The Pretty One(21)

Lucy nods and takes a sip of her free Coke. Even though the stadium is about four blocks from our house and we could see it from our rooftop deck, until this moment I would’ve sworn Lucy didn’t know who the Orioles were, or even that they had a game today.

“Four nothing, bottom of the seventh,” cute, skinny guy says, putting his hand over the back of my chair and leaning over me.

“Yes!” Lucy says enthusiastically, clapping her hands, as if she actually gave a crap.

“Are you a baseball fan, too?” cute, skinny guy asks me. He has blue eyes, like Drew, but even though they’re a similar color, they don’t have nearly the same intensity and depth of Drew’s.

“Nah. What a waste of time.”

Cute, skinny guy looks stunned and a little offended, like I just made a joke at his mother’s expense.

I make a face at Lucy. Oops.

I think about what Lucy instructed: Ask questions. “What about you?” I ask.

I wonder if I can remember all of this for when I see Drew. Questions, tease, touch, questions, tease, touch….

“Orioles and Ravens, baby,” he says.

“My dad says the Ravens are a bunch of thugs,” I volunteer. “No, wait, I think he calls them hoodlums.”

He gives me a blank look. I give him a blank look.

I glance back at Lucy. I’m stumped.

But Lucy’s not paying attention to me. “Oh my God! Is that a Popsicle stick in your pocket?” she asks, touching Pouffy’s back pocket.

“This?” he asks, leaning forward as he pulls out his wallet. “It’s my wallet.”

No offense to Lucy’s technique, but there’s no way that wallet looks like a Popsicle stick. Claiming that she thought it was a Popsicle stick had to be, hands down, the most idiotic, obviously stupid thing anyone had ever said.

Lucy nudges my leg under the table and I know she wants me to say something.

“I thought it was a Popsicle, too,” I announce. The whole table begins to grin and smile right along with us, which is all I need for encouragement. “I was like, why does that guy have a Popsicle in his pants!” I exclaim, inwardly wincing since it came out sounding way more perverted and stupid than I had intended.

But Lucy is right. No one seems to mind. I look around the table as they all continue to laugh, not at me, but with me. I rest my eyes on my sister, who’s smiling at me, sending me a look of pure and total adoration. And suddenly I realize that this is right out of my fantasy moments. Cutting in front of a crowd, free drinks, a ratio of four boys to two girls, being able to say any stupid thing at all (to cute boys who would never have even noticed me before), and still have everyone think that I’m great…it makes me feel powerful, as if I can do anything. And it’s all due to my new face. I once again remember what the doctor said as he handed me the mirror for the first time: “You’re beautiful now, Megan. Everything is about to change….”

I turn to the boys and say, “Everyone thinks Yo-Yo Ma is such a great cellist. I think he’s just a total spaz.”

They look at me, smiling, like I’ve just told them I want to go skinny-dipping with them. It’s almost too good. It’s like a reality show made just for me. So I say, “Why do you think they call it plutonium? What’s wrong with Goofy? Why didn’t he get his own element?” I’m thinking about saying something nasty about Harry Potter, but I decide to quit while I’m ahead. I take a sip of my drink, then I say, “Why do superheroes always wear underwear outside their pants?”

As the guys start to laugh, I give Lucy a big smile and toast her with my glass.





seven

curtain time (noun): the time at which a play or other performance is scheduled to begin.

It’s my first day back at school. I’ve been up since five, so excited that I’m practically hyperventilating. The potential effects of my new appearance hadn’t really registered until the other night at the club. But ever since then I’ve been feeling like a kid counting down the days until Christmas. I’m ready to burst into school and embrace my new life. Megan Fletcher, admired, adored, and appreciated.

I shower and blow my hair out straight and go back into my room, where I dress in the outfit I picked out weeks ago (with Lucy’s help, of course)—short-sleeved, snug-fitting bright pink shirt, one-hundred-dollar jeans (size two!), and black flip-flops that have sparkly sequins glued to the top.

We always walk to school but since it’s hot (and neither Lucy nor I want to risk pit stains on such a big, important day), my mom drives us. Mom pulls up directly in front of the school and Lucy and I climb out of her Buick Lucerne. She beeps the horn and blows a kiss as we walk away.

We’re about a foot away from the steps leading up the main entrance when I stop dead in my tracks.

“What’s wrong?” Lucy asks.

Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer for her. All I know is that I can’t feel my toes. Or my legs. Or my hands. All I can feel is my heart racing in my chest and the Cheerios I had for breakfast bubbling in my belly.

“Come on,” Lucy says, encouraging me. She loops her arm through mine, practically pulling me toward the school. I’m walking with a stiff-legged gait I associate with the Boris Karloff Frankenstein. “I’m so excited for you,” she says. “Wait till Simon sees you. He was so miserable without you last year.”