The Pretty One(83)

thirty-one

finale (noun): the conclusion of a performance.

“Oh my God,” my mom says as she pokes her head outside. I’m on the roof, covered in sawdust and paint.

“Ron,” she says, calling back inside to my dad. “Come up here and see what Megan did last night.”

My dad comes out on the roof and stands beside my mom, his mouth open in surprise as he stares not at me, but at the dollhouse beside me.

“You did all that last night?” my dad says, pointing to the house.

“Yeah.” I’ve not only fixed the sagging walls and restored the floors to their polished glory, I’ve repainted it from top to bottom. It looks brand new, as I imagined it did when my grandfather first presented it to Lucy.

My dad kneels down in front of it and peers inside. “How did you know to do the railing like that?” he says, pointing to the staircase railing that twists up the steps.

“I don’t know,” I say, suppressing a yawn. I have never pulled an all-nighter before. But I was a girl possessed, one with a mission. “I just built it.”

“Funny. I asked your grandpa the same question and he told me the same thing.” My dad is practically beaming at me. “It’s nice that someone in this family has his talent!”

“You must be exhausted,” my mom says. “Are you okay to go to school?”

I check my watch. I have less than an hour to get ready, which, considering my sawdust-spattered hair and paint-stained fingernails, is not a lot of time. “Sure,” I say. “Have you heard from Lucy?” I add, as if it is just an afterthought.

“I talked to her last night,” my mom says. “She sounded…good.”

My dad walks over and puts his arm around me. “Everything is going to be okay, kiddo. I promise.”



I somehow make it through the entire day at school. Even though it’s clear everyone heard what happened at the dance and I’m now going to be ostracized by both the techies and the drama majors. But for some reason I don’t really care. Maybe I’m still numb, but for today at least, I’m content to be alone.

When I get home my parents insist I lay down for a while. I take their advice even though weirdly I’m not tired in the least. Much to my surprise I fall asleep and when my mom wakes me up, I barely have time for a quick shower and a Diet Pepsi before returning to school for the performance. But unfortunately, as I step back inside the familiar brick building the sense of peace and calm that has enveloped me all day is quickly replaced by an anxiety so intense I think I might have to bend over and breathe into a paper bag.

The first person I see is Drew, who’s backstage reading his dictionary. When he sees me, he puts down his dictionary and stands.

“How are you doing?” he asks, taking my hand.

“Okay,” I manage. I haven’t seen him all day and just the sight of him provides me with a certain sense of relief.

“You’re going to do great. Just remember, I’m going to be right there with you the whole time.”

I force myself to take a deep breath. I know he’s going to be right up there with me, but it still feels good to have him say it.

Drew and I walk across the stage and toward the dressing room. Unlike the day before, everything is quiet. Since the sets are finished and it’s a small production, there are only a handful of production techs milling about. And since there is only one senior production each night, there are no other actors (besides Drew) to commiserate with.

Drew says good-bye at the door and I step into my dressing room. I sit down in front of the makeup mirror. And once again, I’m staring at my reflection.

I have waited so long for this moment, for my turn in front of the mirror. But now that I’m finally here, it seems sort of anticlimactic. I’m not sure what I expected to feel, but I didn’t expect this. The only thing I feel right now is lonely. And a little bit sad.

Which is weird, because before my accident, if someone would have told me that one day I’d be sitting in this chair, looking at this face, I would have been ecstatic. Even if they would have told me about all the surgeries and what I would have to endure to get here, I would’ve assumed it would all be worth it, just to be pretty. It never would have occurred to me that when the bandages came off and the swelling went down, the earth would tilt. That even now, months later, I still wouldn’t have regained my balance. Because the same pretty face that had won me a coveted spot in front of the mirror, was also the reason why I’m sitting here all alone.

I take another sip of my (now slightly warm) Diet Pepsi and apply my makeup the way I’ve watched my sister do it so many times. With less than a half hour left to showtime, my all-nighter catches up to me with a fury and I’m suddenly so tired that I’m tempted to curl up on the grody couch in the dressing room and go to sleep. Instead, I change into my costume and resolutely head backstage, determined to get this thing over with as soon as possible so I can go home and get some sleep. I spend the next ten minutes in my place on the bench, listening to people talk and laugh as they take their seats on the other side of the curtain.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Drew. “Megan…,” he begins, and I can tell he’s about to tell me something, something important. Something earth-shattering.

“Ten seconds!” the rodent announces from his perch stage right.