“It’s not just that. It’s because you think there’s something wrong with me for caring about stuff like that. You think I’m shallow, but the thing is, Blake, you weren’t the only person to object to my surgery. Everyone else, though? They did so because they were worried about my health and all the risks involved in breast augmentation. All you’ve talked about is my image, and that makes you just as guilty as me.”
Cameron stood up and headed for the door. “You should have come to see me sooner. Calling my sister to check up on me wasn’t enough.”
Blake shook his head, dazed, as he followed her to the entryway. “So this is it?”
“We’re just too different.”
He was halfway to his car when it occurred to Cameron that she wanted to hug him good-bye—to tell him that she didn’t have a lot of regrets, and that things had been really good for a while. Perhaps it was better that she didn’t, because the faster he was gone, the harder it was for her to change her mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Groggy and still half-asleep, Allie sat in the passenger seat of Cameron’s car. It was eight o’clock in the morning. Surgery day. Her sister had basically recovered and was running a sort of shuttle service that morning, dropping Allie off for her rhinoplasty at the front of the surgi-center, then going around back to pick up their mother after her face-lift.
“Aren’t you excited?” asked Cameron, glancing at Allie. “You don’t seem excited.”
“I’m excited.” She said this because it was easier to agree.
Turning back to the road, Cameron frowned. “You must be nervous.”
Allie shrugged. In truth she was terrified. At the thought of being put to sleep, of being cut open, of having to face her friends afterward, and of turning into someone who cared more about clothes and hair and makeup than about soccer.
Sure, she loved Cameron, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be Cameron.
“You’re acting like you’re on your way to a funeral.”
“It’s not something I can get too excited about, you know? It’s just my nose. Just something I have to get through.”
Cameron pulled up to Dr. Glass’s building. “Do you want me to go up there with you?”
“No, don’t worry about it.”
Before Allie managed to open the door all the way, Cameron reached over and gave her a hug. “Good luck. And just so you know, it’s not too late. You don’t have to get a nose job if you don’t want one.”
Allie pulled away. “Of course I do. Mom and Dad signed me up. This is important to them.”
“But it’s your nose,” said Cameron.
“Obviously.”
“No, I’m being serious. It’s okay to be nervous, but just make sure this is what you want. No one is forcing you to do this, you know?”
“I’ll be okay,” said Allie, getting out of the car and heading into the building.
Once she made it upstairs, she was surprised to find that Dr. Glass’s office was nearly deserted. Madison sat at her desk overlooking the empty waiting room. “Good morning, Allie. Good news. I just saw your mom, and she’s out of surgery. It went really well.”
Allie felt so relieved. “Can I see her?” she asked.
“Oh, there isn’t time. We’re going to be ready for you in just a couple of minutes. Why don’t you have a seat until then?”
“Okay.” As Allie sat down, she glanced at the stack of magazines on the coffee table nearby: Vogue, Cosmo, Vanity Fair, and Marie Claire.
An actress on one of the covers was in the latest blockbuster, and according to Cameron she was Dr. Glass’s patient. Allie picked it up and studied her image. Her skin was smooth and her breasts were large. She was deeply tanned and her legs were long and slender. She was beautiful. Impossibly perfect. What would it be like to be that stunning? Allie couldn’t believe she was thinking of things in those terms, now, especially now that she knew looking like that was impossible. Whatever Cameron had must be contagious.
She flipped through the pages of the magazine. There were articles about getting perfect abs, sculpting your triceps, applying eyeliner, and the pros and cons of using lip gloss instead of lipstick. Everyone telling women what they needed. Allie didn’t even wear makeup yet, but she was already sick of listening.
The next page she flipped to had a survey: MEN CONFESS: WHICH LOOK GETS YOU ASKED OUT? There were three columns with two women in each one. It was a compare-and-contrast thing, and the survey results were printed at the bottom of the page.
The first column showed a woman in a long black dress standing next to a woman in a zebra-print miniskirt. Eighty-five percent of the men preferred the long black dress.
The article included a quote from Leon, an accountant from Seattle. “The woman in black looks more elegant.”
Yet Jeffrey, a lawyer from New York City, claimed, “I’d go for the tarty animal print. It’s way more sexy.”
The next column featured the all-important long hair versus short hair debate. The results were 73 percent to 27 percent in favor of long hair. Thomas, a painter from Chicago, liked short hair because it was cuter, while Jason, an architect from Kansas City, preferred long hair, which he deemed more feminine. These men weren’t experts or professional stylists. They were just random guys on the street.
“Who cares what they think?” Allie asked, amazed and then embarrassed because she’d said it out loud. The waiting room was empty, though. As happy as she was that no one had heard her talking to herself, she was a little disappointed, too, because there was no one to show this craziness to.
As Allie closed the magazine, Madison walked into the room asking, “Did you say something?”
“No.”
“Are you ready?” she asked.
Allie looked up blankly. The question struck her as odd, but at first she wasn’t sure why. Then she realized that this was the first time anyone had actually asked her. And even though she knew Madison’s question was rhetorical, she had to wonder.
Was she ready? Ready for what? To accept some narrow definition of what was beautiful? To strive for an ideal that didn’t exist in the natural world? To want the kind of nose that Gary from Minneapolis preferred?
Was she ready to miss a week of fun in Colorado? To sacrifice her spot on varsity? To give it up to Quincy because Quincy happened to be born prettier? And prettier according to whom?
“Last-minute jitters?” Madison smiled down at Allie as if she understood. “Don’t worry. It happens to everyone.”
“No.” As Allie stood up, the magazine slid to the floor, but she didn’t bother picking it up. She was too intent on making it to the exit.
“I don’t understand,” Madison called. “Where are you going?”
Allie didn’t answer. She ran out of the office and sprinted down the stairs—five flights—and then out the door onto the sidewalk, where she promptly collided with some guy in a suit.
“Hey, watch it,” he yelled, clearly annoyed.
Startled, Allie looked at him. She started to apologize but stopped. How could he be so hostile when he had no idea what she was running from?
He looked at her, disgusted, as if she were insane. It was absurd. Where did he get off?
She laughed a loud, crazy laugh. “You watch it,” she told him, and then turned and sprinted down the sidewalk.
At first she just wanted to get as far as possible from the surgi-center, but as she ran she began to recognize her surroundings. It became clear that she wasn’t all that far from home.
For so long Allie had struggled with whether or not plastic surgery would make her more beautiful, without ever asking herself why she needed to be. If she needed to be.
Everyone talked about fixing Allie’s nose, when it wasn’t even broken. In truth, Allie wasn’t all that worried about what she looked like to the world. She didn’t want to be, because she was much more interested in what she would do in the world.
She ran as fast as she could. Her heart was pounding i
n her chest, but she didn’t feel winded. In fact, she was home before she knew it. It had taken her some time, but she’d finally found her perfect stride.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Leslie Margolis grew up in Los Angeles and now lives in Brooklyn, New York. This is her first novel. Before writing Fix, she studied social anthropology at the London School of Economics. Her focus at that time was the Latin American peasantry, which somehow led to her current field of study, the elusive North American teenager.
For more information about Leslie and to see pictures of Aunt Blanche, her six-toed genius dog, visit www.lesliemargolis.com.
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Fix Page 17
