The Pretty One(23)

The rodent doesn’t recognize me either.

Even though Lucy told me that no one would recognize me, I’m still surprised to find that it’s true. “It’s me,” I say. “Megan.”

“Megan?” he repeats, searching my eyes for some familiarity.

“Fletcher,” I add.

“Wild,” he finally murmurs. “Megan Fletcher.”


I leave the rodent and head to my locker. I must admit that all this excuse-me-do-I-know-you crap is beginning to wig me out. I open up my locker and discover that someone, namely Lucy, has been hard at work. All of my old pictures of Lucy and Simon and me have been taken down and in their place is a big “Welcome Back—We Love You” red Sharpie–printed sign that runs down the length of the door and is signed by so many people the signatures all blend together.

My first class is history, so I pull out my eight-hundred-page Essential World History book and brand-new spiral notebook and slam my locker shut just as George Longwell turns the corner. I stare straight ahead, determined to avoid rejection on my first day back. But this time, instead of ignoring me, he stops in front of me.

“Whoa there! I’m George,” he says, smiling at me and sticking out his hand. “George Longwell.”

He’s introducing himself?

“Now’s when you shake my hand,” he says as he continues to smile. I stick out my hand and he takes it in his. “Let me guess. Drama major, right?”

I shake my head. “Tech.”

“Tech?” he laughs. “Well, you’ll certainly be a stand out.”

Oh crap. Does he not know who I am either?

“I just wanted to tell you that if you have any questions or anything, well, I’d be more than happy to help. This school can be a little intimidating at first. Do you know how to get to your first class?”

Well I guess that answers my question. “I’m not a freshman,” I say.

“Transfer student?”

And then I see him. Drew. My heart slams against my chest as he turns the corner, heading right toward me. As per usual, he’s dressed in black from head to toe. His black, licorice-colored hair is just a tad longer than I remember, but his deep blue-green eyes are every bit as mesmerizing.

“Hey, Megan,” he says, nodding in my direction. “Welcome back.”

“Megan?” George says. “I love that name!”

But I don’t acknowledge his compliment. I’m too distracted by Drew, who continues down the hall as if everything is exactly the same as it was before my accident. As if I still have the same old face and body.

And that, I decide, is not so good.





After school, Simon and I go to Spoons, our favorite coffee shop. Before my accident, Simon and I used to come here almost every day. Everyone, even the part-timers, knew that Simon always ordered a hot black tea and I had an iced mocha cappuccino and a chocolate chip cookie. But today, I don’t recognize the person behind the counter. Not that it makes any difference. As I’m beginning to realize, she probably wouldn’t have recognized me, either.

“Here’s to your first day,” Simon says, toasting me with his cup. I gently knock his cup with mine. “Did it get any better?” he asks.

Simon is talking about a comment I made at lunch, when I told him that the hubbub over my new face was driving me crazy. It was nothing like my night at the club. For one, the only person I had hoped to wow by my new appearance (Drew) barely noticed me, and everyone else made me feel like a three-eyed monkey at the zoo. All day long people kept telling me how different I look and what an “amazing job they did.” After the fifty-millionth ohmyGodyoulookamazing I couldn’t help but start to feel a little defensive because no one, not a single person, seemed even mildly upset by the fact that they would never ever see the old me again.

“Welcome to the Megan Fletcher freak show,” I say.

“What are you talking about?” Simon asks. “You’re not a freak. Look at you! You’re, well, incredible.”

“You look so different,” I imitate in a high-pitched, annoying voice. “You were so awful-looking before. Were you even human? You were like this twisted creation of monkey parts and cadavers, but now you look like a million bucks. The sight of you used to make my eyes bleed. Want to be my best friend?”

“It wasn’t like that. Seriously. The whole school was talking about how hot you are now.”

I give him one of Lucy’s big, dramatic sighs. “I’m not fishing for compliments. It’s just, well, today wasn’t exactly what I expected.”

“What’d you think would happen?”

“I don’t know. When Lucy and I went to the club I felt, well, pretty. No one saw me as a former warthog made pretty by mad scientists. They didn’t realize what everyone at school knows. That my parents didn’t give me this face, the doctors did.”

“Megan,” Simon says. “No one was looking at you like a freak today. Believe me.”

I take a sip of my iced mocha cappuccino, my first one since my accident, and let it linger in my mouth before swallowing. But surprisingly, it doesn’t taste as good as I remembered. It’s more bitter than sweet.

“I’m just glad you’re as good as new again,” Simon says. “Even better.”