Keeping the Moon(20)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“It hurts,” I said. She’d searched for some ice cubes, but no luck: she’d forgotten to fill the tray the night before.

“Of course it hurts,” she grumbled, tipping my head further back. “Life sucks. Get over it.”

Obviously, we wouldn’t be best friends immediately.

To distract myself, I looked over at the mirror. “Who’s that girl?”

“What girl.” Another yank.

I had tears in my eyes. “That one,” I said, pointing toward the chubby girl in the turtleneck. “In the yearbook picture.”

She gave another good yank, then looked where I was pointing. “My cousin,” she said distractedly.

“Oh.”

“She’s a real looker, huh.” She switched the tweezers to the other hand, flexing her cramped fingers.

“Well, she’s,” I said, “I mean, she’s very . . .”

“She’s a dog,” she said, settling in to start on my other brow. “It’s no secret.”

It was always so easy for beautiful girls. They never could understand how lucky they were. But I knew her cousin, knew what she was going through. And I couldn’t take my eyes off her, even as Isabel worked to transform me.

She was finishing my eyebrows, just plucking stray hairs here and there, her face close to mine.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I asked her.

She sat back, putting down the tweezers. “You know,” she said, “when you say stuff like that I just want to slap you.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” She picked up her beer and took a swallow, still watching me. Then she said, “Colie, you should never be surprised when people treat you with respect. You should expect it.”

I shook my head. “You don’t know—” I began. But, as usual, she didn’t let me finish.

“Yes,” she said simply, “I do know. I’ve watched you, Colie. You walk around like a dog waiting to be kicked. And when someone does, you pout and cry like you didn’t deserve it.”

“No one deserves to be kicked,” I said.

“I disagree,” she said flatly. “You do if you don’t think you’re worth any better. As soon as you saw that girl today you crumpled. You just opened the door up and let her stomp right in.”

I thought of Mira, how much it bothered me that she hadn’t fought back. “She’s—”

“I don’t care who she is,” she said, waving her hand as she interrupted me, again. “Self-respect, Colie. If you don’t have it, the world will walk all over you.”

I looked down, running my tongue over my piercing.

“See,” she said, “you’re doing it again.”

“I am not.”

She lifted my chin so I had to look at her. “It’s all about you, Colie.” She touched one finger to her temple, tap tap tap. “Believe in yourself up here and it will make you stronger than you could ever imagine.”

There is something infectious about confidence. And for that one moment, with my eyebrows burning and my eyes watering, I believed.

“And good hair never hurt either,” she said, grabbing the dye box off the floor. “Come on. I’ve got plans later but if we hurry we can get this done now.”

I just sat there, peering in the mirror at my reflection. One small change, but I looked different already.

“Let’s go!” she yelled from the kitchen. I took one last look at myself, framed by all those beautiful girls, and went to put myself in her hands. But when she sat me down in a kitchen chair and tipped my head back over the sink, telling me to close my eyes, I could think only of that one girl, her dorky fat cousin, as the water splashed all around me.

Chapter seven

I was on my way home when I bumped into Norman.

Literally. I was walking backward, waving good-bye to Isabel, when I crashed into something solid.

“Mmmpht,” it said, and there was a thump and a clatter. I turned around to see Norman, lying underneath a huge painting with only his feet and head sticking out. He blinked at me.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” I was alarmed. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said easily, carefully moving the canvas and sitting up. It was a strange night, balmy, with the wind coming off the water in a curvy kind of breeze. My shorts were flapping against my legs and everything smelled like rain. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be.” He stood up, flexing one of his wrists, which cracked. He was wearing a T-shirt that said CAN’T STOP DANCING! in worn, white letters. “I was just going to drop this off,” he said, nodding toward the canvas.

“What is it?” I said. The breeze blew across us again, ruffling the trees. I could hear thunder off somewhere, a low grumble like someone clearing his throat.

“Oh, just this painting I did,” he said. “It’s part of a series.”

‘You paint, too?”

“Yeah.” He tipped it back and looked at it, then rested it against his legs again. “Well, my best stuff is this kind of object sculpture. I’m really into bicycle gears right now. But I’ve been working on this series of paintings for my portfolio for art school. It’s kind of experimental. This one’s of Isabel and Morgan.” He turned it around so I could see.

They were both in sunglasses. Morgan’s pair was red and cat’s-eye shaped, with black edging; Isabel’s, big and white, took up half her face. They were sitting at the counter at the Last Chance. Morgan was resting her chin on her hand, and Isabel had her lips pursed, as if she was about to blow a kiss. Even if I hadn’t known them, I would have understood they were close. All they were was right there to see.

“This is great,” I said. He shuffled his feet. “I’m serious, Norman.”

“Well, it’s okay,” he said in his lazy way, turning it so he could look at it again. “I’m really interested in the idea of anonymity and familiarity. And sunglasses, you know, are so indicative of that. I mean, they’re worn by some people to hide themselves. But they’re also a fashion statement, meant to be noticed. So there’s a dichotomy there.”

I just looked at him. Even after a month of knowing and working and talking with Norman, this was the longest, most complicated thing I’d ever heard him say.

“Norman,” I said, as the thunder rumbled closer, “that’s amazing.”