The Pretty One(82)

“I heard about the fall festival,” he says.

“So you know Lucy hates me,” I say, using three tissues to wipe my nose.

“She doesn’t hate you.”

I rip open the bag of Fig Newtons and pop one in my mouth. I don’t want to talk about Lucy with my dad. I have already gone down this road with Mom and I know Dad will pretty much tell me the exact same thing she already did. Besides, I just don’t have the energy right now.

“Can I ask you a question?” I say, as soon as I swallow the cookie. “Do you think Mom would’ve liked you if you had never shaved off your mustache and lost all that weight?”

“What? Why do you ask that?”

“Drew…the guy I like.”

“I know who he is,” he says.

“He practically admitted that he never would have cast me in his play if I wasn’t pretty. He never would have liked me.”

“But you are pretty.”

“Yes but…”

“Let me ask you something, Megan,” Dad says quietly.

“Would you like him if he was fat and ugly?”

“Yes,” I announce.

“Uh-huh,” he says sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “It’s human nature, Megan. Look at your mother. She’s the least superficial person I know. She couldn’t care less what people look like. But, when she first saw me, she didn’t have any interest in me. It was only after I lost all that weight and my silly mustache and white apron that she agreed to go out with me.”

“But she loves you.”

“I know. She loves me even though I’ve lost my hair and gained almost all that weight back. She doesn’t care anymore because she loves me for who I am. But would she have ever agreed to go out with me if I came up to her looking like I do now? Maybe not.”

“I think she would. I mean, you still look like you. It’s not like you got a completely new face.”

He looks at me. I can tell he’s at a loss for words. He takes a bite of a Fig Newton and makes a face as he chews. “It needs something,” he says, holding the remaining portion up to the light.

“Like some chocolate and a creme filling?”

“Exactly,” he says, popping the rest in his mouth and winking at me. He takes another one.

I push back my chair. I don’t want to upset my dad with all my poor me talk. “I better get back upstairs and start memorizing my lines or tomorrow’s going to be a disaster.”

“Megan,” he says, stopping me. “This guy of yours…this Drew. Would you like him if he was a jerk?”

“What? No.”

“What I’m trying to say is that a pretty face may increase your chances of getting inside the house, but it’s not going to keep you from getting kicked out on your ass. That’s up to you.” He smiles as he offers me the bag of Fig Newtons.

I think I understand what he’s saying. A beautiful face might win me the attention of the guy I loved, but it wasn’t going to win his affection. After all, lots of pretty girls were interested in Drew (besides Lucy). But I was the one he liked. I was the one he loved.

I take a couple Fig Newtons for the road and head back upstairs, determined to study my lines. I pick up the script as I sit on my sister’s bed. I look at the yellow-colored walls and the matching comforter covers and think about how happy I was when Lucy told me how much she loved the color. Her approval meant so much to me—and unfortunately, it still does.

I glance at the dog-eared script on my bed and I think about how in thirty-one hours I will be up onstage, performing in front of a crowd of people who have actually paid money to witness my disaster. I have no choice but to refocus and settle in for a long night of memorization. I brush the cookie crumbs off my blue hoodie and pick at the crusty stuff on the pocket. Gross. I force myself off the bed and go toward the clothes-strewn closet to grab a clean hoodie. But before I get a chance, I trip over Lucy’s dollhouse.

I land on my knees and wince in pain as my eyes fill with tears and my nose begins to run. I stop crying and just stare at the house. I remember before the flood, when the dollhouse was in perfect condition. Lucy and I each had a little doll that we pretended were sisters. We spent hours playing with the house, making the dolls imitate the mundane grown-up rituals of life—cooking, cleaning, and sleeping.

I run my finger over the broken balcony and across the warped wood floors. It wouldn’t be that hard to fix. The floors would need to be replaced, but that wouldn’t be difficult. I could cut out some new wood, hammer it back into place, stain, and shellac it. The walls could be repainted and I could even stencil in the design of the wallpaper. The stairway could be rebuilt.

Why had it never occurred to me to fix it up for Lucy before? Was it because the dollhouse was just one more thing she had that I didn’t?

I turn back toward the closet and glance at my reflection in the mirror, me kneeling beside a broken dollhouse. I crawl on my knees so that I’m directly in front of the mirror. I touch the cool glass, tracing my face with my finger. As I stare into my own eyes I suddenly realize what I have to do. And unfortunately for Drew, it has nothing to do with his play. As much as I hate to disappoint him, I don’t have much choice. I know who I am. And I’m not an actress. I’m Megan Fletcher. I’m a techie.