The Pretty One(12)

“Your father?” she asks, like I just told her I had proof I was born with three heads. “What would make you think something like that?”

“It’s the way he looks at me. Like I’m repulsive or something.” I know I should’ve stopped at lousy, but I’m overwhelmed by my own laundry lists of complaints as well as a veritable avalanche of self-pity.

“That’s ridiculous. He adores you.”

“So why is he always making a big deal about what I’m eating and stuff?”

“Does he?” she asks, in a kind of you-must-be-mistaken sort of way.

“Come on, Mom,” I say, zipping up my hoodie even though it’s about ninety degrees in the restaurant. “Every time he can’t find the cookies or something he always asks me where they are—not Lucy, not you. He’s always comparing me to Lucy and I’m always coming up short.”

“He doesn’t compare you to Lucy!”

I can see that my normally calm, cool, collected mom is getting more horrified by the second, and I’m really wishing I hadn’t brought all this up. In an effort to make things better, I keep my mouth shut. I just heave a dramatic sigh and roll my eyes.

“Look,” my mom says finally. “He just…he sees Lucy going out to all those parties and, well, having fun, and he just wants the same thing for you. He worries about you, that’s all. He wants you to be happy.”

“Happy?” I snort, in a not so attractive way. (Not that snorting is ever attractive. Or sexy, for that matter.) “You can tell him it doesn’t matter how many cookies I eat or don’t eat. It’s not going to impact my social life one way or the other.”

“I know how you feel. When I was in high school I was kind of quiet, too, and my brother was tremendously social. He was always going out and doing things…”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with whether or not I’m social. I could be the friendliest most social girl in the world, and it wouldn’t make any difference.”

“What are you talking about?” my mom says quietly.

The waiter arrives with my plate of fried calamari and a salad (with the dressing on the side) for my mother. I suddenly realize my thumb is almost in my mouth. Damn again! I take one look at my appetizer and push it away.

“Look, Mom. I’m not blind and I’m not dumb. I know, you know, and quite frankly, everyone who has ever laid eyes on me knows why I spend my Saturday nights with you while hoochie-mama sister is out partying her butt off. We all know why, even though I’m a sophomore, I’ve never been invited to a single party, why I’ve never once had a boy like me…never had a boy try to kiss me…never even had a boy notice me…nothing!”

My mom is staring at me. She opens her mouth as if to say something and then shuts it again. Not that I blame her. What can she say? What can anyone say?

“You’re beautiful,” my mom says adamantly.

I sigh.

“You are,” she says, taking my hands, “a beautiful young woman with big brown eyes and long, curly hair with natural streaks that I would just kill for.”

I can tell she’s serious, that she really does like the way I look. And for that I love her even more. But even a mother’s love isn’t enough to change the fact that I’m ugly. And to be honest, I could probably afford to lose a few pounds, too.



Monday afternoon. Fortunately for me there is one cure-all for depression: Drew Reynolds. And he just happens to be sitting next to me in English class. His hair is kind of tousled in a badboy sort of way that makes me want to run my fingers through it, and he’s wearing jeans that have a little tear on the right knee. I think about my beautiful fall festival dress and wonder if he will even notice, and if he does, what he will think when he sees me. I know it’s a total long shot, but I can’t help but fantasize that it will somehow make a difference.

As I walk into the gym, the crowd parts. No one can believe the transformation. Drew steps out from the crowd. “Holy crap! Megan?” he mouths. I smile (regally) and nod as I walk toward him. He shakes Lindsey off his arm. As she sprawls ungracefully across the floor, he walks toward me (accidentally stepping on her face), his eyes reflecting pure and total adoration….

Suddenly, Drew turns around in his chair and looks directly at me.

“Yoooo-hooo! Miss Fletcher?” Mrs. Bordeaux is saying.

“Huh?”

She sticks her nose in my face. “Welcome back.”

“I was just…I thought I saw someone outside.” I motion to the window, which is miraculously on the other side of Drew.

“I was just paying you a compliment,” she says. “It’s a shame you were so distracted you didn’t hear it.”

Smirks and quiet giggles.

“In any case, I’m willing to repeat it. I’ve finished grading the pop quiz and you, Miss Fletcher, are the only one to get an A. I have come to the conclusion that either you’re simply smarter than the rest of the class or you’re the only one who actually bothered to keep up with the reading.”

I stare at my desk and chew on my thumb cuticle as the smirks and giggles are replaced by annoyed, irritated stares, as if I had done well on the test just to teach them all a lesson.

“Perhaps Miss Fletcher is the only one who has time to keep up with the reading,” Nancy Abercrombie says snidely. “Most of us are so busy with senior productions and…”