Touch the sky?
Who am I kidding?
Clip my wings, weight me down.
I thought my time had come.
But the dream turns to dust.
As I bow to do your bidding,
Now I see the truth—it’s all a lie.
I don’t leave my safe stall until the bell rings. I venture out only when I’m sure the restroom is empty.
I splash cool water on my face and stare at my blotched, hideous reflection. Meadow and her mom are so delusional. As if a haircut and her cast-off makeup can even make a dint on my ugly.
All morning the mask keeps reappearing. Taped to my locker. Slid onto my chair before econ. When it drops on my lunch tray, Scott picks it up and wipes off the chocolate pudding. “They’ve got to be kidding.” He folds the mask up and shoves it in his sweatshirt pocket.
He gets a clean napkin and wipes off the pudding drops splashed on my neck. He doesn’t try to joke about it.
An awful weight presses on my chest. “This isn’t going to work—is it?” Colby made it clear today. I’ll always be the Beast.
Scott pats my shoulder. “Just sing, Beth. That’s all you need to worry about.” His words bore a tiny hole in that weight and let out the pressure building up in my heart. I’m not flying. The sky is still impossible, but I know he’s right. That is one thing I can do. Sing. All the Colbys and their ugly warty witch masks can’t steal that.
chapter 5
BRIGHT LIGHTS
Don’t let anybody tell you lasers aren’t painful.
You know when the dentist says it’s going to pinch a little, and then he jabs a needle into the roof of your mouth, and it feels like it goes right up your nose and out the top of your head? From what I found on the Internet, laser treatments are kind of the same deal.
Mom says childbirth is like that on steroids. I don’t know if I’m brave enough. All that pain? It would be worth it, though, for a baby, a sweet, beautiful bundle cooing in my arms. Anything would be worth that. But even with all of Meadow and her mom’s interventions, no way a guy will ever get that close to me. I’m so delusional about the blind, fat old guy in my fantasies. I’m too ugly to mess with. Colby’s right about that. Look at all this time I’ve been friends with Scott and the most that’s ever happened between us is he touched my lips with his fingertip. I don’t think any of that stuff means anything to Scott. How could it? I’m so gross. He’s being nice. That’s all it is to him, but it makes me overheat if I just think about it. Or is that the big lamps overhead and the technician standing next to me armed with a laser wand?
The chair I’m sitting in echoes dentist, too, but it is massive, cushy, and smells like burned meat.
“Just relax.” The technician waves her magic laser. I think she’s smiling to reassure me. Her eyes seem to be. I can’t see her face because she’s got a pale-pink surgical mask covering it. “We’re going to gently burn away the damaged skin.” All my zit scars. “You’ll have some oozing for a while. Nothing to worry about. You’ll notice a huge difference when it heals. Two weeks, and you’ll be a beauty queen.” Not a princess?
Hold it. Gently burn? Burn gently? How is a burn gentle? I can take this woman. I’m bigger and stronger, but I lie here and nod, the perfect picture of cooperation. I do that at the dentist’s, too.
“Would you like something to help you relax?”
Yes. Of course. Yes. Please. “No, I’m fine.”
She turns on some waves crashing to the shore set to music, gives me sunglasses to shield my eyes from the dental-like light she shines down on my face, and pushes buttons that lean me way back in the chair. “Okay. Let’s get started. Try to hold very still.”
I hold my breath. I hate this. I hate all of this. Everyone looking at me. Trying to figure out how to fix me. I hate being reminded how pathetic and broken I am—seeing the disgust in their eyes. I hate that I need an industrial-strength makeover complete with lasers instead of a mere trip to the salon and a killer outfit. I’m not a person to these people. Especially Meadow’s mom. I’m her latest obsessive project. She let her daughter give up her solo spot for me. Now she’s taking everything that used to be me and turning it inside out, cutting, dicing, disguising. And I have to let her. I should even be grateful.
“You need to breathe, hon.” The technician rubs goo with a touch of anesthetic all over my face.
I exhale and fill my lungs again.
“This is the same process we use to remove tattoos. You may want to close your eyes.”
Okay. Closed.
It is gentle. At first. But when she gets down to the raw epidermis it stings like crazy. Burns. My eyes water. I’m glad I’ve got the sunglasses.
“There. That wasn’t so bad. Let’s move on to the next one.”
Crap. She’s just getting started. There’s something wrong with me. I’m getting kind of dizzy.
“Breathe, Beth.”
Right. Breathe. I take another gigantic breath in and blow it out.
“Not quite so huge, though. Keep it shallow so you don’t move.”
She starts on another scar.
I need to swallow. Can I? The liquid is collecting in the back of my mouth, pooling. I can’t breathe through it. Nose. Right. I’ve got a nose. I suck a tiny bit of air in through my nose and exhale the same way. I can’t stand this spit in my mouth. If I swallow it lying back like this, I’ll choke. I know it. She’s got me almost upside down. Can you drown in your own spit? Damn, that hurts. Damn. I hate that word. Why did I think of that word?
No, no, no, no. Blackness builds in me. I need to breathe deep, sit up, and swallow, but I’m stuck here. What will she say if I shove her aside and run out? My mouth is full of spit. Completely. I breathe through my nose, so careful. Concentrate on that. Don’t think about the—DAMN!
I must have made some sort of noise.
“Do you need a break?” She sits the chair up.
I swallow all that drool. So gross. “Are we about done?”
She shakes her head. “Here.” She pops open a couple of individually wrapped capsules, hands them to me with a glass of water.
I gobble down those drugs. I don’t care what they are.
“Relax for a while.” She turns off the glaring lamps and lights a couple candles. “I’ll be back in half an hour.” She leaves.
The waves crash against the shore, and I scan the place for a mirror. Nothing. Smart folks.
Right on cue, Meadow walks into the room. “I’m supposed to keep you company.”
“Do you have a mirror?”
She looks at my face. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I need a mirror.” Wait. I have one. In my bag. On my first visit—the one Scott was going to hold my hand through—they decided we needed to clear up my face before they could laser me. They started me out with a new zit treatment, some secret, European spa stuff. They applied it here and sent me home with a supply. Morning, noon, and night. You wouldn’t believe my skin. I need to tell Dr. Namar about this stuff. He kept me from being totally engulfed in acne like Aunt Linda says bio-Dad was in high school, but there were plenty of breakthroughs—especially on my back and chest. So nasty. So . . . ugly.
The team also gave me secret, European spa cosmetics, hypoallergenic and noncomedogenic, i.e., they won’t give me a rash or break me out. The sleek compacts and tubes look too beautiful to use. I got a lesson in brush technique. I’ve messed around with it some. The lip-gloss pots are all flavored. Mulberry Lane. Cinnamon Candy. Watermelon Ice. I can’t bring myself to wear it too much at school yet. But the pressed-powder compact comes in handy. And it’s in my purse, sitting over there on that counter.