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Dermatology

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Wikipedia
, the free encyclopedia

Dermatology is the branch of medicine dealing with the skin and its diseases. A dermatologist takes care of diseases, in the widest sense, and some cosmetic problems of the skin, scalp, hair, and nails
and acne
.

I guess it's official. I have clinically awful skin.

Mom made an appointment with a dermatologist in the east end of the city, Dr. Mueller, and picked me up at school today to take me to my first appointment.

Dr. Mueller's kind of cold — he didn't smile once the whole time we were there. He told me my acne was “unusually complex for someone of my age.” Gee, thanks. He wrote me out a prescription for some super strong zit-banishing cream and told me to come back and see him in a month.

Oh boy, I can't wait.

I
f
I thought the cream that Dad brought home from the drugstore had bleached my pillowcase, it's nothing compared to the awesome power of my new prescription-grade zit-zapper. Mom tried really hard to put on a patient smile when I wiped my face on one of her navy blue towels and left behind a pinkish-white smear, but I figured she was kind of upset that my face had spoiled her nice towels.

But seriously, if this stuff can strip the dye from a towel, is it really safe to be smearing it all over my face? What's going to happen if I get it in my eyes?

I don't want to think about it anymore.

My skin's so dry from this new cream that it's getting all nasty and flaky. But I can't put moisturizer on my face because that'll just block my pores — so says Dr. Mueller.

Acne is exhausting.

I should just let my greasy face be free. I almost wish I had the confidence to do that. To not try to cover up every single new spot I find, and to be proud to be the weirdo I am.

I wish.

Almost.

Z and J have now officially moved into the house, and J's belly is starting to show, just a tiny little bit, that she has a tiny little fetus or whatever inside of her.

Great Things about Having My Cool Older Brother and His Cool Pregnant Girlfriend Staying in Our House:

1. I almost, almost, almost feel cool by association when Z and J talk about a place they've been to or a band they've seen play and they tell me I'd like them.
   
2. Z says he's going to teach me how to play guitar sometime soon, which
   

   a) will be an amazing distraction and
   

   b) will make my band with Trisha an actually possible possibility.
   

3. J had to stop dyeing her hair because apparently it's bad for the baby, so she's planning on shaving all her hair off soon and she says I can wield the clippers if I want to.
   

Less Than Great Things about Having My Cool Older Brother and His Cool Pregnant Girlfriend Staying In Our House:

1. Five people, one bathroom. Well, if you don't count the one in the basement, which I don't. Spider central. Eek.
   
2. Dad's been bugging Z to find a better job, and it's completely irritating hearing them fight about it. Z's been working at the same record store forever and he says that the staff are like a giant family. Dad says he needs to
   

   a) take parenthood seriously and maybe go back to school so he can make more money or
   

   b) at least get a job that will give him (and J and the baby) health benefits.
   

3. Did I mention that we only have one non-spider-filled bathroom?
   

School hasn't gotten much better. Stacey still acts like everything's normal, but she never wants to hang out anymore. I found out that she spent her birthday with Chloe. They went shopping at the Eaton Centre and picked out more matching clothes at Hollister. For dinner they went to the Hard Rock Cafe, across the street from the mall. It was just the two of them, not even Stacey's parents or Becca were there. I heard Chloe tell another girl in our class, Maylee, all about it.

It's great spending more time with Trisha and everything, but sometimes she invites one of her friends from her church over instead of me so I have to find something else to do. It's not that they're not nice or anything — I could hang out with them if I really wanted to — they're just kind of boring. And they make me really miss Stacey.

I'm not going to tell Chloe it was me who wrote on her locker; I totally refuse to give in to her paranoia. I'm still mad that she accused me in the first place. These days she and Stacey do everything together. They link arms in the hallway and walk to class and lunch together. They're both so tall that it's like a human fence roaming the school. Nobody can get past them.

I'm pretty sure they like it that way.

One thing I thought was going to be a pro about Z living at home again is that my dad is teaching him how to drive. Z's had his learner's permit since he was sixteen, but he never actually learned how to drive. He used to say that he didn't drive for political reasons. Or, environmental, I guess. That the world didn't need the pollution of one more car — he swore that he'd ride a bike or take public transit everywhere, his whole life.

I guess his whole life was a bit shorter than he thought it might be.

At dinner one night about a week after Z and J moved in, my dad brought it up at dinner.

We were just clearing the table — J had made dinner, spaghetti with veggie meatballs and garlic bread, yum — when Dad slapped Z lightly on the arm.

“Let's go for a drive,” he said.

“That's a great idea,” J called from the kitchen.

“Yeah, it's about time you started learning,” Mom said, as she helped me clear the table.

“Can I come?” I asked. I was dying to see Z behind the wheel. I imagined him putting some really great music on the radio and pretending he was driving me around like an impossibly cool chauffeur.

“Sure,” Dad said, “it'll be good to practise with another passenger. Think you could pretend to be a crying baby, Jo?”

I made a face — what a bad joke.

“Why not?” said Z. “Let me grab my wallet. I'll meet you guys by the car.”

Dad and I got our coats and he went searching for the car keys.

I listened to Mom and J talking in the kitchen.

“Dinner was delicious, Jen, thanks for making it.”

“Happy to help. What did you think of the veggie meatballs?”

“They were ... interesting. What was in them exactly?”

“Let's see …” she counted off the ingredients on her fingers, “eggs, bread crumbs, cheese, soup mix …”

“Really?”

“Yup. Onion soup.”

“Huh. Who'd have thought? Anyway, don't worry about cleaning up,” Mom said, taking a dish towel from J's hands. “You cooked, you should have to clean, too.”

“Naw, I don't mind,” J said, taking the towel back. “I'll be fat and useless soon enough. Might as well help while I can.”

“That's very sweet. I'll wash if you want to dry. Do you mind passing me that dishcloth?”

Dad came up behind me then, jingling the keys in my ear. I jumped about a foot and half into the air.

“You scared me,” I said when he started laughing.

“Didn't you learn anything about eavesdropping the last time?”

“Yeah, that it's the only way to get any information around here.”

“Touché, kiddo. But we're working on it, right? We're all one big work in progress.”

“Whatever,” I said. “Let's drive.”

Sitting in the backseat with Z behind the wheel wasn't exactly how I'd pictured it. Dad wouldn't let him put the radio on their first time out, and he spent the first twenty minutes just walking him through the different parts of the car.

“Dad, I know where the parking brake is,” Z said, pointing to a lever that stuck out the right side of the steering wheel.

Dad chuckled.

“I don't get it,” I said. “What's so funny?”

“That's the turn signal, Jo. A little driving joke.”

“Oh.”

“You pay enough attention and I won't have to explain all of this again in four years.”

“Three,” I said. “My birthday's coming up.”

“You're having another one?” Dad said. “And here I thought that they'd gone out of style.”

“Ha ha,” I said. “Shouldn't you two be talking about the car?”

So Dad finished explaining the basics to Z, and then we were out on the road. Small roads, of course; we just drove around the neighbourhood, but Z wasn't too bad. Of course there were a few tense moments — a stop sign that Z didn't see, and a couple of times Dad noticed him driving over the speed limit.

“I was only over by ten K,” Z said of the speeding. “I've seen you do that around here lots of times.”

“But I'm not the new driver.”

“But isn't the law the law?”

“Don't get smart, just drive the car. The speed limit is
fifty
.”

But we made it home in one piece. And I think Z actually liked driving. When we got home, he paced around the car.

“How much would something like this cost?” he asked Dad.

“We'll talk about that once you pass your road test.”

“What do you think, Jo? I'm a pretty great driver, right?”

“Oh, sure,” I said, “when you remember to stop at the big red sign marked STOP.”

“Oh, is that what that means? Watch it. You better be nice or I'll never drive you to school.”

“My school's only four blocks away.”

“But think of how cool you'll look pulling up in the back seat of your brother's shiny red convertible.”

“Wow. I'm pretty sure they'll crown me prom queen for that.”

“Or king if you keep cutting your hair so short.”

I put both of my hands up to my head. “I do not look like a boy,” I said.

“I was just kidding, Jo. It looks great. You're so punk.”

“Thanks,” I said, knowing he was joking, but hoping there was some grain of truth to what he said.

And for a moment it felt kind of perfect. It was like my cool older brother Z had never left. We really were a family.

So the driving wasn't a complete pro, but it wasn't a con either. It was just all of us trying our best.

I slept well that night for the first time in a while.

Stacy

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

(redirected from Stacey)

Stacy or Stacey may refer to:

Places

• Stacy, Virginia, a village
  that is probably slightly larger than Ulen Township
  

People

• Warren Stacey, British R&B singer-songwriter
  
• Stacey Van Allsburg, would-be model and full-time Austenite, former best friend and confidante (missing her, missing her, missing her), seemingly stolen by the Linebacker, a.k.a. GINGER, aka Chloe Somerville, FF (former friend)
  

Other Uses

• Stacy
  (film), a Japanese zombie horror film
  (I looked this one up — it's about teenage girls who turn into zombies, I can totally relate).
  

I
just got back from my second appointment with Dr. Mueller. I really wish I could call Stacey and talk to her about this. It's freaking me out, but I don't think I can talk to Trisha about it.

Dr. Mueller put me on birth control pills.

Me.

On the Pill.

What the
what
?

He said it would help my skin, that the pill would keep my hormones under control or something.

What hormones?

Is this safe?

It's not like I'm ever going to be having sex.

I want to call Stacey so badly, but I can't. I bet she'd know what to say. I bet Becca's on the Pill, so she might know something about the side effects. Dr. Mueller said there would be side effects, but he didn't exactly get into specifics. He told me not to worry about it, and I was too embarrassed to ask him what it all meant. Dad was in the room with me — Dr. Mueller had to go out into the waiting room and call him in because I guess he needed parental consent to prescribe it. Dad tried to play it cool, but his eyes practically bugged out of his sockets when Dr. Mueller told us. What did these two grown men know about me and my body, anyway? Why couldn't Mom have taken me to the appointment?

I crossed my arms tight across my chest and stared down at my slushy boots. I wanted to melt into a puddle on the ground with the slowly dripping snow — to be mopped up and flushed away.

In the car it was pretty obvious that Dad didn't know what to say. He kept starting sentences without finishing them, leaving them to float up into nothingness like helium balloons when you let go of the string.

“Now, honey, it's not like …”

“You don't need to be thinking of …”

“It's perfectly normal to …”

I wanted more than anything for him to just stop talking, but he kept trying to put his words together — and kept letting go of the string.

We finally got to the pharmacy, and I handed over the prescription Dr. Mueller had written for me. When it was ready, the pharmacist handed me a paper bag and asked “Have you ever taken birth control pills before?” Loud enough that I'm sure half the store could hear her.

“No,” I whispered.

“Okay. You're going to have to remember to take them at the same time every day, okay? Every day, no skipping.”

“Sure,” I said, nabbing the bag off the counter and bolting for the front door. I didn't even look back to see if Dad had followed me, though of course he had.

This can't be normal.

Dad told Mom about my prescription. I heard them talking about it in the living room. Mom sounded surprised, but it wasn't like she sounded worried or weirded out or anything. For someone who didn't even want to talk to me about sex, how is she okay with me being on
the Pill
?

I wanted to shut off my body, my brain. I knew I couldn't, though. So I did the next best thing. I went downstairs to watch TV by myself in the basement.

The basement's a total wreck since Dad started trying to renovate it. I don't think he has a clue what he's doing, but he's trying hard to make the place more like home for Z and J.

I'd tried calling Trisha, but her mom said she was in the middle of practising piano. I could hear her playing endless scales in the background, so I said never mind, I'd talk to her tomorrow at school.

I sat there on a stray milk crate amidst the construction site, flipping channels for an hour without finding anything that seemed worth watching.

Later, Dad came downstairs to see how I was doing.

“Everything okay down here, kiddo?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said, not taking my eyes off of the TV as the pictures flashed in quick succession.

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“Not really.”

“Like what I've done with the place so far?” he asked, turning to survey his work.

“It's fine.”

“Well, all right. Don't stay up too late.”

“I won't.”

Flip, flip, flip
.

Nothing.

Even later, just as I was starting to get ready for bed, J came by my room to talk. It's pretty hard to keep a secret in a house this small. Z must have heard Mom and Dad talking about the Pill, and then told her about it. It felt pretty awful to think that everybody knew about my new prescription before I even had a chance to figure out what it really meant, but I was still glad to see J's face at my door.

“Hey,” she said, poking her head in, “can I come in?”

“Sure. Uh, how are you feeling?”

“Pretty good,” she said, sitting down on my bed. “The morning sickness is getting a bit better. I can't seem to stop drinking apricot nectar, though. I'm, like, addicted.”

“Yeah,” I said, sitting down beside her, “the stuff Mom brings home from the health store near her work is good.”

“I know, it's heaven.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“So, hey,” J said, “I know it's none of my business, and you can tell me to butt out anytime, but I heard about your appointment today.”

“Yeah. It's … um … it's kind of —”

“What, embarrassing?”

“They put me on the Pill,” I whispered.

“Yeah, that's what I heard.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “I was on birth control when I was younger, too, you know. Not that much older than you, actually.”

“How old?”

“I think I was about fourteen?”

“I'm almost thirteen.”

“I know.” She took her hand away. “Next month, right?”

“Uh-huh. April seventeenth.”

“Cool, I'm sure we're going to have an awesome party for you.”

“Maybe.”

“I'm sure we will. But anyway, about the Pill? Just watch yourself when you start taking it. Pay attention to how it makes you feel, okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“It's just … well, when I started taking the pill it really messed with my moods. I was depressed, Jo. Pretty badly, actually. But no one had told me that the Pill would do that, so I thought it was just me. Did your doctor tell you anything like that?”

“No,” I said, trying to remember Dr. Mueller's exact words. It was all a mush-mouth blur.

“I don't want to scare you,” she said, “and you're probably on a really low dosage anyway, but it's something you should know about. I wish someone had told me; I thought I was going crazy.”

“So the Pill made you crazy?”

“Ha, no, I wish it were that simple. There's, uh, a whole lot of mental illness in my family. I guess I'm just more, you know, susceptible to depression because of that. I've got to be pretty careful. Take good care of myself, you know?”

“Oh,” I said, “wow.” Had J just admitted she was actually crazy? She was so calm and matter-of-fact about it, like it was normal. Wow.

“Sorry, Jo, am I freaking you out? I know I can go a bit overboard sometimes. I just wish someone had cared enough to tell me the truth about my body from the beginning, you know?”

“No, no, I get it. I think.”

“Cool. I'm sure the Pill will be fine for you. But you can ask me anything if you ever start feeling weird, okay? Even if you don't.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Why'd you get pregnant?” I asked, completely without thinking. I clamped my hand over my mouth and slowly shook my head. What a dumb thing to say.

“I didn't plan to. But I'm guessing you already figured that out.”

“Sorry I —”

“Naw, don't be sorry. There've been too many secrets around here already. My dad wasn't cool the way your parents are.”

“Huh?”

“Seriously, letting Zim and me live here? My dad would never.”

“What about your mom?”

“She took off when I was little. Really little, I barely remember her.”

“Oh. So what about your dad?”

“My dad had, has, a lot of problems. His whole family does. It's kind of a mess. I've been living on my own for a while. I moved out when I was seventeen.”

“But how could you afford to, you know, live?”

“I didn't finish high school. I started working as soon as I could to pay my rent. I lived in some really awful places when I was younger.”

“Worse than Zim's old apartment?”

“Oh my god, that place was like a palace compared to where I was living.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. It was bad. So when I met your brother, I just fell for him right away. He was so different from every other guy I'd known. He's a keeper, your big bro. He's — well, he's a pretty amazing guy.”

“Most of the time.”

“Yeah.” She smiled. “Most of the time.”

“Anyway, it made me tough, going through all that,” she said. “I may not make all the right decisions.… I mean, I know I've made some bad ones. Tons of them. But somewhere along the way I decided that things, my life, everything, would always work out for the best. I had to, it was all that kept me going. So I figured that if whatever was going on wasn't that great yet, it just meant that I hadn't worked it out. The story wasn't over, you know?”

“Everything always works out for the best?”

“I'm telling you, it helps.”

“Maybe.”

“Just think about it. Hey, I never told you how much I like your new haircut, did I?” she said.

“Really?”

“Yeah, it definitely suits you.”

“Seriously?”

“You bet. But, hey, you still want to help me with my hair?” J pointed to her shaggy bangs, now completely grey.

“Yeah, let's do it.”

We went into the bathroom — our poor, overused, non-spider-ridden bathroom — and J got out Z's electric razor. It was just like the one that Marco had used on the back of my neck at the salon and I got a tiny little jolt of excitement just holding it in my hands.

J put the lid down on the toilet and took a seat. She grabbed the navy towel I'd ruined with zit cream and wrapped it around her neck

“Are you sure about this?” I asked, thinking of the last time that Mom had tried to cut my hair — a complete and total disaster.

“Absolutely. It's impossible to make a mistake with this. Everything must go.”

“Everything?”

She smiled.

“Everything.”

I plugged the razor in and switched it on. It buzzed to life and I felt another tiny jolt. J solemnly lowered her head and closed her eyes.

To start, I shaved a big fat line down the middle of her head like a reverse mohawk. The back was already pretty short — she'd shaved it a couple of months before, she said — but it was still shocking to see that stripe of J's pale white scalp. From there I kept on buzzing in neat lines, one after the other, like I was mowing a lawn. When we were finished, there was a small pile of pale-pinkish grey and brown hair on the cold tiled floor.

J opened her eyes and looked in the mirror. “It's perfect,” she said, turning her head at different angles to get a good look.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah.”

She went and got our broom and dustpan from the kitchen, swept up the trimmings of her hair, and shook them out into the garbage.

“Jen?” I said, when she was almost finished.

“Uh-huh?”

“I'm glad you're here.”

She turned, broom in hand, to totally take me in, and smiled.

Her grin spread slowly across her whole face and she rubbed a hand over her brand-new baldness, shaking loose a few stray hairs onto the floor.

“I'm glad you're here too.”

She leaned the broom against the wall and wrapped her arms around me. I squirmed for a second, thinking about her belly as it pressed into me, but she didn't let go. There were tiny bits of stray hair stuck to her neck, and it made my cheek itchy. I didn't mind, though.