Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(33)

Coach Castle blew his whistle to start our practice scrimmage. Tuba jumped up and hammered a serve across the net. The instant the ball left her fingers, my fighting instinct took over and every other concern drained away.

I watched the angle of Tuba’s shoulders the second before she served. I dove to the side, falling to my knees in time for the pass. I jumped onto my feet, watching the ball sail directly to the front center of the net like an obedient bird, arching slowly over our setter’s fingertips. Mac took the middle hit, pounded the ball with so much force it hammered the floor.

These moments in the gym reminded me what I could control, and better yet, what I could forget: time, thoughts, myself, my problems, my face. All the things I couldn’t fix. All the things that were out of my control, their worries, were GONE, as if I could sweat my problems out through my pores.

After practice I showered and changed. I stepped in front of the steamy mirror in the locker room and stared into the foggy glass. I wrung my hair out in a white towel and watched my blurry reflection. What if this were the way everyone saw me? Just the rough outline of a person—pink skin, dark hair, a movement in silhouette. No details. Or what if people only saw in infrared, in bright swirls of red, blue, and yellow? What if they only saw the energy we transmitted? What if.

I swiped my hand over the thin moisture, and there was my reflection, sharp and clear, the shiny pink scar that crossed the right side of my face beginning near my temple and ending at my jaw. After the broken bones had been set, the doctors had to stitch the deepest gash up in layers. Then it got infected and they had to open it up to let it drain, and what might have been a smaller scar was made dramatically worse. A year after it healed up, I had another round of reconstructive surgery. Then I had laser resurfacing. I could still try dermabrasion. I could wear makeup. But a long time ago I decided I wouldn’t live in the prison of having to cover it up all the time.

My mind drifted back to Emmett’s house the other night, how he looked at me like he was seeing me, not my flaws. Not my imperfections. No man had ever looked at me like that before, so openly, so intently.

I mentally kicked myself for daydreaming. What was I thinking? He was drunk.

My brain quickly clicked into a detached mode. It was a survival mechanism I had perfected a few years ago—the art of disconnect. It was my way of holding people at arm’s length, that way I could reject them before they rejected me. It started my freshman year, when I transferred to Edgelake. My parents wanted me to play in a larger city, with a visible volleyball program and a reputable coach. I won scholarship money to help pay the private school expenses, and extended family helped us out to pay the rest of the annual admission fees.

My parents wanted the best for me. The drawback was I suddenly stood out to everyone. That’s when the staring began.

Bryn walked up next to me and swiped her hand across the mirror. Her palm left a clear path on the glass. I looked away and concentrated on towel drying my hair. Standing next to her, in front of a mirror, I felt like we could be a billboard advertisement, marketing the coming attraction of Beauty and the Beast.

Bryn set a makeup bag on the counter and unzipped it. A black headband pulled the hair back from her face, showcasing every porcelain feature. Even without makeup, she was beautiful. She dabbed moisturizer on her cheekbones and forehead. She handed the uncapped bottle to me.

“It’s tinted,” she said. “It’s really great stuff.” I looked at the tube in her hand. I never wore makeup. Embellishments weren’t really necessary on my face, at least on half of it.

Tuba walked past in her flip-flops, a towel wrapped around her chest. She was about to head into the showers but stopped when she noticed what Bryn was holding.

“It has concealer in it,” Bryn explained, pushing the tube at me.

I smiled at the word. Concealer. As if a dab would do the trick, as if I were hiding a blemish.

“We tried that on CeCe before,” Tuba offered. “She let us give her a makeover sophomore year on New Year’s Eve.”

I laughed at the memory. “I think you guys managed to actually make it look worse,” I said.

“I drank champagne that night,” Tuba defended herself. “My brain was a little fuzzy.”

“It would help make it all one even tone,” Bryn said, pointing to my scar. I knew she was only trying to be nice. “That way you could take out some of the redness,” she offered.

I shook my head. A little mascara and tinted lip gloss was my idea of primping.

“You should try it again,” Tuba said. “Come on, CeCe. You’re totally hot. You’re like Natalie Portman, but with boobs. I would kill to have Ds.”

I laughed at Tuba’s comment. I supposedly had a body every male couldn’t peel their eyes away from, yet the face that repelled every glance. Cruel irony at its best.

Tuba headed for the shower room. I could hear the hiss of spray when she turned on the water.

Bryn stuffed the tube of moisturizer into her cosmetic bag. I looked back at my reflection, something I rarely did. At my last doctor’s visit, my dermatologist told me it had healed nicely. It’s strange to hear the word healed when all you can see is your face split into two. Most people get to internalize their weaknesses, and I’ve always been jealous of that ability to hide. If they’re depressed, angry, heartbroken, lonely, afraid—no one else has to know. They can fake it. They can get medication to help curb it. I can’t hide my struggle. I have to wear it.