The Pretty One (4 page)

My heart drops. “Yeah,” I say. I fight the urge to shove my dress in front of his nose and demand that he show some excitement for my choice.

“I think I'm leaning toward this one,” she says, picking up the pink.

“I liked the blue one better,” I say.

“Oh,” Lucy says, but she's still staring at the pink, not even pretending to consider the blue. It's clear she couldn't care less what I think.

“Whichever one you want,” my dad says, smiling at her like she just got into Harvard or something.

“I'm going to take the pink,” she says finally.

“How about lunch?” I suggest, as we follow Dad to the cashier. In spite of my dad's less than enthusiastic reaction to my dress, I'm still excited and feel as if a celebration is in order. The restaurant next door to Mein-U makes a sandwich called the California Grill—turkey, bacon, avocado on toasted and buttered bread—that is totally dee-lish.

“You just had breakfast a couple of hours ago,” my dad says as he hands me my white-plastic-wrapped dress. “Don't tell me you're already hungry?”

His insult catches me by surprise. I fight my initial reaction (which is to cry) and my second reaction (which is to grab the gold chain around his neck, rip it off, and slap him silly with it). There's a third reaction, too (feed him to a tankful of piranhas), but the pet store is all the way on the opposite end of the mall. “Okay, I won't tell you I'm hungry,” I say quietly.

“I think lunch is a great idea,” Lucy says, supportively looping her arm through mine. “I'm starving.”

And even though I know Lucy isn't really hungry and will order a salad of which she will only eat half, I still appreciate the effort.

four

black comedy (noun): a comedy with a distinctly disturbing quality.

Saturday night. I'm sitting across from my mother at one of my favorite restaurants that just happens to be a couple blocks from our house, the Blue Agave. Although Simon claims the only people who come here are tourists, I think the food is superb and my dad, who is practically an expert on these matters, agrees. “What are you going to get?” my mom asks, peering at me over her menu.

Although I have a reputation as an excellent orderer, I must admit I'm never quite sure what to get here because I've had almost everything (except the lamb since I just can't deal with eating baa baa black sheep), and it's all good. “I'm going to get the pecanencrusted chicken with the fried plantains. And maybe the fried calamari for an appetizer.” I snap my menu shut with authority.

“Mmm,” my mom says, raising her eyebrows as if intrigued. “That sounds good.”

I have a standing date with my mom every Saturday night. Dad is usually at work and my sister has an incredibly busy social life, so Mom and I usually go out to eat or see a movie. I always look forward to it because my mom is totally cool. Even though she works a lot she still finds time to pick up cookies at the bakery to sell at the bake sales, and she'll rearrange her schedule rather than miss a school performance. That's not to say we don't have our occasional issues (for example, I got grounded once for forgetting to lock the front door), but they're few and far between.

As I place my order I'm reminded of yet another good thing about my mom. Even though she is totally skinny and can fit into my sister's jeans, she (unlike my father) never
ever
comments on my food choice or intake. At all.

“So I love the dress you picked out for the dance,” she says after the waitress leaves.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, grinning. I tried my dress on for her when I got home and her ecstatic reaction couldn't have been more perfect. It was almost enough to make up for my dad's lackluster response.

“Dad said you guys had a lot of fun,” she says.

“Oh,” I reply. The mere mention of my father reminds me of my diet. Why did I just order fried calamari?

“You're chewing your nail,” my mom says quietly. She is convinced I bite my nail when I'm upset about something. And she's right. Unfortunately, I also bite it when I'm bored, happy, or distracted. Or when we run out of Oreos.

“You didn't have fun?” she asks suspiciously, still looking at the thumb that is now on the table where it is going to stay, just so I can keep an eye on it.

“It was okay.” I suddenly realize my thumb is inches away from my mouth, ready to sneak back in. Damn. I tuck it under my rear end.

“Just okay?”

I hadn't really planned on getting into all the Dad stuff with my mom, mainly because I knew it would upset her. I also knew she would probably take his side since she likes to do the whole your-father-and-I-are-a-united-front thing. (My dad's no walk in the park, so I give Mom credit for dealing with him. He likes to fly off the handle for the stupidest things. Last week he was cooking and a spoon fell on the floor and he screamed “JESUS #$%^ CHRIST!” like he was bit by a rat.)

“It was just…you know,” I say casually.
Be cool,
I remind myself. “The usual.”

“What do you mean the usual?”

“Um…” The words I know she wants to hear pop into my head, one right after the other: Nice. Enjoyable. Entertaining. Amusing. “Lousy.”

“What?” my mom asks.

Oops.

Now I have no choice but to lay my cards on the table. “I so obviously annoy him.”

“Your father?” she asks, like I just told her I had proof I was born with three heads. “What would make you think something like
that
?”

“It's the way he looks at me. Like I'm repulsive or something.” I know I should've stopped at lousy, but I'm overwhelmed by my own laundry lists of complaints as well as a veritable avalanche of self-pity.

“That's ridiculous. He adores you.”

“So why is he always making a big deal about what I'm eating and stuff?”

“Does he?” she asks, in a kind of you-must-be-mistaken sort of way.

“Come on, Mom,” I say, zipping up my hoodie even though it's about ninety degrees in the restaurant. “Every time he can't find the cookies or something he always asks
me
where they are—not Lucy, not you. He's always comparing me to Lucy and I'm always coming up short.”

“He doesn't compare you to Lucy!”

I can see that my normally calm, cool, collected mom is getting more horrified by the second, and I'm really wishing I hadn't brought all this up. In an effort to make things better, I keep my mouth shut. I just heave a dramatic sigh and roll my eyes.

“Look,” my mom says finally. “He just…he sees Lucy going out to all those parties and, well, having fun, and he just wants the same thing for you. He worries about you, that's all. He wants you to be happy.”

“Happy?” I snort, in a not so attractive way. (Not that snorting is ever attractive. Or sexy, for that matter.) “You can tell him it doesn't matter how many cookies I eat or don't eat. It's not going to impact my social life one way or the other.”

“I know how you feel. When I was in high school I was kind of quiet, too, and my brother was tremendously social. He was always going out and doing things…”

“This doesn't have anything to do with whether or not I'm
social
. I could be the friendliest most
social
girl in the world, and it wouldn't make any difference.”

“What are you talking about?” my mom says quietly.

The waiter arrives with my plate of fried calamari and a salad (with the dressing on the side) for my mother. I suddenly realize my thumb is almost in my mouth. Damn again! I take one look at my appetizer and push it away.

“Look, Mom. I'm not blind and I'm not dumb.
I
know,
you
know, and quite frankly,
everyone who has ever laid eyes on me
knows why I spend my Saturday nights with you while hoochie-mama sister is out partying her butt off. We all know why, even though I'm a
sophomore,
I've never been invited to a single party, why I've never once had a boy like me…never had a boy try to kiss me…never even had a boy notice me…nothing!”

My mom is staring at me. She opens her mouth as if to say something and then shuts it again. Not that I blame her. What can she say? What can anyone say?

“You're beautiful,” my mom says adamantly.

I sigh.

“You are,” she says, taking my hands, “a beautiful young woman with big brown eyes and long, curly hair with natural streaks that I would just kill for.”

I can tell she's serious, that she really does like the way I look. And for that I love her even more. But even a mother's love isn't enough to change the fact that I'm ugly. And to be honest, I could probably afford to lose a few pounds, too.

         

Monday afternoon. Fortunately for me there is one cure-all for depression: Drew Reynolds. And he just happens to be sitting next to me in English class. His hair is kind of tousled in a badboy sort of way that makes me want to run my fingers through it, and he's wearing jeans that have a little tear on the right knee. I think about my beautiful fall festival dress and wonder if he will even notice, and if he does, what he will think when he sees me. I know it's a total long shot, but I can't help but fantasize that it will somehow make a difference.

As I walk into the gym, the crowd parts. No one can believe the transformation. Drew steps out from the crowd. “Holy crap! Megan?” he mouths. I smile (regally) and nod as I walk toward him. He shakes Lindsey off his arm. As she sprawls ungracefully across the floor, he walks toward me (accidentally stepping on her face), his eyes reflecting pure and total adoration….

Suddenly, Drew turns around in his chair and looks directly at me.

“Yoooo-hooo! Miss Fletcher?” Mrs. Bordeaux is saying.

“Huh?”

She sticks her nose in my face. “Welcome back.”

“I was just…I thought I saw someone outside.” I motion to the window, which is miraculously on the other side of Drew.

“I was just paying you a compliment,” she says. “It's a shame you were so distracted you didn't hear it.”

Smirks and quiet giggles.

“In any case, I'm willing to repeat it. I've finished grading the pop quiz and you, Miss Fletcher, are the only one to get an A. I have come to the conclusion that either you're simply smarter than the rest of the class or you're the only one who actually bothered to keep up with the reading.”

I stare at my desk and chew on my thumb cuticle as the smirks and giggles are replaced by annoyed, irritated stares, as if I had done well on the test just to teach them all a lesson.

“Perhaps
Miss Fletcher
is the only one who has
time
to keep up with the reading,” Nancy Abercrombie says snidely. “Most of us are so busy with senior productions and…”

“No excuses,” Mrs. Bordeaux replies, raising her hands to silence her. “Everyone in this school is busy with extracurricular activities.”

I sink even further into my chair as I roll my eyes toward the dirty white plaster ceiling. Nancy Abercrombie has a lot of nerve. For one, she's a sound person, so all she needs to do is flip a switch and hand out the microphones. But still, I can tell from the approving nods that most people agree with her. If I weren't such a loser and had more of a social life, maybe I wouldn't be such a star student. It's enough to make me wish that I hadn't gotten an A. I wonder if this is how Carrie felt before she got the bucket of blood dumped on her.

After class, I'm standing beside my desk pulling a tiny piece of nail out of my mouth when I see Drew walking toward me, his eyes cast over my shoulder in such a fashion that I can almost see why someone might think he was stuck up. But for some reason, I can sense that this is a defense mechanism, like he averts his gaze so he can seem aloof instead of…afraid.

When this thought sinks in, I whip my thumb out of my mouth. Then my heart speeds up and my hands start to shake, because Drew is standing right in front of me, but not quite looking me in the eyes.

“Thanks for making us all look like idiots,” he says, smirking.

My witty retort is “Ha!”

Thankfully, Drew ignores me and pulls a manuscript out of his binder. “You should read this.”

“What is it?” I'm acting as though he just gave me a ring-shaped box tied up with a bow.

“Chris Vicker's play. He's going to start casting next month. I thought you might be interested in reading for it.”

“Auditioning?”

“Yeah. Maybe if I get you busy enough, you'll bring down the curve.” He gives me a nod and grins before turning on his heel and walking down the hall.

“By the way,” I call out after him. “I've decided to go to the fall festival.”

“Oh,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder at me as he continues to walk in the opposite direction, heading toward the steps.

I look down at the script in my hands. If I weren't intending to frame it, I'd smack it right on my forehead. Why would I think Drew might care that I'm going to the fall festival?

         

After lunch, I'm on the first floor heading toward production class when I see a small crowd gathering across the hall from the production studio, outside the auditorium. I've always found it a little cruel that the production studio is tucked away in a dank corner of the school, right underneath the cafeteria kitchen and directly across the light-filled hall that leads to the auditorium. I know it makes sense since we're building the sets, and the farther we are from the theater the farther we have to drag what in some cases are pretty heavy set designs. But it's torture.

There we'd be, covered in sawdust and splattered with paint, walking out of what resembled a giant, cold, windowless garage, practically gasping from the Salisbury steak fumes radiating through the ceiling, and there would be all the drama majors, leaning against the sun-drenched windows looking freshly scrubbed and glamorous, reciting their lines. To make matters worse, the bathrooms where we washed our hands were down the hall, past the dance studio where all the fit little dancers were swirling around in their tights, and past the art studio where all the painters were sketching their Picassos.

I make my way through the crowd of drama majors and have my hand on the door to the production studio when, out of the corner of my eye, I see George Longwell drop to his knees in front of pretty senior drama major, Michelle Berkowitz. George is one of Lucy's friends. He's a natural comedian who loves the limelight, breaking into song at the strangest times, like in the middle of a fire drill or after an exam. George takes Michelle's hand and begins to sing a cappella:

Oh, Michelle, you are divine,

Please, please, say that you'll be mine.

Your beauty continually haunts my mind,

You are, hands down, one of a kind.

Say you'll go the festival with me

And so, so happy, I will be.

“What the hell is going on?” Simon loudly whispers, nodding toward George as he sticks his head out of the production studio.

“George is asking Michelle Berkowitz to the fall festival,” I whisper back. I swipe some sawdust off the top of Simon's head and move closer to the hubbub to get a better look.

I get there in time to see Michelle nod yes and the small crowd, all ten or so of us who have gathered to watch, erupt into applause. All except Simon, that is.

“How pathetic,” Simon says, doing a little jig in an attempt to dislodge some of the sawdust coating his T-shirt.