Flawless (10 page)

“That's crazy,” he argues, oblivious to the daggers Kristen's shooting his direction. “There's plenty of room, right, Kristen?”

She pastes a toothy pageant-queen smile on her face and nods at Rock, then at me. “Of course,” she says, but her eyes are conveying an entirely different meaning.

“Maybe next time.” I open my car door and slide inside. As I start the engine, Rock walks to the passenger side of the truck and opens the door for Kristen.

I quickly tap my horn as I pull away from the curb, wishing like hell I actually had something to do besides think about him.

When I pull into our driveway, I notice Mom's car in its usual spot in the garage and a sporty red convertible I don't recognize parked by the curb. After parking behind Mom, I walk into the house and find her and Jen sitting at the kitchen bar.

“Hi, honey,” Mom says. “You remember Jen, don't you?”

Remember her? It was only two days ago. “Sure. It's good to see you again.”

Jen gives me a camera-worthy smile and I feel immediately second class. Next to Jen's to-die-for ivory pantsuit, I look downright destitute.

“We're just having a little after-work chat,” Mom says, a flush on her cheeks that was no doubt put there by the red wine. Judging from the empty bottle on the counter, they've been chatting a while.

“Girl night. Got it.” I grab a bottled water from the fridge before kissing her on the cheek. “I'm headed to my room. I've got some research to do.”

“On a Saturday night?” Jen asks, pity marring her impeccable features. “When I was your age …”

“Not my Sarah.” Mom's practically misty eyed. Damn wine always makes her emotional. “She's such a good girl. Always so responsible.”

“Sure, Mom,” I say, walking out of the kitchen and up the stairs to my room.

When I sit on the bed to kick off my shoes, I notice a new brochure sitting on my nightstand. I grit my teeth, frustrated that Mom doesn't understand this is a closed subject. But as I walk to the trash can to lay it to rest, the title catches my attention.

Why Not Find Out What Plastic Surgery Can Do for You?

It's that simple; nothing else is written on the front except for that question. Naturally, the requisite picture of an absolutely gorgeous couple is front and center, all smiles with whitened teeth and the best little noses money can buy.

I open the brochure and scan through the same rhetoric inside every plastic surgeon's ads. Still, something about this one has me intrigued, so I open my laptop, connect to the Internet, and type in the website address. I roll my eyes at myself, seriously thinking I need therapy. Never before have I actually researched a plastic surgeon, not that I'm really doing that now. But still, before Rock came along, I wouldn't have given it a second thought.

But maybe it's not just about Rock. Maybe it's just … time.

I'm not a naturally ambivalent person. Being decisive is one of the things I like most about myself. But when it comes to my nose, I just can't make myself stand steadfast in one decision for very long. I guess I have the right to be conflicted at seventeen.

When the website pulls up, there are even more pictures of pretty people. Flashing in the right-hand corner is a red circle; on the inside it reads “Why Not?”

I click the circle, which takes me to a page where I can load my picture, which I do quickly when I realize what this site offers: the ability to give my face a new nose, even if it's only in a picture.

With last year's school picture on the screen, I study the different noses available. There are about a million different choices. Who knew there were so many different shapes and sizes? Geez, talk about a tough decision.

I start with the one that looks most like Kristen's, which I've always considered God's best handiwork. But on me, the nose looks positively puny. I mean, maybe I'm just used to seeing myself with this oversized sniffer, but it totally doesn't fit me.

The next nose I click is a little longer, but still well within the normal limits as far as noses go. It definitely looks better than the first one, turned up just a little, and not too wide for my face.

I print the picture and lay it next to my laptop. It looks good, real good. But it's still so different from what I'm used to. It's just not … me.

Rubbing my hand over my nose, I try to imagine what it'd be like to go to college completely normal. With nothing freakishly large plastered on my face. A fresh start where no one would know the old me, the old nose. There would be nothing to stop me from doing or being whatever I want. No excuses.

As I'm about to close the website, I see a button that reads “Watch Us at Work” and click it. A video begins playing and the screen is filled with images of some poor schmuck with half his face peeled back. I have to stop myself from upchucking what little I've eaten today. It's beyond gross.

Someone narrates the rhinoplasty procedure like what they're doing isn't the nastiest thing ever. Shuddering, I close the window and slam the laptop closed.

Picking up the picture of me with a new nose, I think of the video. Good as the new nose looks, it'll be a cold day in hell before I let someone butcher me like that.

I wad up the picture and toss it into the trash, thankful I finally came to my senses before I did something foolish.

No object is so beautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly.

—OSCAR WILDE

Chapter Ten

Just after midnight, my cell phone rings, pulling me out of a deep sleep. I seriously consider ignoring it, but I know it's Kristen from the unfamiliar tune screaming at me. She has a really bad habit of changing my ringtone for her. Of course, she never tells me when she's done that, so it's always a surprise. Her choices are superobscure: usually oldies because she knows I love them. This time, I'm treated to the theme song from
The Golden Girls
, “Thank You for Being a Friend.” I should recognize the tune easily enough; it's one of Mom's favorite shows.

I reach for the phone, because she'll just keep calling until I answer. I've tried to dodge her long-winded late-night calls before and nothing works. She's like a dog with a bone.

“This better be good,” I grumble into the phone.

“Omigod, Sarah,” she squeals, the high pitch shooting through my ears straight to my brain. “It's about a gazillion times better than good!”

I roll over and turn on the lamp. There are at least a thousand other things I'd rather do than listen to Kristen recount every last sordid detail of her night with Rock, but this is our postdate routine; there's no changing it now. And deep inside, there's a sick part of me that almost
wants
to hear it all, like the car wreck you don't want to see but can't stop looking at.

“Tell me all about it,” I say.

“Well, first of all, his hands are freaking amazing,” she gushes, like I don't already know. Like the memory of those hands doesn't torture me. Especially now, knowing she's felt them, too.

“Uh-huh,” I mumble, eyes closed.

“I mean, they're like totally huge and, omigod, they're so soft.” She pauses abruptly. “But you already know that, don't you,” she whispers, more to herself than to me, disappointed she wasn't the first one to hold his hand.

“So tell me something I don't know,” I say, further proof I'm a glutton for punishment.

“Okay,” she says, the excitement back in her voice. “So we're at the restaurant and while we're waiting, we check out some of the fish. That's when he put his arm around my waist. And it was so natural, like we'd been together forever.”

I nod, knowing she can't see me but unable to actually form words. It makes my stomach churn to think about the two of them together. And just hearing her echo my own thoughts about how easy it is to be with Rock is like a sucker punch in the gut.

She ignores my silence. “It was supercrowded, so we had to wait for over an hour. And you know how long it takes to eat at that place. We were there almost two hours and there wasn't a single awkward silence. Not one!”

“No
David Copperfield
discussions?” I ask.

Kristen laughs softly. “No, I did exactly what you said and kept the conversation personal. It worked like a charm.”

“Good to know.” I'm the most loyal friend on the planet, hands down. And quite possibly the biggest idiot.

“When we got home, we sat in his truck for a few minutes, then …” She draws out the word “then,” doing her best to ramp up the drama. Like I don't know what's coming next.

“Then he
kissed
me. Not just a sweet peck on the lips. It was the kind of kiss that actually made me weak in the knees. I didn't even know what that meant before last night.”

Of course he kissed her. I mean, I didn't really expect the night to end with a handshake, but hearing her say it out loud makes it real. Painfully real.

The last thing I want is to hear the details of the killer kiss to end the night of all nights. “Don't need the specifics, Kristen,” I say, trying to hold it back but knowing it's totally useless.

“It was just perfect, Sarah. Totally, completely, 100 percent perfect.”

“Perfect,” I echo.

I'm sitting on the couch at ten the following morning and watching a documentary on the role of journalism in the wake of 9/11 when the doorbell rings. And rings. And rings.

This is one of the Sundays that Mom works, so I'm home alone. I pause the show, then half jog to the front door and look out the peephole, where I see Kristen smiling and waving, a brown paper sack dangling from her dainty fingers. I know that sack.

I open the door and she flies inside, whipping past me. “Hungry? I brought your favorite,” she says.

“My favorite?”

“Cinnamon-crunch bagel from Panera.” She tosses the bag to me and looks me up and down. “Still in your pj's?” she asks.

“Sue me.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “No time. I need your help.”

“Of course you do,” I mumble.

Kristen grabs the remote and turns off the television. “Rock friended me on Facebook.”

“I was watching something,” I say, pointing at the black screen of the television.

“This is way more important than some documentary. Geez, bor-ing.”

“All you have to do is confirm him as a friend, Kristen. It's not rocket science. You've done it a thousand times.” I grab the remote from her hand and swiftly turn the television back on. I set the remainder of the show to record, then turn the television off.

“I know
that
,” she says. “But you don't expect
me
to write him, do you?”

Shaking my head, I laugh. “You've lost it.”

“It's not funny, Sarah,” she whines. “I mean it. Once I confirm him as a friend, he's going to want to talk there, too. What if I say something wrong?”

I sit on the couch next to Kristen and grab her hands. “This is ridiculous, Kris. You can't go through an entire relationship faking it. It's wrong, not to mention unnecessary. Rock already likes you.”

“Because he thinks I'm smart!”

“And kind and pretty and funny.”

“Please, Sarah. You don't have to do it forever, just … just for a little while.”

“What are you going to do? Run over here every time he sends you a Facebook message?”

“I've thought it all through,” she says, pride lighting her face. “I'll give you my sign-on information and you can log on from here and write him back and forth. Then when you're done, I'll just go back and read what y'all talked about so I'm not lost.”

The absurdity of it has my head swimming.

“Hel-
lo
?” Kristen snaps her fingers to get my attention. “Did you hear what I said?”

I nod slowly. “I think I heard you say that you want me to write to him on Facebook as you.”

“Right!”

“You want me to log on to your Facebook account and reply to his messages as if I'm you and keep that conversation going … without your input.”

“Exactly,” she says, nodding her head in satisfaction.

“This doesn't strike you as the tiniest bit deceitful?”

“Of course not! It's not like you're hacking into my account. I'm giving you my sign-on. You totally have my permission.”

I stay silent, unsure what to say, knowing that nothing will change her mind. And until I agree, she'll make my life miserable.

“You're the only one I trust,” she says. “We'll confirm him right now, then I'll text you when he sends a message so you can log on and get busy writing. Okay?”

She mistakes my silence for agreement. “I love you!” With a quick hug, she jumps off the couch and heads up the stairs to my bedroom and my laptop.

I look quietly at the space where Kristen sat, seriously contemplating a mad dash to the car. Of all the mind-numbing schemes she has roped me into, none of them put me at risk of getting hurt. Not like this.

“Sarah!” Kristen screams over the balcony. “I need you to unlock the laptop. Pronto!”

Blowing hair out of my eyes, I stomp up the stairs like a grouchy child. When I walk into my bedroom, Kristen's sitting on the bed, laptop open to the log-in screen. I sit down next to her, grab the computer, and reluctantly type in my password.

“Happy?” I grumble.

“Yes, yes, yes!” In a span of three seconds, she logs on to Facebook and confirms Rock as a friend. I manage to sneak a peek at his profile picture and instantly wish I hadn't. Seeing his face churns the dread settled in the pit of my stomach.

“Okay,” Kristen says, eyes glued to the computer screen. “Let's see what happens.”

“Chill. It's not like he's just sitting at the computer waiting for you to confirm him,” I say, grabbing the bagel from the bag and picking off the crusty sweet cinnamon from the top. My favorite breakfast, hands down. Kristen knows all my weaknesses.

“Omigod!” Kristen shouts, scaring me so badly I lose my grip on the bagel. “He sent me a message. Look, look!”

Already? Maybe he
was
waiting for her reply. My heart immediately jumps into overdrive and I take a deep breath to steel myself for the words I'm about to read. I lean closer to read Rock's message.

Good to hear from you, gorgeous. I had a great time last night. Since we only have one class together, I propose we start a round of Twenty Questions, a game my family played on road trips. Actually, we still play it. The way it works is I'll send you a question, you answer, then ask your own question.

I'll start.

If you had one day left in this world, how would you spend it?

In spite of the fear splayed across Kristen's face, I grin. It's an awesome question and I would love to know Rock's answer. I picture him somewhere quiet with his family. Maybe reading or writing or something equally peaceful at the edge of the lake, wearing nothing but swim trunks, his dark skin soaking up the summer sun …

“Um, that's supereasy. Shopping.” Kristen smiles triumphantly.

My head snaps sideways, trying to focus on Kristen because that's who this is about. Not me. “Come again?”

“Shopping. What else is there?”

“Well, considering this would be your
last day on Earth
, I'm not sure shopping is the best use of your time. You'll only have a day to enjoy what you bought.”

“That's the beauty of it; charge all day with no regrets,” she says with a wink. “But I get your point. I guess I'd do something with you and my mom.”

I pull the laptop from Kristen and reread the question to myself. “What do you really want to say?” I ask.

“I don't
have
a good answer, Sarah. Just write what you would do. I'm sure whatever it'll be he'll love it.”

“You can't be serious,” I tell her, eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“Of course I'm serious. Now get busy,” she says, snapping her fingers playfully. “I'll grab you a Diet Coke while you play me.”

I watch Kristen skip—yes, skip—out of the room.

Feeling like a total fake, I study the blank screen for what seems like an eternity before finding the words. My words.

I love these kinds of games. I'm in.

I've actually thought about this question a lot and my answer is pretty simple. Nothing too extravagant, too flashy. If I only had one day left to live, I would take my closest friends and my mom and spend the day at the beach in Kauai. Mom took me there when I was younger and it was the most beautiful, most relaxing place I'd ever seen. My only caveat is that I want a full twenty-four hours there, so my day starts after I get off the plane.

Now for my question … What is the worst thing someone has ever done to you?

Tag, you're it!

Love, Sarah

“Wait!” Kristen screams from behind me. I hadn't even heard her come into the room, so I nearly have a heart attack.

“Geez, are you trying to kill me? You scared the crap out of me.” I lean back on the bed and take a deep breath. “What's the problem?”

“Hel-
lo
! You signed
your
name, doofus!”

I turn my eyes back to the screen and stare in shock at my mistake. “This is exactly why we shouldn't be doing this.”

“It's fine,” she says. “Quick fix. Just change the name and send it.”

I glance over my words again, then click Send before I come to my senses.

And that one little click, something I've done a million times before, feels like I hammered the first nail in my own coffin.