The Pretty One (25 page)

thirty

deus ex machina (noun): an event or character that appears out of nowhere to resolve the dramatic conflict.

When I get home, Lucy is in our bedroom, packing her suitcase. She spent the night at Marybeth's and I haven't seen her since our argument. It's obvious from the look of surprise on her face that she didn't plan on seeing me now, either.

“Hi,” I say nervously. I take a breath as I ready myself for another confrontation.

But Lucy doesn't even answer me. She just continues packing, as if I'm not even there.

“Are you going someplace?” I ask, finally. (Even though the suitcase is a fairly big clue.)

“I'm going to New York for a few days.”

“When will you be back?”

“Don't know,” she says, zipping up her suitcase.

“Look,” I begin. “About last night…”

“Let's just forget it.”

I know Lucy doesn't really mean that she intends to forget it. What she's really saying is: I'm convinced I'm in the right and you totally screwed me over and I will never ever forgive you as long as I live. I swallow and clear my throat. “This thing with Drew…”

“Over it,” she says, raising her hands.

“I know you're mad,” I interrupt. “But…”

“I'm not mad,” she says.

Truth be told, she doesn't sound mad. She sounds a little tired, and maybe a little rushed, but not mad. “Then why the silent treatment?”

“Marybeth and I have a train to catch.” She wheels her suitcase out of the room and bangs it down the steps. I hear the front door open and close and I know she's gone.

I glance back toward the closet. I see my reflection in the mirror, complete with runny nose and thumb cuticle in mouth. I take my thumb out of my mouth and stare at the face looking back at me. I feel like I'm looking into the eyes of the enemy. But like Lucy, I don't want to fight anymore. I just want it all to go away. I'm ready to admit defeat.

I lunge at the door, slamming it shut. I run downstairs and grab the Hefty bags out of the kitchen cupboard. I hurry back up to my bedroom, determined to rid myself of every stitch of clothing, every stick of makeup, everything and anything that was bought to showcase the new me. I fling open the closet door. As Lucy's dollhouse crashes to the floor, I ignore my reflection while I take my pile of cute tight little shirts my sister had picked out for me and throw them in the Hefty bag. Then I yank all my skinny jeans off the hangers and toss them in, too. In between blowing my nose I fill two oversized Hefty bags full of clothes before heading to the bathroom. I open the makeup drawer that I share with Lucy and begin to quickly sort through it, putting my stuff in the trash and leaving Lucy's scattered across the floor.

After I'm done with the makeup I open the medicine cabinet. I pull my stent out of its protective case and whip it into the Hefty bag. As it disappears into the trove of lip glosses and snot-filled tissues, I'm suddenly so disgusted that I feel nauseous. I wrap my arms around my belly as I bend over the toilet and begin to dry heave. When I'm done, I wipe my face with my hands and turn back toward the medicine cabinet. I shut it closed, inadvertently glimpsing my reflection in the mirror. I pause to look at my mascara-streaked and snot-filled face and wonder how awful-looking I'll be when my nose closes up. Will it just collapse or will it shrink in place? Before I can stop myself, I'm rifling through the Hefty bag, desperately picking through snot-filled tissues and tubes of lip gloss looking for my stent.

“Megan?” My dad is standing in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“I threw out my stent,” I sob.

He hesitates and for a minute, I'm pretty certain he's going to blow his top. As in: YOU THREW OUT YOUR STENT? ARE YOU @#$%! CRAZY??

But he doesn't say a word. He steps over the makeup scattered across the bathroom floor and kneels beside me as he starts digging through the bag.

“Here it is,” he says, handing it back to me.

I take the stent and drop backward, leaning up against the bathroom wall. He pauses, just looking at me. We sit there for a while, neither of us speaking.

“Come on,” he says finally, offering me his hand. “I just found a bag of Fig Newtons your mom hid from me.”

“Fig Newtons?” I say, wrinkling up my nose.

“She's on a health kick.” He shrugs. “I figure they're better than nothing.”

He has a point. I take his hand and follow him downstairs. I take a seat at the table and he hands me a box of Kleenex. I wipe my nose as he pours us two humongous glasses of milk and sticks a brand-new bag of Fig Newtons on the table.

“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.

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.

“Break a leg,” Drew whispers.

And just like that, I'm awake.

I turn back toward the curtain, keeping my eyes trained on the rodent. The rodent says something into his headset and gives us a nod, indicating that it's showtime.

I feel like I licked my finger and stuck it into an electrical outlet. Every single muscle is wound tight and ready to spring into action.

Just breathe.

Just breathe.

Just breathe.

The curtains open and I'm suddenly flooded in light. I'm supposed to look over the audience at the moon in the corner of the theater that Laura made out of cardboard and painted a fluorescent, glow-in-the-dark yellow, but instead I make my first mistake, staring directly into the packed audience. At first I can't see anything, but I keep staring until my eyes adjust to the darkness. I squint, trying to make out the shapes and forms in front of me. Slowly, recognizable figures form in front of me: my parents front row center; off to the left, on the side of the theater, Simon. Toward the back of the auditorium is George, sitting next to Laura and Catherine. A couple of rows in front of them are Lucy's friends Annie, Maria, and Jane. A couple rows over from them are Mr. Lucheki, Mrs. Bordeaux, Mrs. Habersham…in fact, everywhere I look I see someone I recognize. Everyone, apparently, has come to see Drew's play. Everyone except Lucy.

“Hey,” Drew says, as he walks toward me.

The entire audience is looking at me. I swallow, readying myself for my first line. “What…what…,” I begin. What am I doing here? Someone help me!

“You're probably wondering what I'm doing here,” Drew says, covering for me. My first line. I screwed up my first line. How in the world am I going to make it through the rest of the play?

“I've been looking for you,” Drew continues. “We need to talk.” He sits down next to me. He pauses, glancing toward my hand, which is visibly shaking. MY HAND. That's right. I'm supposed to take his hand. I put my quivering hand on his and he withdraws it, just like he's supposed to. Just like we've done a million times before.

“Don't you want to know why I was afraid?” I blurt out. Oh God—that's the wrong line. I skipped a line.

“I know why,” Drew calmly improvises. “Because you heard that bad things happen on a full moon. That all the vampire lore, the werewolf stuff—that it's based on documented truth.”

I'm breathing
really
hard now and even though I took a double dose of my nasal spray I can still taste something dripping into my mouth. I wipe my nose with my other hand as I glance at Drew as if to say I'm sorry.

“That's why I gave you the necklace,” Drew says. I know he's trying to feed me my line but it doesn't help. I'm drawing a complete and total blank.

“Do you still have it?” he asks calmly, trying to feed me my line again.

But I can't think. Instead, I stare into the audience. I can see people begin to look at one another, like, what the hell is going on? Why is she dripping snot all over the place? Why doesn't she wipe her nose? Why doesn't she KNOW HER LINES? Simon has taken a seat in the third row and is covering his eyes as if he can't bear to watch.

Oh God. I can't do this. I'm sinking. I'm dying a slow, painful death…

“You told me that the Rune is the key to eternal life, that it would protect me…” I hear someone whispering offstage.

I glance over Drew's shoulder, to where the rodent is standing. But he's no longer there. In his place is Lucy, standing with Drew's script in hand. She nods at me to continue as she mouths my line once again.

“You told me that the Rune is the key to eternal life, that it would protect me…,” I say. My eyes fill with tears. She came.

“Even when you weren't around to do it yourself…,” Lucy whispers.

“Even when you weren't around to do it yourself,” I say loud and strong, blinking back the tears and wiping my nose again. “I never take it off.”

“Look, about last night…I—we—it was a mistake,” Drew says, visibly relieved.

I glance at Lucy, waiting for my next line.

“Personally, I think there's something to it…,” she whispers.

“Personally, I think there's something to it. The werewolves and vampires theory, I mean,” I say. And then, even though my character is supposed to be totally upset, I smile. I can't help myself. I'm so happy that my sister is here, that it's impossible to pretend otherwise. I'm not that good of an actress.

I make it through the rest of the play with Lucy in the wings, feeding me an occasional line. Finally, the lights go down as the curtain closes. It opens again almost immediately and I take my bow as the audience claps. I think a lot of people are happy and relieved that I made it through without having a heart attack or gushing anymore cerebrospinal fluid in front of everyone. But I'm pretty sure the applause has little to do with me and almost everything to do with Drew. But even though I may not have knocked it out of the park and wowed the crowd with my performance, it wasn't horrible. I mean,
I
wasn't horrible.

When the curtain closes again, Drew takes my hand and sweeps me into his arms. “You did it!”

But there's no time for tender moments. Almost immediately, Drew is surrounded by well-wishers and I finally have an opportunity to do what I've wanted to do all night. I hurry over to the side of the theater where Lucy was just standing. But she's not there.

“Have you seen Lucy?” I ask the rodent.

“I think she left,” he says casually.

Lucy left? Without saying good-bye?

I run to the side door and peer out into the hall, but there's only a few techs milling about.

“There she is!” I hear my dad yell.

I turn around as he makes his way up the side stage steps, followed by my mom. He's holding a big bouquet of red roses in his hand.

“You were great!” he says, handing me the roses and kissing me on the forehead.

“We're so proud of you,” my mom adds, giving me a hug.

“Thanks,” I say, accepting the roses. “They're beautiful.” I had watched my sister receive more bouquets than I could count, and it feels good to finally be getting my own. “Did you guys see Lucy?” My dad glances at my mom as though he doesn't quite know how to respond. “She didn't say good-bye.”

“She said to tell you that she thought you did great and that she would see you at home later,” Mom says.

“Oh…okay,” I mumble, trying hard not to look as upset as I feel.

“She said this is your moment. She thought she'd just be in the way,” Dad says.

This was your moment…

I press my nose to the petals as I clutch the bouquet to my chest.

“But she did come home early just to be here for you tonight, Megan,” Mom reminds me.

I flash my parents a smile. “I know,” I say.

The rodent has opened the curtains again. I look at the people still filing out of the auditorium and catch sight of Simon toward the back. He gives me a little smile and for one terrific moment, I think he's going to come and see me. But instead, he turns his back to me and walks in the opposite direction. As he exits the theater, I give him a little wave good-bye.

“Should we go get something to eat?” my dad asks enthusiastically.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say. “But I'm not all that hungry.”

“Are you sure?” Mom says, glancing after Simon.

I look around. Although the stage is still crowded, Drew is no longer in sight. “I'm sure.”

I say good-bye to my parents and head back to my dressing room, once again, alone. I step inside and turn on the light.

That's when I see it: a shoe box. But it's no ordinary shoe box. The inside has been made to resemble the production studio, complete with ugly blue floor, little bookshelves stacked with miniature paint cans, a miniature table saw, and a miniature circular saw. There's even sawdust scattered across the floor. And in the middle of it all, is Catwoman.

“Thank God for eBay, huh?” I hear Drew say.

I turn around to face him. He looks like he's just stepped out of the shower, his face free of stage makeup and his longish hair damp and combed back off his face.

I swallow and say, “You did this?”

“You seem to be so happy when you're there. I thought, this way, you can take it home with you.”

I glance from Drew back to the gift he has made for me with his own hands. I feel like I'm going to melt right into the casting couch.

“I wanted to give you something and, well, flowers just didn't seem right. Too corny or impersonal or something.”