I try to slip into Diamond’s persona, the way I imagine her—walking tall, confident, and proud—but I can’t do it.
The giggling gets louder. I raise my head and steadily look at each kid who’s laughing. One by one they turn away. Mom would tell me to stop showing them how much it bothers me and they’ll get tired of “teasing” me. But it’s been years, and they haven’t tired of it yet.
“Sarah! Hey, Sarah!” Madison calls shrilly.
I tense. I shouldn’t respond, not after the degrading picture she posted of me online. I can still see that horrible, doctored photo—pus oozing out of the purple stain on my face, flies crawling over my skin. And in big, bold letters: “Why doesn’t she just get plastic surgery?” More than thirty students left nasty comments about my cheek, probably because they were scared she’d turn on them next, but knowing that doesn’t make it any easier.
Madison calls again, insistently. I know she’ll only get louder if I keep ignoring her. I look at her, careful to keep my bad side turned away.
“Got any makeup tips?” she calls. “Like how to hide facial defects? Or maybe your entire face?” The girls around her titter.
I watch her steadily, not flinching, and she turns away.
Madison is pretty—at least a seven. Pretty enough to grab boys’ attention. But only a few years ago she had braces, rampant acne, and was twice her current weight. I don’t understand how she can act like this—not when she knows what it’s like to be laughed at. But maybe that’s the point. She doesn’t want people to remember the way they used to treat her; she’s one of the Beautiful People now.
I walk past her. Gemma nods at me, her short, nubby black hair exposing her scalp to the cold. I nod back but don’t stop to talk, even though she seems nice. The resident lesbian and the girl with the purple face would make for great gossip.
“Hey, Sarah,” Nick says, edging up beside me.
“Nick,” I say resignedly. Nick is almost as much of a social outcast as I am. He has thick glasses; a soft-around-the-edges, plump body; an insatiable interest in comics, computers, and role-playing games, and not enough awareness to not talk about it to anyone who will listen. In other words, a geek. And today he’s wearing his puffy silver coat that makes him look like a shiny blimp.
“Thanks for the loan.” Nick pulls a graphic novel out of his backpack. Daniel X. I lent it to him last week—at the comic shop. I didn’t expect him to give it back to me so publicly.
I can just imagine the post Madison will do about this. I reluctantly take the book from him and stuff it in my bag. “Did you like it?”
Nick nods, his glasses bobbing up and down on his nose. “It was amazing.”
“I thought you’d enjoy it.” There’s so much in it we can both relate to. Feeling alone. Being alone. Wishing we had superpowers to change our world.
Nick pulls another graphic novel out of his bag, and a bunch of markers spill out onto the slush. His face reddens as he bends down to pick them up. “Try this one,” he says as he straightens and hands me the novel.
Ghostopolis. I haven’t read it yet, but the cover intrigues me.
Behind me, I hear another burst of giggles. I know it’s about me and Nick. Purple stain and doughboy. They don’t care that he’s kind, smart, and good-natured, and sort of cute in a soft, chubby way, with messy, sandy hair that’s always falling into his eyes and a quick smile. All they see is his weight and his social awkwardness, just like they only see my face and how alone I am. I glance back at Madison and see her snapping pictures of us with her cell. I yank my hand back. “Maybe later.”
Nick blinks, his gentle puppy-dog eyes huge behind his glasses. “Okay,” he says fast, and turns away.
I know that move. I’ve done it so many times myself, trying not to let people see I’m hurt. “Wait!”
Nick turns back to me.
“You show your comics to Mr. Simmons yet?”
“No,” Nick says.
“You should! They’re way better than anything anyone around here can do. It would give you some cred, you know? Make those bozos see how talented you are.”
“I don’t need them to see that,” Nick says, smiling sadly, like he is so much older than me, or wiser somehow. But he needs to feel accepted just as much as I do.
I know what it’s like to care about something so much that you feel like you’ll shatter if anyone criticizes it. That’s how I feel about my comic-book writing. Nick is the only one who’s ever read any of my scripts, and that was by accident. A page fell out of my notebook, and Nick picked it up and read the whole thing before giving it back. I was so scared I hardly heard him tell me how good it was, and how much he liked Diamond. I want to show him more, but I can never quite make myself.
So I guess I should understand. But Nick has more talent than most of the kids at school. Someday he’s going to be really well known for his comics, while most of our classmates will work day jobs they hate. “Why not? Maybe they’d leave you alone.”
“You know they wouldn’t. They’d still tease me just as much,” Nick says quietly. “Maybe even more. And if you want me to share my art, you have to share your writing.”
I wince.
Nick laughs. “Exactly. Listen—you want to go to the comic store after school, get some hot chocolate on the way?” His eyes are bright with hope. I don’t know how he can keep asking when I keep refusing him.
I bite my lip. “I can’t; not today. Stuff at home.” Which is true. But I always have an excuse.
Nick looks at me, a funny expression on his face. “You’re not like them, you know,” he says, nodding toward the clumps of students snickering at us. “You’re better. Someday you’ll realize that.”
I stare at him, not knowing what to say.
Nick gives me another sad smile, and I feel like I’ve let him down somehow. He walks away and doesn’t look back.
Charlene’s standing by the chainlink fence, waving to me with jerky, exaggerated motions, her breasts and stomach jiggling. I stride over, drop my backpack to the ground, and lean up against the fence beside her, the metal diamonds pressing into my back, even through my coat.
“I thought you weren’t coming in until later?” she says.
“Change of plans.”
Charlene waits, but I can’t talk about it, not right now.
“Well, I’ve got something for you.” She presses a flat, tissue-wrapped rectangle into my hand. “It’s for after your treatments.”
I tear off the tissue paper. It’s a heavy silver rectangle with a Manga girl on the cover saying, “Who’s the most beautiful girl in the world? Look inside!” I know, even before I lift the cover, that it is a mirror. I slap the cover back down fast, but not before I get a glimpse of the purple-red stain that distorts my face.
“Thank you,” I say, in a too-bright voice like my mom’s. “It’s perfect.”
NICK
8:29 A.M.
I KNOW SARAH DOESN’T like-like me, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to get her to notice me. To see me. Like that will ever happen.
I’m like Clark Kent without the secret hero identity going on. Easily pushed around, easily ignored. But Sarah’s my Lois Lane. She’s got such guts, facing her tormenters day after day, staring them down, never letting them see they’re getting to her.
And she’s classy. She doesn’t cower from the bullies or rat them out. She just looks at them accusingly, and they turn away. She’s so graceful when she does it—and beautiful. God, she’s beautiful. Beautiful and smart and kind, when you get to know her, and she loves comics as much as I do. We’d be such an amazing couple on so many levels. She could write the comics; I could do the art. And the rest of the time—well, there would be a lot of kissing involved.
I wish Sarah could see how beautiful she is. And I wish she could see me for who I am. Because I’m right here, loving her. But she never seems to notice.
SARAH
8:30 A.M.
“YOU SURE YOU’RE OKAY?
” Charlene asks, frowning. “You look upset.”
“I’m fine,” I snap.
Charlene looks sideways at me. “Ooo-kay.” She pops a stick of gum in her mouth. “Want some?”
I shake my head, though the cinnamon smells good. I don’t like to do anything that draws attention to my face when I’m in public if I can help it. And that includes unnecessary chewing.
Charlene stuffs the pack of gum into her backpack, and an empty Cheetos bag and two chocolate-bar wrappers fall out. She pretends not to see them. She must have had a bad night at her dad’s.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Sure.” Charlene chomps on her gum. “My dad only called me a fat cow again last night.”
I clench my fists. “What an a-hole!”
Charlene lowers her voice. “He said no boy would ever want me.”
“Why do you listen to what he says? Your mom left him!”
Charlene shrugs. “He’s right. I’ve never even had a date.”
“You’ll find someone; don’t worry. It just has to be the right someone.”
“You mean someone desperate enough or blind enough to date me. If only I could lose a few pounds.”
I don’t know what to say. I want to tell her she looks just fine to me. I want to tell her she doesn’t need a guy. But I don’t want to sound like my mom. Besides, she knows the hours I’ve spent staring at models’ faces. How can I tell her not to obsess, when I do?
“What does your mom say?”
“That I’ll find someone when I’m ready. She’s becoming almost as New Age cheerleader as your mom!”
“She sounds more right than your dad, though.”
“Whatever.” Charlene shrugs, but her face holds pain. “At least she doesn’t mention my weight. The weekend can’t come soon enough for me.”
She blows a bubble, and the sweet cinnamon scent makes my mouth water.
Charlene swallows the bubble so fast she almost chokes. “Get a look at that new guy over there!” She grabs my arm. “Isn’t he hot?”
I look. Dark hair, nice cheekbones, and great pecs, wearing only a black leather jacket over his T-shirt, even in this cold. He grins cockily at the girls flirting with him. He’s at least an eight out of ten. What makes him so attractive is the way he slouches in his jeans, an almost dangerous vibe coming off him, like he could really hurt someone if he wanted to. I don’t understand the attraction to that type, but it’s clear that I am one of the few girls who doesn’t.
“It’s pretty late in the year to transfer,” I say.
“I heard he got kicked out of Central—but that’s their loss! He’s ours now.”
I frown. “That doesn’t make him hot. Besides, he’s too full of himself. Look at him lapping up the attention.”
“I’d lap him up if I could!” Charlene laughs loudly—a laugh meant to grab attention—and, sure enough, Bad Boy turns to look. His gaze lingers on Charlene, on her full belly and wide hips, her large breasts, her round, pretty face—and then he sees me. He stares at my cheek, his lips curling back.
I can feel all the blood rushing to my cheeks. I turn to Charlene, but she’s got a goofy smile on her face.
“Come on, Sarah, let’s go say hi!” she whispers, digging her fingers into my arm.
I shake her hand off. “No. You go ahead.”
“What’s with you?”
“Nothing! Just . . . be careful.”
Charlene puts her hands on her hips. “You are so not okay. Spill!”
A basketball careens toward us, spraying dirty slush. I slap it back. “They canceled my treatments. Told me this morning, just as I was getting ready to leave.”
“Oh my god, you’re kidding!” Charlene’s rosebud mouth parts open. “But you’ve been planning this for years.”
“Something bad happened at my dad’s company. He can’t afford it right now. I’m so worried about him, Char. It hit him really hard.”
“Oh.” Charlene’s voice is quiet. She knows all about tight budgets and a dad losing his job, struggling to make ends meet. I hope it doesn’t hit my dad the way it hit hers. I don’t want to see him lose his confidence, turn to drink, get mean. But I can’t imagine my dad ever doing that. He has too much integrity.
“What’re you going to do?” Charlene asks.
“Get a job, I guess. If I can.” But the last time I tried to—the only time I tried—the woman made a big deal of my face. I dig my nails into the palm of my hand. There has to be someplace that will hire me. Some way I can help Dad.
“Hey! I know what you need—a diversion,” Charlene says, nudging me. “And the perfect diversion is standing right over there. You’re not going to let the Madisons of the world take him, are you?”
“Madison’s welcome to him.”
Charlene sighs, her hair puffing up off her flushed forehead. “Come on, Sarah. I know you don’t like people staring at your face. But this guy actually looked at me. I’m probably the only girl in school who’s never been kissed.” She blinks as she gazes at me. “Okay, one of the only girls. So do it for me, will you?”
“He doesn’t want to talk to me, Char. He wants to talk to you. Now, get yourself over there.” I give her a little push.
Charlene licks her lips. “Wish me luck.”
I don’t want to wish her anything, not with that guy. My cheek is a great jerk-o-meter; it always brings out what is hidden in people. But I force a smile. “Luck.”
Charlene gives her body a wiggle, then saunters toward Bad Boy. I want to call out to her, tell her she’s worth more, tell her she shouldn’t listen to her dad, but I just stand there watching. It didn’t used to be like this. We used to sense each other’s private despair—Charlene with her plumpness, me with my face—and jolly each other out of it. And that used to be enough. But something’s changed.
I feel sad as I watch Charlene laugh with Bad Boy, practically pushing herself onto him. I have never felt so alone.
NICK
11:30 A.M.
I’M WORRIED ABOUT SARAH. She’s pale and distracted, not even pretending to listen. I stare at the whiteboard as Mr. Talbot writes out an equation. I wish she would trust me enough to let me in. She looks like she needs someone.
The first time I saw Sarah act all hero-like, she won my heart. It was in fifth grade. She was walking home ahead of me. As I rounded the corner, I saw Sarah running after a group of boys who were taunting Googly Eyes—that’s what the other kids called her—a girl with dirty Coke-bottle glasses, her mouth permanently open, and wearing cheap, ill-fitting clothes. I jogged after them, keeping Sarah in sight.
The boys were shoving and laughing at Googly Eyes. Sarah ran right up to them, put herself between them and the girl, her fists up like a boxer, and yelled at them to leave Googly Eyes alone. I thought they might attack her, but when she screamed that they were weak, spineless bullies, those boys took off down the street, running fast. I trailed after Sarah as she put her arm around the girl and walked her the rest of the way home—protecting her like Wonder Woman would. I think that’s the day I really fell in love with her.
Sarah became a hero in my eyes that day. But I’ve never seen her defend herself the way she defends other people. It’s like she thinks she doesn’t deserve it, or maybe she thinks she doesn’t need it. Which is funny. Because what Sarah needs is Sarah. She just doesn’t know it yet.
SARAH
2:58 P.M.
I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE to stop thinking about Dad. I keep seeing his face, how gray it looked, the worry etched deep. I ache from the loss of my dreams, but it’s Dad’s face that makes me feel like I’m underwater.
I’ve caught Nick watching me, and I know he knows there’s something wrong, but what can I say to him? It’s not like we’re friends, not the way Charlene and I are. But I almost wish we were. I could use a friend today.
I push out of the heavy school doors into the gray afternoon, cold wind ripping tears from my eyes. The wind snaps my hair back from my cheek. I don’t even
try to cover it back up; I know it’s useless. Behind me, the door crunches open again, then slams shut. Heavy footsteps echo behind me, and I hear male laughter. My skin tightens.
As I turn the corner, I glance back. Bad Boy is trailing me like a shadow. Bad Boy and a group of his new buddies.
I can feel them behind me, their stares burning into my scalp. They are hooting and hollering, trying to make me run. I slow my pace and lift my head higher. Maybe they’ll get bored and leave me alone.
People stare at me as they pass—not at the boys following me, acting like hoodlums, but at me, minding my own business.
A little boy looks up at me and points. “Mommy, what’s wrong with her face?”
“Shush, honey,” the woman says, not meeting my eyes.
My chest tightens. I don’t look back at them, though I can feel the woman still watching me.
The boys are closer now, their jeers loud in the street. “What’s the hurry, disease girl?”
I speed up, breath jagged in my throat. The dark gray clouds grow heavier and lower.
Out of the corner of my eye, I sense a car keeping pace with me. Another jerk gearing up for an accident, all because he’d rather watch my face than the traffic. I keep my focus on the streetlamp, the mailbox, the dirty store windows that I pass, the children shrieking with laughter as they run through the slush. One of Mom’s stock phrases echoes through my head like a litany: “Educate, don’t aggravate.” I tell the voice to shut up, but it doesn’t go away.
“Hey, burn face!” the new guy shouts. “I’m talking to you.”
Cold wind knifes through my coat. I turn around slowly to show him I’m not scared. There’s six of them—five boys . . . and Charlene?
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