The Pretty One (6 page)

As I stumble down the school steps, the wind whips my skimpy dress around my legs as the rain pelts my face.

Nothing will ever make a difference because I will always be ugly, ugly, ugly….

I run down the crowded sidewalk and past the limos. Within minutes I'm blocks away from the school and alone on the sidewalk as cars speed past me, making their way toward the heart of Federal Hill.

Ugly, ugly, ugly…

By the time I get to Cross Street my elaborate hairstyle is sprayed across my face and over my eyes like some sort of helmet. My dress is soaking wet and clinging to my body. I barely look for cars as I dash into the street, determined to get home as quickly as possible.

Ugly, ugly, ugly…

I hear a horn and the squeal of brakes and twist toward the sound, just in time to see the headlights bearing down on me.

Ugly, ugly, ugly, ug…

         

“Megan,” I hear Lucy say. It's as if she's whispering in my ear. “Can you hear me?” she asks.

Everything feels heavy, as if I'm weighted down.

“Megan, it's me. Lucy.”

I slowly open my eyes. Lucy is leaning over me. “Can you hear me, Megan?” Her hair is all messed up and her eyes are red and puffy. She's still wearing her pink princess dress, but it's spattered and smeared with something red, like ketchup.

I can barely breathe. It feels like there's cotton in my mouth, cotton in my nose. Cotton everywhere.

“I'm so sorry,” she's saying. “This is all my fault.”

I scan the room with my eyes. Everything looks unfamiliar. Shiny blue walls. Machines. Weird cotton curtains hanging from the wall.

“What…,” I begin, but I stop. I taste something horrible in my mouth, something so salty it makes me gag. Blood.

“You were hit by a car. On Cross Street.”

“Mom…” I mutter. I want my mother. I need my mother.

“She and Dad are talking to the surgeon but they'll be right back. He said that you're lucky Megan, that we're lucky. It could've been so much worse. But you're going to be okay. The doctors say that the worst damage is cosmetic, and they can fix that.”

Cosmetic…doctors…lucky…The words float in the air, empty and meaningless. “They're going to make you look great, Megan. I promise. You're going to be okay,” my sister says with a sob.

As I look at my sister wailing beside me, her tears spilling down over her beautiful face, I suddenly remember. I remember Lucy laughing. I remember the nose, the teeth. The watermelon.

I'm ugly, ugly, ugly…

“I'm so sorry,” Lucy whispers through her tears, squeezing my hand.

I close my eyes and the world once again fades away.

intermission (noun): a short interval between the acts of a play or a public performance, usually a period of ten to fifteen minutes, allowing the performers and audience a rest.

six

overture (noun): an introductory piece that contains many of the musical motifs and themes of the score.

Ten Months Later

The smell of chemical-infused bubble gum floats through the air as Lucy smacks her perfectly shaped pink and glossy lips together, admiring her reflection in the mirror. “Your turn,” she says, stepping away from the mirror.

I inhale deeply and take my sister's place. I look into the medicine cabinet mirror that I've been brushing my teeth in front of for the past two years and give a big (openmouthed) smile at the stranger staring back at me. “Hellooooo Frankenstein,” I say.

I'm not sure why Frankenstein popped into my head. I know he is a mishmash of cadavers, and (to my knowledge at least) my new face is constructed solely from my own skin, but I can't help but feel camaraderie with him. A new face will do that to a girl, I guess.

“Hardly!” Lucy says. “Frankenstein is ugly. You're a babe!”

I suck in my cheeks and turn from one side to the other, attempting to evaluate my new face objectively, as if I'm trying it on for the first time. “Really?” I ask, even though Lucy has told me this before. In fact, everyone keeps repeating the same thing: “You're beautiful.” And then they smile proudly as if they were personally responsible for my transformation and add, “It's a miracle.”

They got that part right.

It is an unbelievable, incredible, bizarre miracle that I have a face at all considering that I got sideswiped by a car and slammed face-first into the asphalt, leaving my nose and three of my front teeth behind. After the accident I looked so bad the hospital's trauma team called in a social worker to help prepare my family for the worst. First they told them that I had been severely brain damaged (due to the fact that I kept repeating “watermelons, red, green”), so when they found out that in spite of the fact that I had three broken ribs, a broken arm, and a broken leg, the worst damage was cosmetic, my parents were relieved. They didn't really hear the part about their daughter resembling a monster from late-night TV, so awful-looking that she would remember her plain old ugly days with a sense of nostalgia.

As soon as all the major medical issues were cleared up and the ear, nose, and throat doctor had constructed a “nose” (in quotation marks simply because it didn't look like any nose I'd ever seen before), my parents went to work, researching plastic surgeons. They settled on one in New York and thus began the rehabilitation of Megan Fletcher.

I spent the remainder of my sophomore year shuffling (literally, due to my leg and my ribs) between doctors' appointments and surgeries and meetings with my tutor (so I could keep up with my classes). Along the way I had four reconstructive surgeries, had my jaw realigned and wired shut, got the braces taken off, had three bone grafts (in my mouth), and received four teeth implants. I asked for new eyeballs, too, something in a turquoise, but apparently they haven't figured that one out yet.

“You really think I'm pretty?” I ask Lucy.

“No,” Lucy says. “I think you're beautiful.”

My final operation was in the beginning of the summer, and the swelling finally went away a couple of weeks ago. I've spent a lot of time since then staring at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out what it is exactly that makes me look so different. My eyes are the same brown eyes that I've had since I was born. But that's where the similarities end.

My nose is now small and delicate, almost perfect with the exception of my right nostril, which is almost indiscernibly smaller than the other. A faint scar is visible at the base of my nose, but because of the shadow, it's hard to see. Gone are my chubby, inflated cheeks and in their place are the sculpted cheeks of Pocahontas, Native American princess. Even though they didn't do anything to my lips, they look different, too, fuller or plumper or something. But maybe my new straight white choppers just make them stand out more.

“It's so weird, isn't it? My nose is different. And this,” I add, sucking in my cheeks.

“The doctor said you lost a lot of bone in your mouth. Maybe that's what did it. The loss of those front teeth of yours. And the new ones they put in…well, they don't stick out. Plus you lost a ton of weight when your jaws were wired shut,” she says simply, handing me some blush.

This is new, the sharing makeup thing. Before my accident I hardly ever wore makeup. But lately it's been different. I like wearing makeup. It helps to acquaint me with my new features.
Hello, eyelashes, how long are you today? Hello, cheekbones, there you are!

“Now you need lip gloss,” she says when I'm done.

I recently came to the earth-shattering conclusion that I can't stand lip gloss. Why would anyone want to put a sticky paste on their mouth? But still, I hand Lucy back the blush and accept the lip gloss. I like to defer to the experts. And Lucy is an expert at applying makeup.

I dab it on my lips as Lucy watches. “Go like this,” she says, smacking her lips together again. So I smack my lips together. Why didn't Lucy worry about my makeup (or the lack of it) before my accident? Was I just too hopeless? (Like painting a toilet. What's the point?)

“Perfect,” Lucy says, smiling at my reflection in the mirror.

It's Saturday, and since school starts on Monday, my sister decided that she and I should go out together to celebrate. So even though I would prefer to stay home and watch the gross medical reality shows I became addicted to during my convalescence, I'm trying to be a good sport. “Do you think anyone we know will be there?” I ask.

Anyone.
Read: Drew. I have thought about him so much this past year. I was able to pry some information about him out of my sister (he and Lindsey dated all year and went to prom together), but she hasn't spoken with him or seen him all summer. I wondered if he ever thought about me or wondered how I was doing, especially when I was scared, like right before surgery, or after, when the pain got so bad I felt like my head was going to explode like the tomato I once microwaved. (In my defense, it was for a science experiment. As in, I will see if the act of exploding this tomato in the microwave alleviates my boredom and/or causes me to go blind. My conclusion: only temporarily.) I would think about Drew and wonder if all these surgeries might make me look good enough to get his attention; that it might all be worth it in the end. And then I would imagine him pulling me into his arms and sweeping me off my feet as he laid a big wet one right on me. And then I would think,
Hell yes. What's a little asphalt up your nose for a guy like Drew?

“No,” Lucy says. “It's too far away.” Lucy and I went to this club once before, about six months before my accident. Although she has wanted to go back ever since (sans yours truly), my parents had refused since they didn't want Lucy driving all the way through the city at night and they said it was too far away and too much of a hassle for them to take her. But when Lucy suggested taking me there tonight, they practically jumped up and down for joy, calling it a “great idea!” They still didn't like the idea of us driving through the city by ourselves, so they were taking us and dropping us off. They were going to go to dinner, see a movie, and pick us up afterward.

I finish applying my mascara and turn back toward my sister. “All done,” she says, smiling from ear to ear. She hurries over to the top of the stairs. “Mom! Dad!” she calls out excitedly, peering down. “Are you ready?”

Considering the fact that my dad is at home
and
using the camera that he only used once before (the night of the accident), his silence is remarkable. Chances are slim that he figured out how to work it, but he's obviously trying to behave, which only adds to the weirdness. I would much rather have him swearing his head off than this Mr. Cleaver/
Leave It to Beaver
routine.

Lucy waves me over.

“Taaa-daa!” she says, moving out of the way as I take my place at the top of the stairs.

“Would you look at that!” Dad exclaims as he practically blinds me with a camera flash.

“Oh Megan,” Mom says, holding her hands to her mouth, as if in shock.

Now I know how my sister feels when she's playing a role. As I walk down the stairs, I wonder if my parents can see my new pink thong. Ew. I try to wipe the thought from my mind as Iad-just the short skirt my sister picked out for me and self-consciously pull my snug shirt over my bra strap. I'm baring much more skin than normal. I have lost nearly fifty pounds over the past year, and my parents insisted on buying me a whole new wardrobe (thus explains the thong), all purchases supervised by my sister (also thus explains the thong). All my old clothes are stored in the back of my closet in a big black Hefty bag marked
SALVATION ARMY
.

“Now one of you together,” Dad says, waving Lucy over. Lucy and I stand side by side as we wrap our arms around each other. She looks over at me, beaming sisterly love. I smile back, even though there's something about this whole thing that is giving me the major heebie-jeebies. And for some strange reason, I'm tempted to muck it up a bit. Maybe give my sister, who has been nothing but nice and sweet, a big old kick in the ass. Or perhaps I could just take my dad's camera and, oops, drop it smack on the floor as in: I'm still
me,
people. I know I look a little (to be fair, a lot) different but WHY ARE YOU MAKING SUCH A BIG DEAL OUT OF THIS? YOU SAW ME EVERY DAY FOR SIXTEEN YEARS!

I must be a really terrible person to even think about kicking my sister or dropping my dad's camera, considering the hell we've all been through the past year. After all, it wasn't just me who went through the ringer; it was every single person in the room, particularly Lucy. Lucy originally blamed herself for what happened to me (What a coincidence! So did I!), saying that if it wasn't for her I never would've been upset and blah, blah, blah.

Amazingly enough, like some beneficent religious figure coming into town on my white horse, I took the high road. And although I managed to convince myself that I alone was responsible for my accident, I never really managed to convince Lucy, who put herself into purgatory. She broke things off with Tommy, and although she performed in the senior productions, she didn't even audition for anything else all year. She claimed that she didn't want to commit herself, preferring to stay flexible so that she could accompany Mom and me to New York for the surgeries. At first I was kind of happy to have Lucy as my own little servant or magic genie, but by spring it started to make me feel mildly guilty to think of all the fun Lucy was missing, and all because I had stupidly run into the street without looking.

“Wait a minute,” Lucy says, her eyes flashing concern. “Megan needs a tissue.”

This is the worst side effect of my surgeries: my runny nose. It wasn't horrible, like the gushing of a waterfall, but more slow and steady, like a leaky faucet. At first the doctors were concerned I had a “cerebrospinal fluid leak” (that is, my brain was leaking), but they tested me and ruled it out. The doctors said it was due to either the misplacement of the glands that secrete mucus, or because the cells that handled the flow of mucus were destroyed, or both. To make matters worse, due to the “sensoral” nerve damage, my nose and the entire area underneath it to my mouth are totally numb. End result: I can blow a lung through my nose and still not be aware that I need a tissue.

Fortunately, the doctors gave me some nasal spray that they said would turn off the faucet in my runny nose. And it pretty much does, except for when my eyes get watery, like if I'm crying, or like now, if my eyes are watery from a flash. None of the zillion doctors I've seen can figure out for sure why this is happening, but they think it's due to a “misplaced” tear duct. (Gee, I wonder who misplaced it: perhaps the doctor who was poking around back there with a scalpel?) One thing is certain: I now possess the remarkable and annoying trait of being able to cry through my nose. Beat that, Zippy the bike-riding chimp!

Lucy takes the tissue and dabs my nose for me, like she's my mom.

“God, I'm not five!” I say.

She pulls the tissue away and smiles at me. “Perfect!”

Then Lucy hands the tissue to my mom and the flash goes off once again. I grab another tissue and wipe my own nose. (Just to show my adoring fans I'm more than capable.)

“Look girls,” Dad says, showing us the picture. “Look how great you both look.”

He scans through the pictures, stopping at the last one we took before my accident, the one with Simon and me in front of the fireplace. My father quickly turns off the camera, as if the reminder of my previous appearance is too painful. Even though I don't look anything like I used to, I'm still irked by his rejection. I'm privy to info no one else seems to realize: this new face of mine isn't truly me. That's right. The real me is the one in the old photo, the one my dad still can't stand the sight of. The one that wants to kick him in the shins. Really hard.

         

My parents drop Lucy and me off in front of the club a few minutes later, and we make it inside rather quickly. (Let's just say, two girls can budge the line if the bouncer likes what he sees. Given how Lucy holds my hand and plays with my hair, I'm pretty sure the bouncer has seen lots of late-night Skinamax.) I survey the crowd as my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. There are a few tables here and there, but most people are either on the dance floor or standing in groups, talking or laughing with friends. Everyone looks like they eat lunch at the popular table during daylight hours.

“Let's get away from these speakers and find some place to sit down,” Lucy yells, motioning toward the bar. “Do you want something to drink?” This place has a bar (just like a regular club), but instead of alcohol it's stacked with soft drinks and a Slushee machine.