The Pretty One(19)

“Would you look at that!” Dad exclaims as he practically blinds me with a camera flash.

“Oh Megan,” Mom says, holding her hands to her mouth, as if in shock.

Now I know how my sister feels when she’s playing a role. As I walk down the stairs, I wonder if my parents can see my new pink thong. Ew. I try to wipe the thought from my mind as Iad-just the short skirt my sister picked out for me and self-consciously pull my snug shirt over my bra strap. I’m baring much more skin than normal. I have lost nearly fifty pounds over the past year, and my parents insisted on buying me a whole new wardrobe (thus explains the thong), all purchases supervised by my sister (also thus explains the thong). All my old clothes are stored in the back of my closet in a big black Hefty bag marked SALVATION ARMY.

“Now one of you together,” Dad says, waving Lucy over. Lucy and I stand side by side as we wrap our arms around each other. She looks over at me, beaming sisterly love. I smile back, even though there’s something about this whole thing that is giving me the major heebie-jeebies. And for some strange reason, I’m tempted to muck it up a bit. Maybe give my sister, who has been nothing but nice and sweet, a big old kick in the ass. Or perhaps I could just take my dad’s camera and, oops, drop it smack on the floor as in: I’m still me, people. I know I look a little (to be fair, a lot) different but WHY ARE YOU MAKING SUCH A BIG DEAL OUT OF THIS? YOU SAW ME EVERY DAY FOR SIXTEEN YEARS!

I must be a really terrible person to even think about kicking my sister or dropping my dad’s camera, considering the hell we’ve all been through the past year. After all, it wasn’t just me who went through the ringer; it was every single person in the room, particularly Lucy. Lucy originally blamed herself for what happened to me (What a coincidence! So did I!), saying that if it wasn’t for her I never would’ve been upset and blah, blah, blah.

Amazingly enough, like some beneficent religious figure coming into town on my white horse, I took the high road. And although I managed to convince myself that I alone was responsible for my accident, I never really managed to convince Lucy, who put herself into purgatory. She broke things off with Tommy, and although she performed in the senior productions, she didn’t even audition for anything else all year. She claimed that she didn’t want to commit herself, preferring to stay flexible so that she could accompany Mom and me to New York for the surgeries. At first I was kind of happy to have Lucy as my own little servant or magic genie, but by spring it started to make me feel mildly guilty to think of all the fun Lucy was missing, and all because I had stupidly run into the street without looking.

“Wait a minute,” Lucy says, her eyes flashing concern. “Megan needs a tissue.”

This is the worst side effect of my surgeries: my runny nose. It wasn’t horrible, like the gushing of a waterfall, but more slow and steady, like a leaky faucet. At first the doctors were concerned I had a “cerebrospinal fluid leak” (that is, my brain was leaking), but they tested me and ruled it out. The doctors said it was due to either the misplacement of the glands that secrete mucus, or because the cells that handled the flow of mucus were destroyed, or both. To make matters worse, due to the “sensoral” nerve damage, my nose and the entire area underneath it to my mouth are totally numb. End result: I can blow a lung through my nose and still not be aware that I need a tissue.

Fortunately, the doctors gave me some nasal spray that they said would turn off the faucet in my runny nose. And it pretty much does, except for when my eyes get watery, like if I’m crying, or like now, if my eyes are watery from a flash. None of the zillion doctors I’ve seen can figure out for sure why this is happening, but they think it’s due to a “misplaced” tear duct. (Gee, I wonder who misplaced it: perhaps the doctor who was poking around back there with a scalpel?) One thing is certain: I now possess the remarkable and annoying trait of being able to cry through my nose. Beat that, Zippy the bike-riding chimp!

Lucy takes the tissue and dabs my nose for me, like she’s my mom.

“God, I’m not five!” I say.

She pulls the tissue away and smiles at me. “Perfect!”

Then Lucy hands the tissue to my mom and the flash goes off once again. I grab another tissue and wipe my own nose. (Just to show my adoring fans I’m more than capable.)

“Look girls,” Dad says, showing us the picture. “Look how great you both look.”

He scans through the pictures, stopping at the last one we took before my accident, the one with Simon and me in front of the fireplace. My father quickly turns off the camera, as if the reminder of my previous appearance is too painful. Even though I don’t look anything like I used to, I’m still irked by his rejection. I’m privy to info no one else seems to realize: this new face of mine isn’t truly me. That’s right. The real me is the one in the old photo, the one my dad still can’t stand the sight of. The one that wants to kick him in the shins. Really hard.



My parents drop Lucy and me off in front of the club a few minutes later, and we make it inside rather quickly. (Let’s just say, two girls can budge the line if the bouncer likes what he sees. Given how Lucy holds my hand and plays with my hair, I’m pretty sure the bouncer has seen lots of late-night Skinamax.) I survey the crowd as my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. There are a few tables here and there, but most people are either on the dance floor or standing in groups, talking or laughing with friends. Everyone looks like they eat lunch at the popular table during daylight hours.