I stretch my arms, yawn, bend my head from side to side to crack my neck. “Hey, can you hand me my purse? I need to text my mom.”
Meadow tosses me the bag.
It’s not really my purse. I’ve never had a purse before. Backpack. Music bag. Purse? Meadow has a closetful.
She tossed this squishy, brown leather bag at me before we went shopping. “You can’t go to these stores with a backpack on your shoulder.”
I was going to leave it in the car. Really.
I search through the big belly of the thing and come up with the compact. I take it out and flip it open fast.
“No.” She tries to grab it away from me.
I hold it way, way out of her reach. I stand up and go over to the door where there’s still a soft light on. Four oozing wounds mar my face. Crap. What if this doesn’t heal like it’s supposed to? What if it makes bigger scars? My whole face will be one hideous wound.
“What? It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“My mother looked way worse than you do. When it all heals up, it’s like you have brand-new skin. And you’re young. It will heal fast for you.”
At that moment I decide Meadow is almost human. “Really?”
“Yeah.” She slips the compact out of my hand. “Let me put this away for you.”
I watch her ditch it in the purse.
“You go lie down awhile, and I’ll take care of this.”
She leaves with the purse. She’s way more into Project Beth than she ever was into singing that solo. Maybe I’ll give it back to her and go crawl in a hole somewhere. That would be better than this, wouldn’t it? Is my world debut worth all this? I sit down, sink back into the cushy chair, and that’s the last thing I remember.
Ooze? Yeah. Gooey, oozy, weepy, pussy mess. And I have school. I’d stay home, but my group is giving a presentation in AP history and if I’m not there, they’ll screw it up totally. My GPA needs the solid A I’ve got in that class.
I wash off the crusty crap that dried on my face overnight with warm water and the special medicated cleanser they gave me and survey the tube of medicated concealer for the wounds and the beautiful array of cosmetics spread out on my bathroom counter. I’ve got no choice—the face magnified in the makeup mirror Meadow loaned me resembles a car-accident victim in a driver’s ed film.
I smooth on a pinch of the concealer. It must have an anesthetic in it. That little wound feels so much better. I spread it on the rest of my battered face. Smooth on another layer for good measure. Then I brush on the base powder, hit my cheekbones with the blush like they showed me. A touch from the Watermelon Ice pot of lip gloss. I even try to get the eyes right. Concealer. A natural-beige shadow with a tinge of shimmer. Just a touch of brown mascara. Bronzer for a sun-kissed glow to go with my new hair color.
I put on my glasses and stand back. The effect isn’t so bad. As long as my face doesn’t start oozing in history, I’m good. I’ll ditch after that. I don’t care.
“Is that you?” Scott started saying that when they dyed my hair blonde. It’s getting old. And the hair isn’t pale blonde. No Madonna act here. It’s actually only a couple of shades lighter than my natural light brown. Meadow’s guy at the salon did an amazing job with the highlights. When Sarah and Leah help me blow-dry and straighten it, it looks nice. Sarah says with my height I could be a model. Until I turn around. For school, I’ve been letting it frizz out to keep Colby from attacking again, but today I need it away from my face, so I go with the ponytail and straighten my bangs. I made it through the hall without Colby seeing me, but Scott doesn’t let up.
He walks up beside me with his books under his arm and leans against the locker next to mine. “I thought you said the makeup was just for choir. That you felt weird wearing it.”
“I do feel weird. Does it look that bad?”
“What are you trying to prove, Beth?” He flicks my blondish hair with his finger. “Every time I turn around you’re a different person.”
“The laser treatment made a mess.” I throw my backpack in my locker. “I have to cover it up. Do I look that bad?” I force myself to turn his way so he can examine my face.
He takes his time. “You look good.” His voice is low again. I can’t read what’s in his face. He drops his eyes, stares at my knees. “I didn’t think you liked the whole makeup scene.”
“It always made me break out. Makeup is kind of fun. I know I’ll never be pretty, but I’m starting to like being less repulsive.” I pull some lip gloss out of my sweatshirt pocket. “What do you think of this color?” I smooth on my soft-pink, shimmery Watermelon Ice.
“It looks tasty.”
I hold it out to him. “You’ll never guess what flavor it is.”
“I’d rather try it on you.”
He’s doing it again, making me crazy. I hope my face is sweat-proof. The makeup can’t totally hide how red I’m getting.
This time I’m brave enough to tell him the truth. “You really should get yourself a girlfriend.” I’ll miss the time he spends with me, but I’m his friend. He needs to hear this from someone he trusts. Someone he’ll believe. “You’re turning into a babe, Scott. Really.”
He cuts me with the coldest look and stalks off. He’s so touchy these days. I was trying to be nice. Self-sacrificing. Heroic. He gives me heck for every little thing they do to me. It’s not my fault. I just want to sing. And then he teases me. Flirts almost.
He still doesn’t get how much that hurts. We’re not in third grade anymore. I have feelings like any other girl. And he’s the only guy in my world. No wonder he turns me on. I’m so desperate—all these hormones really want to unload. But he’s my friend. My best friend. He won’t ever think of me as a girlfriend. I don’t want him to. Really. I don’t. His friendship means everything to me. The little snot.
My phone buzzes. Meadow. Great. She loves playing stage mom. I guess that’s what she’s been trained for all her life. Like mother, like daughter. Her mom wanted a superstar diva and all she got was Mini-Me.
My mom called hers last night. She’s not all that comfortable with this woman she hardly knows playing stage mom with her daughter. Mom started off thanking her for taking such a keen interest in me. “I’m concerned about the expense.”
We’re not rolling in cash like they are, but Mom’s a partner in her accounting firm. She does all right. I had braces like everybody else. We have insurance and stuff. Just because I choose to live in Levi’s and baggy sweatshirts, doesn’t mean I can’t afford stylish stuff if I can find it in skinny, extra-tall. I have my own car. Good old Jeanette. I don’t get a new one every couple of months like Meadow, wouldn’t dream of staying on in Europe after the Choral Olympics and going to race car driving school in Germany so I can get a Porsche for Christmas like her, but Jeanette is my own car.
Mom paused. “But—” Another pause. “Choir sponsors?”
Another longer pause. “That’s remarkable. The clothing, too? And all the girls are going to the salon? What about the cosmetic surgery? I’d be happy—”
She noticed me listening and walked down the hall. Fat chance, Mom. I followed, stood right in her face. She scowled at me.
“Well, all right then. I didn’t realize the choir had such an extensive lineup of sponsors in the beauty business.”
So much for Mom’s scruples. Meadow’s mom could have been lying. Whether Meadow’s parents bankrolled or just fund-raised my transformation doesn’t really matter. They donate tons to the choir. They are talking about using us at a couple of grand openings they’ve got coming up and recording a radio commercial. Girls’ choir and luxury cars. Guess that works. All of a sudden, I’m Bliss. They like how the engine hums, but I need a lot of bodywork. They’ll get their money out of me. I’m not worried about them.