The Pretty One(81)

“What do you mean?”

“Would this—us—have happened if I had never been in that accident? If I was still ugly?”

And then I wait. I look into his eyes and wait for him to tell me that of course he would, that he would love me no matter what I looked like, no matter how ugly I was. That he didn’t care about high cheekbones, small noses, or straight white teeth. I wait for him to reassure me that Simon and my mom were wrong, that even if I was the most horrible-looking person in the world he would still be sitting next to me telling me how he’s never felt this way about anyone before.

“I don’t know.” He takes my hand and squeezes it. “All I know is how I feel about you now. And I can tell you this: I love you.”





thirty

deus ex machina (noun): an event or character that appears out of nowhere to resolve the dramatic conflict.

When I get home, Lucy is in our bedroom, packing her suitcase. She spent the night at Marybeth’s and I haven’t seen her since our argument. It’s obvious from the look of surprise on her face that she didn’t plan on seeing me now, either.

“Hi,” I say nervously. I take a breath as I ready myself for another confrontation.

But Lucy doesn’t even answer me. She just continues packing, as if I’m not even there.

“Are you going someplace?” I ask, finally. (Even though the suitcase is a fairly big clue.)

“I’m going to New York for a few days.”

“When will you be back?”

“Don’t know,” she says, zipping up her suitcase.

“Look,” I begin. “About last night…”

“Let’s just forget it.”


I know Lucy doesn’t really mean that she intends to forget it. What she’s really saying is: I’m convinced I’m in the right and you totally screwed me over and I will never ever forgive you as long as I live. I swallow and clear my throat. “This thing with Drew…”

“Over it,” she says, raising her hands.

“I know you’re mad,” I interrupt. “But…”

“I’m not mad,” she says.

Truth be told, she doesn’t sound mad. She sounds a little tired, and maybe a little rushed, but not mad. “Then why the silent treatment?”

“Marybeth and I have a train to catch.” She wheels her suitcase out of the room and bangs it down the steps. I hear the front door open and close and I know she’s gone.

I glance back toward the closet. I see my reflection in the mirror, complete with runny nose and thumb cuticle in mouth. I take my thumb out of my mouth and stare at the face looking back at me. I feel like I’m looking into the eyes of the enemy. But like Lucy, I don’t want to fight anymore. I just want it all to go away. I’m ready to admit defeat.

I lunge at the door, slamming it shut. I run downstairs and grab the Hefty bags out of the kitchen cupboard. I hurry back up to my bedroom, determined to rid myself of every stitch of clothing, every stick of makeup, everything and anything that was bought to showcase the new me. I fling open the closet door. As Lucy’s dollhouse crashes to the floor, I ignore my reflection while I take my pile of cute tight little shirts my sister had picked out for me and throw them in the Hefty bag. Then I yank all my skinny jeans off the hangers and toss them in, too. In between blowing my nose I fill two oversized Hefty bags full of clothes before heading to the bathroom. I open the makeup drawer that I share with Lucy and begin to quickly sort through it, putting my stuff in the trash and leaving Lucy’s scattered across the floor.

After I’m done with the makeup I open the medicine cabinet. I pull my stent out of its protective case and whip it into the Hefty bag. As it disappears into the trove of lip glosses and snot-filled tissues, I’m suddenly so disgusted that I feel nauseous. I wrap my arms around my belly as I bend over the toilet and begin to dry heave. When I’m done, I wipe my face with my hands and turn back toward the medicine cabinet. I shut it closed, inadvertently glimpsing my reflection in the mirror. I pause to look at my mascara-streaked and snot-filled face and wonder how awful-looking I’ll be when my nose closes up. Will it just collapse or will it shrink in place? Before I can stop myself, I’m rifling through the Hefty bag, desperately picking through snot-filled tissues and tubes of lip gloss looking for my stent.

“Megan?” My dad is standing in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“I threw out my stent,” I sob.

He hesitates and for a minute, I’m pretty certain he’s going to blow his top. As in: YOU THREW OUT YOUR STENT? ARE YOU @#$%! CRAZY??

But he doesn’t say a word. He steps over the makeup scattered across the bathroom floor and kneels beside me as he starts digging through the bag.

“Here it is,” he says, handing it back to me.

I take the stent and drop backward, leaning up against the bathroom wall. He pauses, just looking at me. We sit there for a while, neither of us speaking.

“Come on,” he says finally, offering me his hand. “I just found a bag of Fig Newtons your mom hid from me.”

“Fig Newtons?” I say, wrinkling up my nose.

“She’s on a health kick.” He shrugs. “I figure they’re better than nothing.”

He has a point. I take his hand and follow him downstairs. I take a seat at the table and he hands me a box of Kleenex. I wipe my nose as he pours us two humongous glasses of milk and sticks a brand-new bag of Fig Newtons on the table.