Part 6 (1/2)

No, no, no, no. Blackness builds in me. I need to breathe deep, sit up, and swallow, but I'm stuck here. What will she say if I shove her aside and run out? My mouth is full of spit. Completely. I breathe through my nose, so careful. Concentrate on that. Don't think about the-d.a.m.n!

I must have made some sort of noise.

”Do you need a break?” She sits the chair up.

I swallow all that drool. So gross. ”Are we about done?”

She shakes her head. ”Here.” She pops open a couple of individually wrapped capsules, hands them to me with a gla.s.s of water.

I gobble down those drugs. I don't care what they are.

”Relax for a while.” She turns off the glaring lamps and lights a couple candles. ”I'll be back in half an hour.” She leaves.

The waves crash against the sh.o.r.e, and I scan the place for a mirror. Nothing. Smart folks.

Right on cue, Meadow walks into the room. ”I'm supposed to keep you company.”

”Do you have a mirror?”

She looks at my face. ”I don't think that's a good idea.”

”I need a mirror.” Wait. I have one. In my bag. On my first visit-the one Scott was going to hold my hand through-they decided we needed to clear up my face before they could laser me. They started me out with a new zit treatment, some secret, European spa stuff. They applied it here and sent me home with a supply. Morning, noon, and night. You wouldn't believe my skin. I need to tell Dr. Namar about this stuff. He kept me from being totally engulfed in acne like Aunt Linda says bio-Dad was in high school, but there were plenty of breakthroughs-especially on my back and chest. So nasty. So . . . ugly.

The team also gave me secret, European spa cosmetics, hypoallergenic and noncomedogenic, i.e., they won't give me a rash or break me out. The sleek compacts and tubes look too beautiful to use. I got a lesson in brush technique. I've messed around with it some. The lip-gloss pots are all flavored. Mulberry Lane. Cinnamon Candy. Watermelon Ice. I can't bring myself to wear it too much at school yet. But the pressed-powder compact comes in handy. And it's in my purse, sitting over there on that counter.

I stretch my arms, yawn, bend my head from side to side to crack my neck. ”Hey, can you hand me my purse? I need to text my mom.”

Meadow tosses me the bag.

It's not really my purse. I've never had a purse before. Backpack. Music bag. Purse? Meadow has a closetful.

She tossed this squishy, brown leather bag at me before we went shopping. ”You can't go to these stores with a backpack on your shoulder.”

I was going to leave it in the car. Really.

I search through the big belly of the thing and come up with the compact. I take it out and flip it open fast.

”No.” She tries to grab it away from me.

I hold it way, way out of her reach. I stand up and go over to the door where there's still a soft light on. Four oozing wounds mar my face. c.r.a.p. What if this doesn't heal like it's supposed to? What if it makes bigger scars? My whole face will be one hideous wound.

”What? It's not as bad as it looks.”

”Easy for you to say.”

”My mother looked way worse than you do. When it all heals up, it's like you have brand-new skin. And you're young. It will heal fast for you.”

At that moment I decide Meadow is almost human. ”Really?”

”Yeah.” She slips the compact out of my hand. ”Let me put this away for you.”

I watch her ditch it in the purse.

”You go lie down awhile, and I'll take care of this.”

She leaves with the purse. She's way more into Project Beth than she ever was into singing that solo. Maybe I'll give it back to her and go crawl in a hole somewhere. That would be better than this, wouldn't it? Is my world debut worth all this? I sit down, sink back into the cushy chair, and that's the last thing I remember.

Ooze? Yeah. Gooey, oozy, weepy, p.u.s.s.y mess. And I have school. I'd stay home, but my group is giving a presentation in AP history and if I'm not there, they'll screw it up totally. My GPA needs the solid A I've got in that cla.s.s.

I wash off the crusty c.r.a.p that dried on my face overnight with warm water and the special medicated cleanser they gave me and survey the tube of medicated concealer for the wounds and the beautiful array of cosmetics spread out on my bathroom counter. I've got no choice-the face magnified in the makeup mirror Meadow loaned me resembles a car-accident victim in a driver's ed film.

I smooth on a pinch of the concealer. It must have an anesthetic in it. That little wound feels so much better. I spread it on the rest of my battered face. Smooth on another layer for good measure. Then I brush on the base powder, hit my cheekbones with the blush like they showed me. A touch from the Watermelon Ice pot of lip gloss. I even try to get the eyes right. Concealer. A natural-beige shadow with a tinge of s.h.i.+mmer. Just a touch of brown mascara. Bronzer for a sun-kissed glow to go with my new hair color.

I put on my gla.s.ses and stand back. The effect isn't so bad. As long as my face doesn't start oozing in history, I'm good. I'll ditch after that. I don't care.

”Is that you?” Scott started saying that when they dyed my hair blonde. It's getting old. And the hair isn't pale blonde. No Madonna act here. It's actually only a couple of shades lighter than my natural light brown. Meadow's guy at the salon did an amazing job with the highlights. When Sarah and Leah help me blow-dry and straighten it, it looks nice. Sarah says with my height I could be a model. Until I turn around. For school, I've been letting it frizz out to keep Colby from attacking again, but today I need it away from my face, so I go with the ponytail and straighten my bangs. I made it through the hall without Colby seeing me, but Scott doesn't let up.

He walks up beside me with his books under his arm and leans against the locker next to mine. ”I thought you said the makeup was just for choir. That you felt weird wearing it.”

”I do feel weird. Does it look that bad?”

”What are you trying to prove, Beth?” He flicks my blondish hair with his finger. ”Every time I turn around you're a different person.”

”The laser treatment made a mess.” I throw my backpack in my locker. ”I have to cover it up. Do I look that bad?” I force myself to turn his way so he can examine my face.

He takes his time. ”You look good.” His voice is low again. I can't read what's in his face. He drops his eyes, stares at my knees. ”I didn't think you liked the whole makeup scene.”

”It always made me break out. Makeup is kind of fun. I know I'll never be pretty, but I'm starting to like being less repulsive.” I pull some lip gloss out of my sweats.h.i.+rt pocket. ”What do you think of this color?” I smooth on my soft-pink, s.h.i.+mmery Watermelon Ice.

”It looks tasty.”

I hold it out to him. ”You'll never guess what flavor it is.”

”I'd rather try it on you.”