off its hanger and shimmy it down. I once again admire the way it clings to my flat, SPANX-covered stomach before I glance back at the mirror, tucking a loose piece of hair behind my ears.

I smile at my reflection. And for the first time in my life, I think:
Damn, I look good
.

Lucy and I have spent the past four hours getting plucked and primped at the salon, and the results are incredible. My hair is done up in the same elaborate style as Lucy's, with soft ringlets framing my face. My eyebrows have been tweezed into a defined arch and my makeup has been professionally applied.

I open the door and head into the bedroom, where Lucy is admiring her reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door. She looks like a heroine in one of the romance novels our mom buys at the grocery store:
The soft silk of her pink dress cascaded to the ground, clinging to her slender yet supple body in all the right places. Her hair was done up in a tight chignon and her beautiful face radiated the subtle knowledge that her every wish would soon come true….

“You look amazing,” Lucy says, nodding approvingly at my refection as she moves away from the mirror so that I can get a better look at myself. I take my place in front of the mirror and touch my fingers to my stiff, sprayed hair as I give the mirror the closed-mouth smile I've been practicing. (My openmouthed smile makes me look like a donkey.)

“Mother-@#$% camera! To hell with you!” my father yells from downstairs. Even though I shouldn't be surprised, Lucy and I both jump in surprise. Lucy begins to giggle and her laugh is so infectious I begin to laugh, too. My mother appears in the doorway.

“What's so funny?” she asks, smiling.

“Sounds like Dad is enjoying his new camera,” I say. Lucy starts to laugh again.

Mom just ignores us. “You girls look beautiful,” she says, smiling at us proudly. Her reaction makes me feel even more excited. I don't know about beautiful, but for the first time in my life, I actually feel just a little bit pretty.

“Come on downstairs when you're ready.” Mom holds up Dad's old camera and winks. “I have a backup.”

After Mom leaves, Lucy turns back toward the mirror, smoothing the imaginary wrinkles out of her dress before spinning back toward me. Unlike when she usually dresses up, I have no desire to push her in the mud. She puts her arm around me and gives me a big hug. “Isn't this great?” she says. “We're doubling to the fall festival.”

I look once again at our reflection in the mirror. I wonder if George would sing to me if he saw me looking like this. I'm too excited to worry about my closed-mouth smile. I answer my sister by giving her a toothy smile and a tight squeeze.

Simon shows up right on time, dressed not as Luke Skywalker, but in a very stylish and expensive-looking black tux with black bow tie. Although he's still wearing his thick black-rimmed glasses, he looks really good. In fact, I'm pretty sure he was wrong about Marybeth. If he asked her to the dance looking like that, he would've been pinning a corsage on her chest instead of mine.

Since it's raining (a cold, steady drizzle that is undoubtedly capable of destroying even the simplest of hairstyles), I'm glad Lucy asked us to ride in the limo with her and Tommy, even if Simon and I had (privately) made fun of them for renting a limo when the school was only six blocks away. Simon signals for me to wait while he pops open his umbrella. Even though I'm taller than him by a good three inches in my bare feet and I'm wearing three-inch heels, he somehow manages to hold the umbrella over the top of my head, minimizing my hair damage. During the ride to the school, Simon bends over backward to be nice to Tommy, engaging him in a discussion over their favorite Shakespeare character even though I know Simon can't stand Shakespeare (and neither can I, but I would never admit to it). I don't chomp on my thumb a single time, although at one point I come close but stop when Lucy smiles at me and winks as she takes my hand, like,
Isn't it great our fellows are getting along? Maybe we can have a double wedding!

Two limos are already parked in front of the school, so our driver pulls up in front of the church next door. I adjust the black shawl that I borrowed from my mother and take a deep breath to calm the butterflies doing backflips in my belly. Tommy grabs Lucy's hand and Simon and I follow them into the school and turn to our left, heading in the opposite direction of the production studio, toward the gym. We enter behind Lucy and Tommy and stop, giving ourselves a moment to digest the scene around us. My sister has arranged for the lights to be dimmed, which pretty much means that the janitor had to unscrew every other fluorescent lightbulb. The sparkly balls that we made spin and reflect the scenic apple orchard backdrops. In spite of everything though, it still looks (and smells) like a gym. A gym with hanging, glittery Styrofoam snowballs and full of dressed-up people.

Almost immediately, a crowd of ravishing drama majors envelops Lucy and Tommy. As everyone comments on how amazing the other looks, Simon and I step away from them, shuffling backward as we slowly but surely make our way toward the perimeter of the gym.

“Are you okay?” Simon asks me quietly. He's staring straight ahead and he looks like he's on high alert, as if he had just managed to give a pack of violent criminals the slip and is concerned they might return at any moment to finish us off.

“Uh-huh,” I murmur, taking another step backward, so that my butt is actually touching the wall. I'm scared and excited at the same time. I feel like I'm on the ledge of a building and one wrong step may send me plummeting into either a giant vat of fudge ripple ice cream or boiling oil. “What about you?”

“Yeah, sure.”

We stand side by side for a minute, neither saying a word as we stare at the action around us. The DJ is playing a Beyoncé song and the dance majors have flocked to the dance floor, contorting and spinning around like six-year-olds high on Halloween candy.

Simon and I spend a couple more minutes holding up the wall, watching the dancers. The music turns into a slow song and the couples pretty much fling themselves into each other's arms. When the song ends, the DJ changes gears once again, lighting up the room with an old disco tune. “Should we dance?” Simon asks. He asks this as if he's really wishing and praying I'm going to say no. Like: “Should we take a hot poker and stick it in our eyes?”

I look at him and flash him a courageous smile. “We've come too far to turn back.”

I drape my shawl over the back of a chair and Simon and I walk to the dance floor and bravely plant ourselves in the middle of the action. And suddenly I realize something: Simon and I have never actually danced with each other before. In fact, the only time I can ever remember touching him was when we were fighting over a box of Famous Amos. “I'm not a very good dancer,” I say, which is putting it mildly.

“You just shake it,” Simon says, wiggling his rear end. “And imitate animals.” He begins flapping his arms and sticking out his neck like a chicken. I laugh, which only seems to encourage him. He jumps up and down as I stand back, laughing and shaking my head, watching him goof around.

Suddenly, the obviously schizoid DJ throws us a curveball, changing the music back to a slow song. The couples meld together, their hips pressed against each other as they sway back and forth. Simon and I both take a step back. Simon looks at me and says, “How about some punch?”

Good thinking. Even the stale, chalky, vanilla-flavored boxed cookies they always serve at school events sound good right now.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Drew with his arm around Lindsey's waist, heading to the dance floor. He's wearing a black tux and a crisp white shirt. His hair is slicked back, curling up over the sides of his jacket, and his blue eyes look irresistible, almost dangerous. My hands begin to shake as I stand there, unable to take my eyes off him. It's just like in my fantasy. The crowd parts as he begins to walk toward me. He looks up and…

He doesn't notice me.

Not so much as a flicker of recognition, a
don't I know you from some place,
nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Niente.

“Megan?” Simon asks. “Are you okay?”

My brain cranks into overdrive. They're heading right toward me and even though there's a chance Drew might actually notice me when he gets closer, the chance of him not noticing me, the thought that he could be right next to me and still not see me, is more than I can bear. I have to get out of there. Fast!

“I have to go to the ladies' room,” I say to Simon.

But I'm too late. I have no choice but to walk right past Drew. Even though I'm tempted to throw myself at his feet and confess my love, I force myself to look away from him as I pick up my pace, determined to make this as painless as possible for both of us. Or at least for me.

“Hey, Megan,” Drew says, greeting me.

I whip my thumb out of my mouth as I stop still, stunned.

“So?” he asks, bringing Lindsey to a stop so he can talk to me.

“What do you think of the dance? Did I steer you wrong?”

He remembered. He remembered that he told me I should come to the dance. “No,” I say. And suddenly everything is all right again. Everything is great.

“Come on, Drew,” Lindsey says, as she tugs on his hand, signaling her impatience.

“See you around,” Drew says, before following Lindsey to the dance floor.

As I watch him walk away my insides get warm and gummy as a surge of happiness pumps through me. The crowd may not have parted and he may not have tossed Lindsey across the gym and stepped on her face, but for reality, it was still pretty darn good.

I practically float the rest of the way to the bathroom. Even though I don't really have to go, I figure I might as well try since I'm halfway there already. I go into the last stall in the empty bathroom and slide the latch over the door. I have my SPANX around my ankles when the bathroom door opens.

“I just feel sorry for her,” I hear a girl say. I recognize the voice. It's Alicia Tucker, a senior drama major and a friend of my sister's. “It looks like she poured herself into that dress.”

“I know,” I hear Lucy respond.

I'm about to call out to Lucy when I hear her say, “She could've used a bigger size but I didn't have the heart to tell her.”

The euphoria I felt only seconds earlier disappears, replaced by a queasy uneasiness. Is Lucy talking about me? I yank my SPANX back up and peer through the crack in the door. Lucy and Alicia are standing with their backs to me, admiring their reflections in the mirror as they apply lip gloss.

“She looks like a giant watermelon,” Alicia says, smacking her lips.

A watermelon?
I glance at my dress. They can't be talking about me. Watermelon is red and green. My dress is fuchsia, kind of a purplish red, nothing like the red in watermelon. And there is no green on me whatsoever.

“Actually, I'm surprised she's not wearing a hoodie,” Alicia says. “I don't think I've ever seen her without it. It must just reek.”

That settles it. They are definitely not talking about me. Although I wear a hoodie every day, it is not the same one, for God's sake. They're not even the same colors. I have five hoodies.
Five
. Two navy blues, two black, and one gray.

“Truth of the matter is, it's not the dress. She could be wearing the most beautiful dress in the world and it wouldn't make any difference. Not when you look like
that
.”

“A nose job would help,” Lucy says. “But she doesn't seem to have any interest.”

A
nose job
? Say what?

“It's not just the nose,” Alicia says. “What's the deal with the teeth? Why didn't she ever get braces?”

I stare at the back of my sister's blond-streaked head. I think about how I felt when the hairdresser told her how beautiful she looked with her hair pulled up.
That's my sister,
I thought. I was proud to share her DNA.

“The dentist wouldn't give them to her because she sucked her thumb forever,” Lucy says. “He said it was a waste of time until she stopped.”

I take my thumb out of my mouth as I put my hand on the stall to steady myself. “Well, she doesn't
still
suck her thumb, does she?” Alicia says as she starts to laugh.

Lucy begins to laugh along with Alicia like,
you guessed it!
Like I still suck my thumb.

I flush the toilet, open the stall, and step out.

Lucy stops laughing and her eyes grow wide at the sight of me. “Megan,” she breathes.

I try to keep my head held high as I walk past her and Alicia on my way to the door.

“Wait,” Lucy says as she grabs for me, attempting to stop me. At my sister's touch, something inside me snaps. I push her away with all my might, causing her to topple into the bathroom sink. As tears fill my eyes and sobs wrack my body, I slam myself into the bathroom door, knocking it open. I need to get out of there, away from the stupid gym, the stupid dance, my stupid sister.

I run through the gym, barreling my way through the crowd as I head for the door. Students are still arriving but I don't acknowledge anyone. I make my way against the crowd, pushing past them, escaping outside into the darkness and pouring down rain.
How could I have been so stupid as to actually believe I
looked
good? That a pretty dress and some makeup would make a difference?