The Pretty One(14)

“Maybe he didn’t hear me,” I say. A definite possibility. After all, it was kind of a quiet hello. Still, it doesn’t feel good to be ignored. I glance down at the script Drew gave me earlier that day, the script that I’ve carried with me everywhere since, and remind myself that my days of being invisible are almost over. Everything will change once I become a drama major.

“Right,” Simon says sarcastically, seeing through my tiny white lie. “I don’t understand this. Michelle’s a nice girl. Why would she go out with that jerk?”

“He’s cute.”

“You think he’s cute? He’s got girl hair.”

Although I have never thought about it before, Simon has a point. George’s hair is thick and silky straight, and it’s cut in an unusual style, like someone put a big bowl over his head and trimmed around it. “Lucy says he’s really funny. And that song thing was sweet.”

“I’ll never understand women,” Simon says, throwing his hands up in the air for emphasis.

“You understand me.”

“Most of the time.”

Most of the time? What does that mean?

But before I have a chance to say anything, the auditorium door opens and Simon’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree. It’s Marybeth Wilkens, Lucy’s best friend. If I had to describe Simon’s ideal woman, Marybeth would be it. She’s tall and lanky, pretty but not intimidatingly so. She’s a little quieter and more reserved than the rest of Lucy’s friends, and according to Lucy, she’s a Trekkie, just like Simon.

I wonder if Simon would have asked Marybeth if I hadn’t made him ask me. As much as I want to go to the dance, I know I can’t let him make that sacrifice. “You know, Simon,” I say quietly. “You don’t have to go to the fall festival with me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, as he turns back toward the production studio.

“I just mean if there’s someone else you’d want to take…like Marybeth…”

“Look, Megan,” he says, as I follow him inside, “the only way I’m going to that dance is if you and I go together.” And then just to make his point, he picks a hammer up off the work bench and, using it as a microphone, begins to sing loudly and totally off-key, “Megan, Megan, you are diiiiiiiiviiiiine. I am so glad that you will be miiiiiiiiine.”

As usual, Simon knows just the right thing to say. Or sing, as the case may be.





five

dramatic irony (noun): a dramatic device whereby the audience knows something that one or more characters are not aware of.

“Megan?” my sister says from outside the door. “Are you almost ready?”

“Just a minute,” I call out excitedly. It’s the day of the fall festival and our house is in a hubbub. The entire upstairs has become official dance headquarters, with makeup and clothes tossed everywhere. I carefully (so as not to mess up my elaborate updo) take my dress off its hanger and shimmy it down. I once again admire the way it clings to my flat, SPANX-covered stomach before I glance back at the mirror, tucking a loose piece of hair behind my ears.

I smile at my reflection. And for the first time in my life, I think: Damn, I look good.

Lucy and I have spent the past four hours getting plucked and primped at the salon, and the results are incredible. My hair is done up in the same elaborate style as Lucy’s, with soft ringlets framing my face. My eyebrows have been tweezed into a defined arch and my makeup has been professionally applied.

I open the door and head into the bedroom, where Lucy is admiring her reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door. She looks like a heroine in one of the romance novels our mom buys at the grocery store: The soft silk of her pink dress cascaded to the ground, clinging to her slender yet supple body in all the right places. Her hair was done up in a tight chignon and her beautiful face radiated the subtle knowledge that her every wish would soon come true….

“You look amazing,” Lucy says, nodding approvingly at my refection as she moves away from the mirror so that I can get a better look at myself. I take my place in front of the mirror and touch my fingers to my stiff, sprayed hair as I give the mirror the closed-mouth smile I’ve been practicing. (My openmouthed smile makes me look like a donkey.)

“Mother-@#$% camera! To hell with you!” my father yells from downstairs. Even though I shouldn’t be surprised, Lucy and I both jump in surprise. Lucy begins to giggle and her laugh is so infectious I begin to laugh, too. My mother appears in the doorway.

“What’s so funny?” she asks, smiling.

“Sounds like Dad is enjoying his new camera,” I say. Lucy starts to laugh again.

Mom just ignores us. “You girls look beautiful,” she says, smiling at us proudly. Her reaction makes me feel even more excited. I don’t know about beautiful, but for the first time in my life, I actually feel just a little bit pretty.

“Come on downstairs when you’re ready.” Mom holds up Dad’s old camera and winks. “I have a backup.”

After Mom leaves, Lucy turns back toward the mirror, smoothing the imaginary wrinkles out of her dress before spinning back toward me. Unlike when she usually dresses up, I have no desire to push her in the mud. She puts her arm around me and gives me a big hug. “Isn’t this great?” she says. “We’re doubling to the fall festival.”