Rolling Dice

by Beth Reekles

  The main reason I did it, though, was so I wouldn’t have anything to hide behind. Not so I’d look better—although that did factor into it. Back in Pineford, I could duck my head and hide behind my hair, put in my earphones and do my best to be invisible. I wanted to change, be the new Madison. So by hacking off my hair, I’d have to try. It’d be harder to back out.

  I’m not particularly pretty—I know that, and I’ve never expected any haircut or makeup or whatever to change it. Still, compared to how I used to look back in Pineford, with the ugly glasses and braces and extra pounds, I look good—not so drab. And that is good enough for me.

  One thing I did strike lucky on when it came to the gene pool was inheriting my mom’s flawless skin. Well, all right, mine isn’t that flawless—teenage hormones don’t allow that. But it’s close enough.

  The new Madison is cool, daring, spontaneous.

  Daring was the haircut. Cool was covered by my buying a new wardrobe—you know, one that didn’t just consist of plain, baggy T-shirts and shapeless jeans to obscure my figure. My parents were only too happy to finance all of this and see me finally behaving a bit more like a normal sixteen-year-old girl.

  I had yet to check off spontaneous, but that’s something I really can’t plan out.

  I set the spoon down and pick up my mug, swallowing enough of my lukewarm latte that nobody will know I don’t actually like it.

  Then I pack away, putting the phone box back in the carrier and my swanky new cell phone, now fully functional (and with no more help from Dwight the barista, I’m proud to say), into the back pocket of my jean shorts.

  Dwight is cleaning out a coffeepot when I go up to the counter. “Thanks again,” I say to him. I hand over the check, leaving a ten-dollar bill, which is a huge tip for only a latte, but I feel like I owe him for the help with my cell phone.

  When I speak, he looks around and then smiles at me. “No problem. You’re heading off now?”

  I nod. “I need to be home for dinner, so … Well, um, I’ll … I’ll see you around,” I stammer. Then I flash another smile and give an awkward wave before heading for the door.

  “Hey! Uh, Madison?”

  One foot is poised to step through the open door, and I swivel around to look at him. “Yeah?”

  My voice is shockingly calm, seeing as how my heart is suddenly racing, my palms clammy. I clutch the plastic carrier tightly. My mouth turns dry, and I swallow hard.

  Because for a moment I think: Oh my gosh, is he about to ask me out?

  Don’t be so ridiculous, Madison. You don’t look that good. You just met. He wouldn’t ask you out.

  Then Dwight speaks, calling a halt to all my inner ramblings and bringing me back to reality.

  “What’re you doing tomorrow?”

  I blink.

  Was that … Did he just … ask me out?

  “Nothing. At least, I don’t think I’m doing anything. Why?” I think I’m babbling, so I clamp my mouth closed.

  “Well, I was just thinking, since you’re new to town, if … Have you been to the beach yet?”

  “No, I haven’t had a chance.”

  “I’ve only got the afternoon shift tomorrow,” he says, with that easy lopsided smile. “There’s a party there—on the beach—tomorrow night. They do it every year—you know, like an end-of-summer thing. I just thought maybe you’d like to go. You can meet some new people.”

  All those rambling thoughts are gone; now my mind is blank, and it takes me a couple of seconds to respond. Because a) this guy has just asked me to a party and I’ve never been to a party before, and b) this guy, who’s actually quite cute, has not asked me out on a date. “Sure,” I manage to say eventually, with a smile. “I’ll have to check with my parents first, but …” I trail off. Was it too dorky of me to say I had to ask my parents?

  He grins back. “Awesome. Is your cell phone working okay now?” When I nod, he adds, “I’ll punch in my number. I’ll meet you somewhere before so you don’t have to turn up totally alone.”

  I know he’s just being friendly, but I can barely suppress a massive grin. He’s giving me his number! I think as I hand over my cell.

  “It usually starts up around eight,” he tells me.

  “Okay. Um. Okay. Thanks. I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow, then.”

  Would it make me look like even more of an idiot if I slapped my forehead? Jeez, can’t I just form a sentence?

  “Bye, Madison.”

  “Bye, Dwight.”

  As I leave, I’m on Cloud Nine. Seriously.

  I’m going to a party (as soon as I clear it with Mom and Dad)!

  I bounce down the road. Here, on the outskirts of the town, there’s a small strip of shops: the Langlois Café, and the hair salon, and the library; then a drugstore and a couple of independent record and clothes stores.

  I’m not sure what it is that catches my eye, but all of a sudden I stop to look at one shop. It’s not very big, and it’s a bit dark and not exactly highbrow, like the rest of the street. In big cursive writing on the window, I see: Bette’s Urban Body Art Parlor. And the windows are covered with photos of body piercings and tattoo templates. I stand there staring, totally mesmerized by it.

  I jump when there’s the noise of a door opening, almost dropping the carrier.

  There’s a woman standing in the open doorway, arms crossed, looking at me. I gulp. She’s like a catalogue for the place—piercings all over her ears and face, and tattoos on her arms. The soft, slightly tinny sound of an old Guns N’ Roses song plays from inside. She’s plump, with graying wavy hair to her shoulders.

  “Can I help you with anything, hon?” she asks me politely.

  I stare at her, and I know it’s rude, but I can’t help it. She looks like she should have pit-bull terriers at her feet, and a huge Harley Davidson; she sounds like a really sweet mom who’s always baking her kids cookies.

  “Um,” I say, “I’m just looking …”

  I turn back to the window. Out of the corner of my eye I can see her scrutinizing me, and it makes me shift from foot to foot uncomfortably.

  “Ever thought of having your nose pierced, hon?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “It’d suit you,” she tells me, and there’s a smile in her voice. “On the right side, though, because of where your bangs are.”

  “Oh. Well, I never really thought about it.”

  “Well, you know where to find me if you ever change your mind—okay, hon?”

  I turn to look at her and she gives me a warm smile.

  A nose piercing? Mom and Dad would kill me. Didn’t it hurt? What if it got infected?

  But the new Madison is meant to be spontaneous, right?

  And it does sound kind of cool … Plus, it’d suit my new “rock-chic” hair, wouldn’t it?

  I haven’t even finished thinking it through when I hear myself saying, “You know what? Sure. Why not.”

  The lady (I’m guessing she’s Bette of Bette’s Urban Body Art Parlor) raises her eyebrows at me. “You sure, hon?”

  And I smile and nod before following her inside, despite the fact that I’m pretty much freaking out—because a) I have the feeling it’s going to hurt really bad, and b) I’m so dead when I get home …

  Chapter 3

  The nose piercing hurts like heck.

  When I first see myself in the mirror, I can find barely any resemblance of my old self. The “rock-chic” haircut and the sparkly blue stud in my nose are one thing, but the artfully ripped Abercrombie shorts and a cute blue tank top with matching flip-flops are also hugely different from the old me.

  I picture myself as I was back when I started out in high school. Chubby, and with thick lenses in my wiry glasses, and braces I’d had for at least a year. A shapeless sweater and jeans, to make it less obvious that I was far from a size zero.

  It would’ve been better if I’d been invisible. But I wasn’t. It would’ve been better if I was really smart; but I only got As when I
worked for them, so I wasn’t a nerd. It would’ve been better if I was a band geek or in the chess club—but I wasn’t.

  I shake my head, because none of that matters now, not here. I don’t have to be that person anymore. I’m forgetting about her.

  I smile at my reflection. Definitely cool, daring and spontaneous.

  I’m pretty pleased with myself as I walk home. Not just because of the piercing, and not just because a cute guy put his number in my cell phone, but because everything is finally looking up for me.

  Well, until I get home, at least.

  “Is that you, Madison?”

  “Considering I’m the only other person in this state who has a key to the house, no, Mom, it’s not me,” I call back.

  The house smells of cooking, and I automatically know that Dad’s been making pasta. I breathe in deeply: Dad’s cooking always smells amazing. Mom’s cooking often smells a little more … burned.

  “You’re just in time for dinner,” she says, popping her head around the kitchen door for a moment. As I take off my shoes she carries on, “Did you find a cell phone?”

  “Yeah. It has Internet and stuff.” I don’t specify the “stuff” because I’m not entirely sure what the “stuff” consists of just yet. I only know how to send a text, make a phone call, and open Google.

  “That’s good.”

  She doesn’t even ask me how much it cost. She’s just glad I’m acting like a normal teenager.

  I walk into the kitchen, which is all wooden units and ceramic tiling and beige walls, as Dad is dishing out pasta. I grab a plate and sit down at the table.

  “Did you finish putting the rest of the boxes in the attic?” I ask.

  “Yep,” Dad tells me smugly. Mom’s been bugging him to move all the old photo albums and toys from when me and Jenna were kids—you know, the usual kind of junk you keep in attics—out of the spare room for days.

  They sit down, and I realize just how fast and hard my heart is beating. They haven’t noticed the nose piercing yet. Maybe they won’t—at least for a couple of days. Or maybe they’ve noticed and miraculously just don’t care about it. I don’t know, but I’m not going to question it.

  After a couple of minutes Mom says, “You were out a long time.”

  “I went to the café. To try and set up my cell phone. There was this guy who works there, though, and he had to help me work it.”

  “There was a guy?” Mom’s ears perk up at that. I knew they would.

  “Yeah. He said he’s—well, he’s going to be a junior at the high school, same as me.”

  “Really? What’s he like? Was he cute?”

  Yes, I think, he’s very cute.

  But I shrug and say, “Sure. I guess. He was really nice, anyway. He said there’s a party at the beach tomorrow night. Like, a back-to-school thing …”

  “Did he ask you to go?”

  I nod, but hastily add, “He just meant as friends, though. So I can meet people before school starts.” I have to specify it’s not a date; Mom would go crazy if she thought her daughter, who was finally breaking out of her shell and becoming a normal sixteen-year-old, actually had a date.

  “Oh.” She sounds a little disappointed, but then adds, “But that’s nice! He sounds lovely. What’s his name?”

  “Dwight.”

  “Dwight …?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Around here somewhere, I guess. I don’t know. I didn’t ask for his autobiography.”

  “More to the point,” Dad says, pointing his fork at me, “what about this party?”

  “It’s on the beach. It sounds like it’s a bunch of the kids who go to the high school. Dwight said it starts around eight.”

  My parents exchange a brief look, and then my dad tells me sternly, “No drinking, Madison, you hear me? We don’t want you going out and being stupid. You don’t know these people, and I don’t care if they’re all drinking, you’re not.”

  I’m of half a mind to argue, just because. But the truth is, I’m too excited about this party—an actual party!—to argue. I just nod and smile and say, “Yes, of course. Got it.”

  Dad nods and gives me a stern warning look. “Good. And you can be home by eleven-thirty.”

  “What if nobody else leaves then? What if it finishes at twelve, or one?” I don’t want to give anyone cause to think I’m a loser, I add silently.

  “You can be home by eleven-thirty, Madison,” Mom tells me. “Like your father said, you don’t know these people, and we don’t want you staying out till tomorrow morning with them.”

  “Fine,” I grumble, but I don’t make too much fuss. An eleven-thirty curfew is better than them telling me I can’t go.

  We eat in silence for another minute or so, and then Mom says, “Madison, look at me a moment.”

  So I do.

  And her cutlery clatters to the plate, almost flicking pasta over the table. “What the hell have you done to your face?”

  It takes me a moment to realize what she’s talking about.

  I bite my lip, and I can feel my stomach fall away.

  “We trust you to go out and buy a cell phone and you come home with—with that?” she cries. She’s turning red in the face with anger now. Mom rarely gets mad. She’s that loveable kindergarten teacher who adores children. Jenna and I always knew that when our mom was mad, we were not going to get off lightly.

  Once, Jenna smashed an antique vase Mom had inherited when her grandma died. It was completely by accident—Jenna had tripped and smacked into the table. Mom got so angry about it, though, Jenna was grounded for a week.

  So right now, I want to turn to dust and I wish I’d never gotten the piercing.

  “It’s only a piercing,” I mumble defensively. “It’s not like I got a tattoo—”

  “You got a what?” Dad shouts, more shocked than angry. “Why?”

  “Yes, Madison.” Mom’s seething. If looks could kill … “Why don’t you tell us exactly why you disfigured your face like that?”

  “I don’t know,” I mumble. The smell of pasta, which seemed delicious when I walked in, suddenly makes me feel sick. “I just wanted to … I thought it’d look cool …”

  “Oh, Madison, you stupid girl!” Mom says, and in that instant all the anger seems to go out of her. She doesn’t sound mad anymore; more like she’s upset. Sympathetic, even. It’s almost as though the anger directed at me was the only thing keeping her upright; she collapses back into her chair like a rag doll.

  Then she sits back up and leans over the table, putting her hand over mine. “Honey, I know it’s been hard for you. I know. It’s killed me inside. And I know you want to make a good impression here, and make friends—but you don’t have to do something like that just …” She trails off with a sigh.

  She thinks I did it so people will like me more.

  Maybe she’s right. I mean, I thought it’d make me look edgy and cool … A conversation starter. Something that would stop me from being relegated to the background. So, yes, maybe my mom is right—except I did it for that reason on more of a subconscious level. Who knows? I’m not in the mood to psychoanalyze my actions right now.

  I open my mouth, starting to argue that it wasn’t that, but she cuts me off. “Well, you can’t take it out now. It might get infected.” She sighs. “I’m not happy about this, you know, Madison.”

  “I know,” I mumble.

  I expect her to say that I’m not allowed to go to the party tomorrow, and maybe even ground me. I’ve never been grounded before. But then again, if I’d done anything worth being grounded for, what difference would it have made? Back in Pineford, when everyone else went to a party, I just stayed in my room anyway.

  But now, when I think I may actually get grounded for the first time ever, I kind of panic inside a little.

  Then Mom says, “Have you thought about what you’re going to wear to this party?” and that’s when I really, really begin to panic
.

  Jenna phones that night, and after about ten minutes Dad yells up to me, “Madison, Jenna’s on the line for you!”

  I pull the earphone out of my left ear and lean over to my nightstand to pick up the extension. “Hi, Jenna.”

  “Nose piercing, huh? I’ve gotta say, Mads, I did not expect that from you. Mom’s so not happy about it.” She laughs. “Good for you, though. I bet it looks hot.”

  “Heck yeah.” I say it sarcastically, but I actually kind of hope it does, now that she’s said it.

  Jenna laughs again, and before I can ask how the Big Apple is, she dives right in and says, “Tell me all about this coffee-shop guy!”

  “His name’s Dwight. He’s a junior, same as me, and he’ll go to the high school with me too. So that’s good, you know, ’cause I kind of have a friend already. He’s really nice too—he has a great smile.”

  “Aw,” my big sister coos. “What’s he look like? Is he tall? Buff? Cute? Does he look like he plays football or anything?”

  “Well, he’s kind of cute …” I twirl a piece of hair around my finger as I say it, and there’s a smile playing on my lips. “He’s tall. Dark hair. And he surfs,” I add. “But he only invited me to the party as a friend. He wasn’t even flirting, so it’s not like it matters.”

  Jenna totally ignores that last part. “Really? He’s a surfer? Wow. That’s …” She laughs. “That’s actually pretty cool! Sounds like you’ve got yourself a very nice guy in the bag there! And what’s this Mom said about a party?”

  Jenna said party like “partaaay,” which makes me giggle and shake my head.

  “Dwight told me there’s a party on the beach tomorrow night. He gave me his number so—”

  “He gave you his number?” Jenna shrieks. “Omigod! Are you serious? And you said he was just being friendly. Pfft.”

  “Yeah, but only so we could meet up beforehand. He was being friendly!” I insist.

  “Um, Madison, no, he was not, trust me! A guy who gives you his number like that”—I hear her snap her fingers sharply in the background—“likes you.”