Making Faces(21)

“I love you too, Fern.”





That night, after her shimmery dress was put away, her curls unpinned from the complicated twist, and her face scrubbed free of makeup, Fern stood naked in front of her mirror and looked at herself in frank appraisal. She'd grown up some, hadn't she? She was almost 5'2. Not that small. She was still on the scrawny side, but at least she didn't look twelve anymore.

She smiled at herself, admiring the straight white teeth she'd suffered so long for. Her hair was recovering from last summer's hair disaster. Convinced shorter hair would be more manageable, she'd directed Connie at Hair She Blows to cut it short like a boy. Maybe it wasn't short enough, because it had sprung out from her head like a seventies fro, and she'd spent most of her senior year looking like Annie from the Broadway play, further accentuating her little girl persona. Now, it almost touched her shoulders and she could force it into a ponytail. She promised herself she wouldn't cut it again. She would let it grow until it reached her waist, hoping the weight of longer hair would relax the curl. Think Nicole Kidman in Days of Thunder. Nicole Kidman was a beautiful redhead. But she was also tall. Fern sighed and pulled her pajamas on. Elmo stared back at her from the front of her top

“Elmo loves you!” she said to herself in her best squeaky imitation of the puppet's voice. Maybe it was time to get some new clothes, maybe a new style. Maybe she would look older if she didn't wear Elmo pajamas. She should buy some jeans that fit and some T-shirts that actually revealed that she wasn't flat-chested . . . not anymore.

But was she still ugly? Or had she just been ugly for so long that everyone had already made up their minds? Everyone, meaning the guys she went to school with. Everyone, meaning Ambrose.

She sat at her little desk and turned on her computer. She was working on a new novel. A new novel with the same story line. In all her stories, either the prince fell in love with a commoner, the rock star lost his heart to a fan, the president was smitten by the lowly school teacher, or the billionaire became besotted with the sales clerk. There was a theme there, a pattern that Fern didn't want to examine too closely. And usually, Fern could easily imagine herself in the role of the female love interest. She always wrote in the first person and gave herself long limbs, flowing locks, big breasts, and blue eyes. But tonight her eyes kept straying to her mirror, to her own pale face with a smattering of freckles.

For a long time she sat, staring at the computer screen. She thought of the prom, the way Ambrose ignored her. She thought of the conversation afterward and Bailey's surrender to the “shit,” even if it was only temporary surrender. She thought about the things she didn't understand and the way she felt about herself. And then she began to type, to rhyme, to pour her heart out on the page.





If God makes all our faces, did he laugh when he made me?

Does he make the legs that cannot walk and eyes that cannot see?

Does he curl the hair upon my head 'til it rebels in wild defiance?

Does he close the ears of the deaf man to make him more reliant?

Is the way I look coincidence or just a twist of fate?

If he made me this way, is it okay, to blame him for the things I hate?

For the flaws that seem to worsen every time I see a mirror,

For the ugliness I see in me, for the loathing and the fear.

Does he sculpt us for his pleasure, for a reason I can't see?

If God makes all our faces, did he laugh when he made me?





Fern sighed and hit print. When her cheap printer spit out the poem, Fern stuck it to her wall, shoving a thumbtack through the plain white page. Then she crawled into bed and tried to turn off the words that kept repeating in her head. If God makes all our faces, if God makes all our faces, if God makes all our faces . . .





Ambrose didn't like alcohol. He didn't like the fuzziness in his head or the fear that he would do something monumentally stupid and embarrass himself, his dad, or his town. Coach Sheen didn't allow any alcohol during the season. No excuses. You got caught drinking and you were off the team, period. None of them would risk wrestling for a drink.

For Ambrose, wrestling was a year-round thing. He was always training, always competing. He wrestled during football and track, even though he was on the high school team for both sports. And because he was always training, he never drank.

But he wasn't training anymore, because he wasn't wrestling. He was done. And the town was in a quiet panic. Five of their boys, off to war. The news had spread like wildfire and though people professed pride and had clapped the boys on their backs, telling them they appreciated their sacrifice and their service, the underlying current was one of horror. Elliott had bowed his head as Ambrose had broken the news to him.

“Is this what you really want to do, son?” he asked quietly. When Ambrose said it was, Elliott patted him on the cheeks and said, “I love you, Brosey. And I will support you in whatever you do.” But Ambrose had caught him on his knees several times, tearfully praying. He had a feeling his father was making all kinds of deals with God.

Coach Sanders at Penn State had said he respected Ambrose's choice. “God, country, family, wrestling,” he'd said to Ambrose. He said if Ambrose felt the call to serve his country, that’s what he should do.

After graduation, Mr. Hildy, his math teacher had pulled him aside and asked for a word. Mr. Hildy was a Vietnam vet. Ambrose had always respected him, always admired the way he conducted himself and ran his classes.