The Pretty One(18)

I spent the remainder of my sophomore year shuffling (literally, due to my leg and my ribs) between doctors’ appointments and surgeries and meetings with my tutor (so I could keep up with my classes). Along the way I had four reconstructive surgeries, had my jaw realigned and wired shut, got the braces taken off, had three bone grafts (in my mouth), and received four teeth implants. I asked for new eyeballs, too, something in a turquoise, but apparently they haven’t figured that one out yet.

“You really think I’m pretty?” I ask Lucy.

“No,” Lucy says. “I think you’re beautiful.”

My final operation was in the beginning of the summer, and the swelling finally went away a couple of weeks ago. I’ve spent a lot of time since then staring at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out what it is exactly that makes me look so different. My eyes are the same brown eyes that I’ve had since I was born. But that’s where the similarities end.

My nose is now small and delicate, almost perfect with the exception of my right nostril, which is almost indiscernibly smaller than the other. A faint scar is visible at the base of my nose, but because of the shadow, it’s hard to see. Gone are my chubby, inflated cheeks and in their place are the sculpted cheeks of Pocahontas, Native American princess. Even though they didn’t do anything to my lips, they look different, too, fuller or plumper or something. But maybe my new straight white choppers just make them stand out more.

“It’s so weird, isn’t it? My nose is different. And this,” I add, sucking in my cheeks.

“The doctor said you lost a lot of bone in your mouth. Maybe that’s what did it. The loss of those front teeth of yours. And the new ones they put in…well, they don’t stick out. Plus you lost a ton of weight when your jaws were wired shut,” she says simply, handing me some blush.

This is new, the sharing makeup thing. Before my accident I hardly ever wore makeup. But lately it’s been different. I like wearing makeup. It helps to acquaint me with my new features. Hello, eyelashes, how long are you today? Hello, cheekbones, there you are!

“Now you need lip gloss,” she says when I’m done.

I recently came to the earth-shattering conclusion that I can’t stand lip gloss. Why would anyone want to put a sticky paste on their mouth? But still, I hand Lucy back the blush and accept the lip gloss. I like to defer to the experts. And Lucy is an expert at applying makeup.

I dab it on my lips as Lucy watches. “Go like this,” she says, smacking her lips together again. So I smack my lips together. Why didn’t Lucy worry about my makeup (or the lack of it) before my accident? Was I just too hopeless? (Like painting a toilet. What’s the point?)

“Perfect,” Lucy says, smiling at my reflection in the mirror.

It’s Saturday, and since school starts on Monday, my sister decided that she and I should go out together to celebrate. So even though I would prefer to stay home and watch the gross medical reality shows I became addicted to during my convalescence, I’m trying to be a good sport. “Do you think anyone we know will be there?” I ask.

Anyone. Read: Drew. I have thought about him so much this past year. I was able to pry some information about him out of my sister (he and Lindsey dated all year and went to prom together), but she hasn’t spoken with him or seen him all summer. I wondered if he ever thought about me or wondered how I was doing, especially when I was scared, like right before surgery, or after, when the pain got so bad I felt like my head was going to explode like the tomato I once microwaved. (In my defense, it was for a science experiment. As in, I will see if the act of exploding this tomato in the microwave alleviates my boredom and/or causes me to go blind. My conclusion: only temporarily.) I would think about Drew and wonder if all these surgeries might make me look good enough to get his attention; that it might all be worth it in the end. And then I would imagine him pulling me into his arms and sweeping me off my feet as he laid a big wet one right on me. And then I would think, Hell yes. What’s a little asphalt up your nose for a guy like Drew?

“No,” Lucy says. “It’s too far away.” Lucy and I went to this club once before, about six months before my accident. Although she has wanted to go back ever since (sans yours truly), my parents had refused since they didn’t want Lucy driving all the way through the city at night and they said it was too far away and too much of a hassle for them to take her. But when Lucy suggested taking me there tonight, they practically jumped up and down for joy, calling it a “great idea!” They still didn’t like the idea of us driving through the city by ourselves, so they were taking us and dropping us off. They were going to go to dinner, see a movie, and pick us up afterward.

I finish applying my mascara and turn back toward my sister. “All done,” she says, smiling from ear to ear. She hurries over to the top of the stairs. “Mom! Dad!” she calls out excitedly, peering down. “Are you ready?”

Considering the fact that my dad is at home and using the camera that he only used once before (the night of the accident), his silence is remarkable. Chances are slim that he figured out how to work it, but he’s obviously trying to behave, which only adds to the weirdness. I would much rather have him swearing his head off than this Mr. Cleaver/Leave It to Beaver routine.

Lucy waves me over.

“Taaa-daa!” she says, moving out of the way as I take my place at the top of the stairs.