Sometimes, scrolling through these can help me. I like the before-and-afters, seeing exactly how people’s faces changed. Most of the time, I even like reading their recovery stories, even though they’re usually full of pain pills and Ensure nutrition drinks and massive swelling. Tonight, I click on a thread I’ve read a million times before from a guy in Australia who had underbite surgery two years ago. But right now, even reading the normally reassuring details of someone else’s transformation doesn’t make me feel better. All I can think about is the harsh glare of the spotlight on me as I stand onstage, my voice squeaking out of my mouth and floating up toward the rafters as everyone in the audience laughs at me or feels sorry for me.
I pull out my phone and call Derek.
“Hello?” he asks.
“Sorry,” I say. “Did I wake you up?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, no. I’m on the Wikipedia page for lemurs. Did you know that lemur means ‘spirit of the night’ in Latin?”
“I did not,” I say. “And I can’t imagine many people do.”
“Well, now we both know, so you’re welcome.”
“I’m sure this will come in very handy during the ‘Lemur Facts’ portion of my audition tomorrow.”
We’re both silent for a moment, and then he says, “So what’s up?”
I sigh. “I’m nervous. Why am I doing this?”
“Honestly, I’m not super clear on that.”
“Not helpful!”
“Okay, okay.” For a few moments, he doesn’t say anything, and I start to think the call got dropped. I’m just about to ask if he’s still there when he says, “You’re doing this because you want to try something. You feel like taking a risk. You’re ready to let people really see you.”
Oh. Derek can always do this—easily figure out exactly what’s really going on in my head, even if I can’t. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve known someone almost your whole life.
“And because I want to kiss Noah Reed,” I say lightly.
“Hey,” Derek says, “did you know lemurs have something called a toilet claw?”
“Hanging up now!” I laugh.
“Night, Jolie.”
“Good night.”
I sit my phone back on my nightstand, rest my head against the pillow, and stare at the ceiling. Yeah, so I tried to play it off like I’m only doing this to kiss Noah. And I do want to kiss him.
But Derek’s right—there’s a pretty big part of me that’s actually curious about whether or not I can do this. Can I, the same Jolie Peterson who’s spent years doing everything she can to make sure people don’t see her, actually get up onstage and demand attention?
My phone buzzes.
A text from Derek: Seriously, stop stressing out and get some sleep.
I smile and close my eyes.
* * *
I wake up feeling queasy about the audition after school, but first I have to get through an appointment with Dr. Kelley. Getting out of my morning classes is the only good part of going to my appointment, where Dr. Kelley will inevitably study my X-rays while making a serious face and muttering to herself. In my experience, you never want someone to mutter while they’re looking at an X-ray of your face. It just doesn’t bode well for you.
There are fewer menopause-related magazine ads in Dr. Kelley’s waiting room, which is probably because I’m surrounded by twelve-year-olds. The TV is playing a compilation of Disney songs, and the small children surrounding me are rapt. I feel like leaning over to the girl next to me and asking, “What are you in for?” but she’s busy texting. And anyway, I can tell by looking at her that she doesn’t have an underbite. She probably just has a gap between her front teeth or crowded molars or some other minor issue that’s easy to correct. I involuntarily sneer at her at the exact moment she looks up at me, and I have to glance away quickly.
The TV has just started playing “Let It Go” for the third time when the receptionist calls my name and both Mom and I stand up.
“Seriously, Mom. You don’t have to go in there with me.”
“Of course I have to go with you,” Mom says, striding ahead of me as I sigh, feeling even more like one of the twelve-year-olds in the waiting room.
Dr. Kelley has tight curls that are always perfectly maintained and she wears heels that look at least five inches tall, which seem like they would be difficult to stand on all day. But she always looks calm, comfortable, and in control, which is exactly how I want the person who’s going to break my jaw to look.
We all look at the printouts of my jaw. Sometimes, it’s easy for me to forget how different my face is from everyone else’s, but looking at it in front of me in black and white, it’s impossible not to see.
Dr. Kelley points out the place where my jaw will be broken, how much of it she’ll take out, and how she’ll slide it back into place to approximate a more “typical bite.” Referring to my teeth as a “bite” will never stop being funny to me, but I’ve learned not to laugh or make too many vampire references.
“So,” I say, “I was reading on WebMD—”
“Don’t do that,” Dr. Kelley says.
“Well, it’s too late, and I read that sometimes surgery can cause permanent facial numbness. Is that true?”
Dr. Kelley nods slowly. “It’s possible, but I urge you not to take that too seriously. Any numbness is typically not that noticeable.”
After a second of silence, I ask, “So could I die during surgery?”
“Jolie!” my mom scolds.
Dr. Kelley stifles a laugh. “There’s always a risk involved in any surgery. But, no, I can say with almost certainty that you’re not going to die.”
“But I could,” I say, raising my eyebrows.
“And a rogue asteroid could hit our building right now and kill us all,” Dr. Kelley says.
Great. Another thing to add to my list of worries: a giant asteroid.
“Which is not to say that there aren’t risks,” she continues.
I lean forward again. “Like?”
“The aforementioned numbness. Nerve damage.”
“What about leaving a towel inside my body?” I ask.
Dr. Kelley tilts her head. “I’m pretty sure I would notice if there was a towel in your jaw.”
“Right.” I nod. “That would probably be more of an issue if we were operating on my stomach or something.”
Dr. Kelley opens her mouth, then closes it again. “Let’s get back to your X-ray,” she says finally.
I half listen as she goes through the details of the surgery, the ones that I’ve already heard a million times. All I’m thinking about is numbness. It could happen—my lips could become numb. I’ve never even had a full-blown, mind-melting, hot and heavy make-out sesh, and now I could get saddled with numb lips? Life is unfair. I start to understand what Abbi was telling me last night, about how you think you have all the time in the world when you really don’t.
I know I should be relieved that Dr. Kelley said I’m not likely to die, but she didn’t say it was impossible. It’s not like Derek’s dad knew he was going to die when he went to work that day— it just happened, and he wasn’t even going under anesthesia.
When we leave the appointment, I’m only thinking about one thing, and it’s not the weird sugar-free lollipops they give out at the reception desk or the trig test I have to take.
I’m thinking of Noah Reed’s lips, and how if I want to get anywhere near them, I have to ace this audition.
Chapter Five
I pace back and forth backstage, my flats sliding across the floor. “I am Jolie Peterson, I am Jolie Peterson,” I mutter to myself. I stop, throw my shoulders back, and announce to a fake tree that must be left over from musicals past, “I am Jolie Peterson!”
“Did that tree forget your name again?”
I turn around to see Derek.
“Thank God you’re here.” I rush toward him. “I need a pep talk.”
“Go get ’em, tiger,” he says, deadpa
n.
I give him my most wild-eyed look. “That’s supposed to help?”
“I’m not Evie!” Derek says, holding up his hands. “I’m not ready to give a motivational TED Talk at a moment’s notice.”
“Then how am I supposed to calm down?!” I practically screech, and Derek holds a finger up to his lips.
“People are auditioning out there. Just take a few deep breaths.”
I wring my hands. “I think I’m hyperventilating or something .”
“You’re not.” I look up and realize that Derek’s staring into my eyes with an almost unnerving intensity, which causes me to spend more time looking at him than I normally do. It’s not like Abbi’s wrong; he is good-looking. Much better looking than he was when he used to burp the alphabet. And the way he’s looking me right in the eyes is kind of making me wonder why I haven’t noticed that before.
“What’s that look all about?” he asks, widening his eyes.
I look away quickly, but before I can worry about translating my thoughts into words, Marla Martinez walks backstage.
“You’re up,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “Thanks for yelling through my audition. It really added a certain je ne sais quoi to the whole thing.”
“Sorry,” I whisper, even though it’s too late to whisper at this point.
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes and breezes past me, leaving the scent of fancy shampoo in her wake. Marla is probably the prettiest girl in school, and her dark hair is tied into a ponytail that somehow manages to look effortlessly glamorous instead of how my ponytails always look, which is sort of weird and lumpy and not something I would ever in a million years wear in front of other people. She’s not only beautiful, but also the cocaptain of the Academic Challenge team (along with Derek), and she has an amazing singing voice, which everyone knows because she was the lead in last year’s musical—pretty much unheard of for a sophomore. I’m sure she killed it this time, too, even with me screeching in the background. Basically she’s perfect, but she’s not even mean about it, so I can’t really hate her. She is remarkably aloof, but I guess that’s what happens when you have a single-minded determination to master every high school extracurricular so you can get into a good college.
“Hey,” she says as she gives Derek a quick high five. I bristle with annoyance, part of me wanting to yell at her, “Hey, he’s my best friend! You never watched Blue’s Clues with him when you were five-year-olds!”
But I don’t. Because that would be inappropriate, and anyway, it’s not like I’m the boss of Derek. If anyone should be upset about him talking to Marla, it should be Possibly Fictitious Melody. I wonder if made-up girlfriends get jealous?
I snap out of my daydream when Peter Turturro, Mrs. Mulaney’s student assistant, pokes his head behind the curtain.
“Jolie?” he asks, so impatient he practically snaps his fingers. “Are you coming out? You’re the last audition of the day, and I want to get home to watch Dr. Phil.”
“I’m coming!” My stomach flips a few times and I start to run out onto the stage, but Derek grabs my arm.
“Hey,” he says. “Break a leg out there. Or a jaw, or something.”
I laugh, even though my legs feel like the gross cafeteria Jell-O no one ever eats. I also feel a little bit satisfied because Marla looks confused. “Thanks.”
Peter clears his throat. “Jolie, today Dr. Phil’s having former reality TV contestants on to explain to them what’s wrong with their sad, sad hearts, and if I miss even one of their fake tears—”
“I’m coming, Peter!” I’m so perplexed by Peter’s love of late-afternoon television that I forget where I’m going.
That is, until I step onto the stage and into a spotlight that shines right into my eyes. I now understand the phrase “deer in the headlights,” because that’s how I feel as I come to a stop, unable to move left or right as a potentially very awful situation barrels toward me.
“Hello?” asks a disembodied voice, one that I assume belongs to Mrs. Mulaney.
“Um, hi,” I say, stepping toward the center of the stage. I hear Evie’s voice in my head reminding me to avoid fillers and have a presence. I put my shoulders back and say, “I’m Jolie Peterson.”
“I know,” says Mrs. Mulaney, who comes into focus as my eyes adjust to the light. “You were in my freshman English class, remember?”
“Oh. Right.” So much for presence.
“Okay, so you’ll be reading the part of Prudie,” Mrs. Mulaney continues, and Peter runs up onstage to hand me my lines.
“Make it quick,” he whispers, tapping an imaginary watch on his wrist.
“But I…” I pause. Powerfully. “I’m just auditioning for a background part.”
Mrs. Mulaney waves a hand. “That’s fine. Everyone’s reading this part so I can get a feel for your strengths.”
I’m fairly certain my strengths don’t include being the lead, but whatever. I just nod.
“Noah? Can you take it from the top?” Mrs. Mulaney asks.
What? I look to my right and see him. Noah Reed. Standing there this entire time. He looks up from his paper and even though I know time doesn’t work like this, I swear he moves in slow motion. His eyes meet mine and he smiles, confident and calm.
“Hey, Jolie,” he says.
He knows my name?
HE KNOWS MY NAME.
“Noah!” I say, then have to stop myself from smacking my palm across my face. “I mean … hey. Noah. What’s up?”
He points to the paper in his hand. “Just, you know … auditions.”
“Sometime today, please,” Peter says as Mrs. Mulaney waits patiently.
Noah clears his throat. “Prudie, I know I’m just a simple farm boy, but I have a chance to do something more. To be something more.”
I stare at the paper in my hands, the words blurring together. I try to focus on my line, but the light is so bright, so hot. I feel exposed.
“But what about…?” Noah mutters, prompting me to read the next line.
I’m Jolie Peterson, I remind myself (but silently, not out loud … I don’t need a repeat of the last time I said it). Shoulders back. Chin up.
“But what about our life together? The farm? The pigs?”
My brow furrows before I can stop it. Okay, well, Evelyn did warn me that this wasn’t exactly Tony Award–winning stuff.
“Prudie, you know I’ll miss you, but this may be my only chance to colonize the moon.”
“The moon can wait!” I shout with passion that surprises even me. “What about our wedding?”
“We have our whole lives to spend together,” Noah says, looking into my eyes, and for a moment I just stare at the artfully styled swoop of his hair and the urgency in his face and pretend that he’s really feeling it for me instead of the character. That we’re actually engaged and he’s considering space travel.
“If you go to the moon, we’re over,” I say, my heart breaking just a little as I deliver the line. “When you come back to Earth, you can’t come back here and expect me and the pigs to be waiting for you.”
Wow. A surprising amount of pig talk in here.
“But I love you,” Noah says, and just for one more moment, I let myself believe that someone like Noah could really love someone like me. It takes all I have not to go off script and tell him that the pigs and I will wait for him forever.
“I—I—” I stammer, willing the words on the paper to make sense to me. Beads of sweat pop up on my forehead and my mouth goes dry. The paper shakes in my hands.
Noah coughs quietly, the only sound to punctuate the silence of the auditorium.
“I know you do,” I say with as much force as I can muster, looking right at him. “But you love the moon more.”
“Aaaaand, scene!” shouts Peter. “Are we done here, Mrs. M.?”
“Jolie? Could you wait just a minute?” Mrs. Mulaney asks as I attempt to flee the stage.
Oh God. She’s not going to tell me what a terrible job
I did in front of Noah, is she? Am I going to get a verbal smackdown while Peter Turturro misses precious seconds of Dr. Phil?
“Would you mind singing a little bit for me?”
“But I … I’m just trying out for a background part,” I remind her, my hands folding and refolding the piece of paper in my hands. “I didn’t prepare a song.”
Mrs. Mulaney leans forward. “I know. But I’d like to hear you sing.”
I have to stop myself from scowling. What sort of weirdo is Mrs. Mulaney that she gets her kicks by torturing innocent bad actors? This is like that part on televised talent shows where the judges focus on all the awful contestants, and then someone’s terrible rendition of an Adele song gets remixed into a catchy jingle that everyone makes fun of.
“I don’t really know any songs from musicals,” I say, racking my brain. Presumably Mrs. Mulaney doesn’t want to listen to me screech my way through the Ariana Grande song I heard on the drive to school, and right now I’ve forgotten every other song I’ve ever heard.
“It doesn’t matter what you sing,” Mrs. Mulaney says, clearly trying to hide her impatience. “‘Happy Birthday.’ ‘Twinkle, Twinkle.’ Just sing.”
I look at Noah, as if he can help me out. He shrugs (it’s a very cute shrug, but still).
“All right,” I say, fighting the urge to use fillers and instead employing another pause that may or may not be powerful. “Here goes.”
I avoid looking at Mrs. Mulaney or Peter. I definitely don’t look at Noah. Instead, I focus on all the empty seats in the darkened auditorium as I open my mouth and slowly start to sing “Twinkle, Twinkle,” my voice echoing through the room.
When I woke up this morning, I never would have thought that I’d end my school day by singing a popular children’s lullaby in front of the cutest guy in school. But sometimes life’s just unpredictable, I guess.
When the last few notes leave my mouth, the room goes silent. I watch dust particles float through the stage lighting as I wait for someone to say something.
Things Jolie Needs to Do Before She Bites It Page 5
