At Face Value (5 page)

Hanna wipes her hands on her apron. “I’m waiting …”

“It’s nothing,” I say. “Really.”

Hanna shrugs. “Well, you’ve got that ‘nothing’ written all over your face.”

After my tea, and a fruitless hour-plus attempt to write my Columbia University essay—aptly titled “My Greatest Flaw and How It Helps Me”—I clear my teacup, tell Hanna her new theme is great, and get ready to leave. My biggest flaw is clearly my nose, but right now, I can’t properly put into words how it’s helping me. Maybe because it isn’t.

I’m just slinging my bag onto my shoulder when my mom comes in. She’s dressed in a bland skirt and jacket, her work outfit, and her cheeks are flushed from walking over from her office.

“I thought I’d find you here,” she says, looking around to take in the change of scenery. She gestures toward Hanna. “She’s so talented … she should have her own television show or something.”

“She did, Mom,” I say and raise my eyebrows.

“Oh, right.” My mother studies my face for a second. She knows better than to ask about the puffiness in the middle of my face. “Ready to go? I figured we could walk home together.”

I nod, collect my things, and meet her by the door. We head out together into the fading daylight of our town.

At first glance, Weston seems like your average suburban town settled sometime in the 1700s by Puritans. Whenever we had a field trip to “an important historical site,” we would wind up sitting in a circle on the town green looking at the white-steepled church, or the slanting brick building that was once a famous writer’s house, or the clapboard structure along Maple Street that a couple hundred years ago housed horses and town meetings, but now is home to a variety of cute clothing and housewares shops.

However, just because our sweet little suburbia looks normal doesn’t mean it’s average. The truth is, my hometown is a bit peculiar. The library has a pillow pit (during snowstorms you’re allowed to sleep there), the PTA controls how we socialize at lunch, and just when you think you’ve got the place figured out, it changes. Two years ago, for example, after researching the effects of a liberal arts education, the school board switched visual and performing arts from electives to requirements for graduation. And instead of Starbucks and the Gap and all the other chain stores, we have little boutiques and a diner. We have Any Time Now, which is so far from a franchise, you can’t even imagine. Weston actually has a town ordinance against such chain stores—not blocking them (because I think that might be illegal), but blocking buildings of a certain height in the downtown area, which basically means that unless someone wanted to open the smallest Best Buy ever, chain stores are a no-go. The retail coffee places from the strip mall fifteen minutes down the road wouldn’t survive here—people are loyal to their little cafés. Thus, my beloved Any Time Now.

And Weston’s quirky not just because of its lack of well-known eateries. We’ve got a hermit living in Woodland Hills (the hiking trail area behind the town hall) and we’re the proud host of the Street Art Competition (anyone can enter, drawing or painting on the sidewalks and store windows). Also, six years ago, some rich entrepreneur gave the elementary school a few acres of land and now they grow their own food to serve at lunch. And instead of being satisfied with regular school dances and sporting events, the town’s obsessed with city-wide themes—carnivals, parties, anything that will draw people out of their Victorian houses and into the community at large.

My mother and I walk the length of the Weston Green, kicking through the first few leaves that have started to fall.

“I can’t believe you’re a senior!” she says.

“We’re not going to have this talk again, are we?” I smile. “I know, I know, you’re incredibly sentimental. Your little bird is flying the coop …”

“No,” she interjects, “I’m just excited to turn your room into a yoga studio when you leave.”

My face falls for a nanosecond. “Nice try, Mom.” We walk a minute in silence. “Besides, I might not get in anywhere. Then you’ll be stuck with me—forever!”

Mom stops and brushes the hair away from my face. “I can think of worse scenarios.”

Two little kids go by, one on a bike, one on a scooter. The scooter boy turns to his friend and says—in that overly loud, kid way—“Oh my God! Did you see that thing?”

My mom has witnessed this so many times before with me that she doesn’t try to talk over the insult or pretend it didn’t happen. She just pats my shoulder. Normally I wouldn’t care, either, but far across the green I can see a crowd emptying from Comet. The cheerleaders had stopped by, still in their bright blue and yellow uniforms, and even from this distance I can see Eddie, so tall he towers over the perky pompomers.

“I’m so done with this,” I say to my mom, and flick my nose.

“Cyrie, don’t …” Mom pleads. “Look at yourself—you’re incredible. You’re funny and smart and the best writer at Weston High.”

“But not beautiful …” I say. “Just for once, I’d like that to be in there somewhere among my accolades. I’d even settle for decent-looking.”

My mother shakes her head and watches me watch the Comet crowd. “Have you ever considered that maybe ‘beautiful’ would find its way in there if you’d let it? You’re so busy announcing that you’re not, that you make it impossible for someone to decide for themselves!”

The fall wind picks up, scattering leaves across the still-green grass, and I pull my sleeves over my hands to keep them warm. “Let’s go home.” And then, just in case she’s forgotten, I add, “Anyway, only four more months and it’s gone.” I mime snipping my nose, and my mother immediately puts her hand over her mouth.

“Cyrie, please …” she starts. Then she stops. She’s probably thinking of her fundraising psychology and how she could get me to reconsider my actions—but if she’s come up with a solution, she doesn’t vocalize it. Instead, she buttons her tweed blazer and nudges me to keep walking, past the shops, the antiques, and the rest of our quaint little town toward home.

I tell her about the auction. I know I’m excited, because I start talking really fast, telling her all about the
Word’s
plans. I even tell her I’m working with Eddie.

“You two seem to be paired together a lot,” she says, trying to get out her house keys. She has an annoying habit of taking them out when we’re still three blocks away. She also turns her turn signal on way early in the car, so I guess its the same thing—always being overly prepared.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I say, as if I’ve only now just noticed that Eddie is in nearly all my classes and partnered with me most of the time. “At least he does the work. Leyla Christianson is stuck with Billy Riggs in her History hands-on, and all he did was to offer to pay for the poster-making supplies.”

“How is Leyla these days?” Mom asks as she jingles the keys.

“Good,” I say, picturing Leyla and her contagious laugh, her friendly (if too perfect) face. “She’s actually a lot more … she’s a better friend than I ever thought she’d be.”

“I’m glad.” My mother sets her bag down on the front porch, and fiddles with her enormous key ring until she finds the brass one that unlocks our front door. Like many of the houses in Weston, ours is historic—and the front door still has one of those buck-toothed keys that you have to fit in just right or the door won’t budge.

I think about calling Leyla to do homework tonight, about the college essay that plagues me, and about how I’ll try not to look at last year’s yearbook picture of Eddie. (He’s caught in action on the soccer field during a practice, with no shirt. Bless that heat wave!)

Mom opens the door with a small kick and goes inside. I stay outside for a minute, enjoying the early fall evening. It’s easy, in quiet moments like this, to think about being with Eddie—on the porch doing newspaper stuff, or joking around playing with a football in the grass like we’re part of an Abercrombie spread, or holding hands while we sit in comfortable silence. I take a seat on the white wicker bench on the porch and imagine him next to me. A smile creeps across my face. Then the sun starts to set, casting its glow across the porch and creating shadows that make everything look longer and bigger than it already is.

“Y
OU SO HAVE TO
come, it’s gonna be great!” Leyla says into the phone the next night. I can hear her music in the background. She starts humming along with “Are You Leading Me On” and says, “I love General Public. I’m putting this song on my fundraising mix.”

At school today, I came up with the idea of getting random students to burn CDs of their favorite songs for an auction grab bag. Leyla mentioned the idea at the
Word
meeting, and everyone loved it. Of course, I was glad to have the mix grab bag approved, and the fact that Leyla got credit for it … well, at first I felt weird-slash-annoyed, but then my intellectual side took over and I figured that as long as the money gets raised, it’s no big deal. Plus, it’s not like Leyla meant to pilfer my brainstorm. She said it just slipped out—and to call her on it would be petty and useless.

“There’s no way I’m going,” I say, then brush my teeth while I wait for her response. She knows she’s got to come up with a damn good argument to sway me into spending my Friday night at the school gym. “I spend enough of my waking hours trapped in that low-ceilinged, fluorescent-lighted cave. I don’t need to trek back there voluntarily.”

Granted, the school gym won’t look like the sweat-infused basketball haven it normally is; rather, it will be a jousting hall for the Weston High’s Night of Knights, in which maidens and masters of the sword alike get to dress up and drink grape juice out of gray plastic goblets that are supposed to make everything feel authentic. The drama crowd has been busy preparing since August, making sets, painting scenes, and sewing flags. Not really my kind of fun but, then again, maybe the whole town’s just trying to rally against the puritanical roots set down by Pilgrims way back when.

“Okay—here are my top three reasons why you should go,” Leyla says. “I’m even turning my music off so you can hear me better.”

“This sounds important,” I say, rinsing. “I’ll even hold off on flossing until you’re done.” I leave the bathroom and go to my room. Our house is actually two buildings put together—a tiny farm cottage from the 1800s, which is the main house, and a silo my parents connected to the house and converted into a sort-of tower. If I were a princess-type girl, I would have endless fodder for daydreaming. My room occupies the whole top part, so I live in a perfectly round bedroom. It’s slightly bizarre, but it works.

I’m on the floor, staring out the window at the full fall moon as Leyla talks. “Okay, the first reason to go is that you’re a senior. Since you let your social life pass you by in other years, this is your last chance to see the Knights joust. You wouldn’t want to get to graduation and regret not being an active part of the class, right?”

“Maybe. Next reason?” I prop myself up on a pile of cushions and will myself not to reach for last year’s yearbook, in which a frozen-in-time Eddie Roxanninoff waits smiling and shirtless. On my desk, also frozen in time, is my still-blank college essay: “My Greatest Flaw and How It Helps Me.” I’m beginning to think I need a new topic.

“Next reason: everyone makes asses out of themselves, and you always appreciate that.”

“That, Leyla, is true. I do enjoy laughing both at myself and at others.” Last year, I happened by the spring Rose Gala (held outside the school near the track) and for a second thought about joining in, despite the fact that I was wearing sweatpants and a tank top and everyone else was clad in dresses and suits. Just when I thought about nosing in—verb intentionally used—I was confronted by Darla Dinkins. One thing led to another, and after a drunk Darla asked if I could “smell the roses all the way from town,” I let loose on her grades, which reek. Truth be told, I could’ve let her go with just that—she was sloppy and tipsy—but once I got going I didn’t stop. I told her how everyone saw her—just a face in the crowd who will be voted Least Likely To Be Remembered. Then I left.

“There’s no other reason, is there?” I ask, thinking back to that night, how I walked back alone to a dark house. Why do that again?

“And …” Leyla lets out a big breath, which she does when she’s thinking hard. When she first joined the
Word,
I actually used to count how many long breaths it took her to get through one article pitch—her record was fourteen. She’s much better now, but still lapses now and again. “Point two and a half, which—fine, you’ll probably tell me it makes four points, but anyway—”

“Leyla, it’s getting late. You’ll have to persuade me with this last thing. I’d so much rather kick back with a movie and pizza on Friday than watch Josh and the jocks poke each other with sharp sticks. Wait—on second thought, that sounds okay …”

“Cyrie … don’t make me go alone.” Her voice is small and quiet.

“You’ll hardly be alone. You have Wendy Von Schmedler, Jill, Leslie, all those guys. You know, your
other friends
…”

Leyla’s voice gets softer. “You’re my friend.”

Outside, the moon illuminates my street and makes it seem bigger than it really is, at least from up here. “I know, I know—I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just …”

“No, you don’t have to explain. I get it. But I’m not really
with
Wendy and those guys when I’m with them, if you get what I mean. It’s not … real.” She coughs and takes a breath.

“I just have visions of standing there by myself while Wendy and Jill lure you back to the dark side.”

“No. No. It won’t be like that.” Leyla gets back to her point, her voice higher with excitement. “But listen, you always say we need supporting facts for our stories, right? And for op-ed pieces? Well, you like plays and studying literature from other eras … and Any Time Now is your favorite place, so you could imply from that—”

“Infer. You infer
from
something.” I fiddle with my curtains; they’re made of sheer navy silk and appliquéd with stars. On the floor are oversized cushions, some square, some circular, in contrasting fabrics. I made most of them last year during a fit of pre-exam jitters and vacation boredom-slash-inspiration after watching one too many home décor shows. I pick up a silvery bolster cushion and tuck it behind my neck as I lean against one of the curved walls. The biggest problem with a room shaped like mine is that there’s no real place to lean comfortably; I would normally cozy up in a corner, but that is mathematically impossible.