Things Jolie Needs to Do Before She Bites It

by Kerry Winfrey

I bend down and look for feet in the stalls. And there, in the last one, are Abbi’s gray boots.

  “Abs?” I call again. “I know you’re in there. Or it’s someone else with your boots, in which case … sorry for making this weird.”

  I hear the click of the stall door unlocking, so I gently push it open. Abbi looks up at me, her face blotchy with tears, and sniffles.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, starting to panic. “Are you in pain? Do you feel sick? Is—”

  “I dropped the baby.”

  I pause for a second. “What?”

  Abbi looks at her hands. “The fake baby. I dropped it on the floor. If that was a real baby, someone would’ve called child services.”

  “But it wasn’t a real baby,” I say. “It was made of plastic and it looked like the devil’s spawn. I would’ve dropped it, too.”

  Abbi lowers her head into her hands. “I can’t even handle a fake baby, Jolie! How the hell am I supposed to handle a real one?”

  Oh. So that’s what this is about.

  “Hey,” I say, kneeling in front of her (and fighting the urge to remind her that she’s sitting on a toilet like it’s a normal chair and that’s disgusting). “It wasn’t real, okay?”

  “How am I supposed to do this for real if I can’t even do it for pretend?” she says, giving me a defeated look. “All the moms in there have someone to help them if they screw up. I’m alone, Jolie. It’s just me taking care of this baby.”

  I purse my lips, unsure what to say. I guess I never thought Abbi was all that worried about having the baby, mostly because she never expressed any uncertainty. She just came home one day, said she was pregnant, and started preparing for it. It’s not that I thought being so beautiful meant Abbi didn’t have any self-doubt, but … Well, okay, yeah, I did sort of think that. I thought I was the only Peterson who worried about how screwed up her own life was.

  I don’t think I have the ability to take away her uncertainty completely—after all, I don’t know anything about kids—but there’s one thing I can offer.

  “You’re not alone,” I say. “Maybe you don’t have some guy with you, but who cares? Look at those dudes in there. One of them laughs whenever the instructor says the word ‘nipple.’ How much help do you think he’ll actually be?”

  Abbi lets out a snot-filled laugh.

  “But you have us—me, and Mom, and Dad. I don’t know how to change a diaper or hold a baby, but I’ll try to help you. And Mom and Dad did this two times, so they’re basically pros. We’ll all be there to make sure you don’t drop the baby.”

  Abbi nods. “I know. It’s just hard to compare the way things should be to the way they are.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I know.” And I do, because I want things to be perfect, too.

  “I don’t want to go back in there,” Abbi says. “And not because I’m embarrassed or upset. I mean, I am, but honestly … I just keep thinking that if I prepare enough, if I learn enough, if I do everything right, then everything will turn out okay. But maybe all I have to do is do it, you know? This baby’s coming out whether or not I keep taking these classes.”

  “And also I don’t really want to see those devil babies anymore,” I say.

  “Seriously. Couldn’t they give them happier faces?”

  I hold out a hand and help Abbi up. “I can’t believe you’ve been sitting on a toilet this entire time.”

  She shrugs as we walk out of the bathroom and toward the exit. “It was the only place to sit down and my feet hurt. You up for a Frosty?”

  “Literally always,” I say.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Another week of musical practice goes by, and I keep feeling weird about it, but I’ll admit: It’s getting easier to be in front of everyone. To have everyone staring at me. I start to think of the musical as a refuge from my real life, a way to take a break from feeling like Jolie: The Girl with the Jaw. I’m not Mandibular Prognathism Girl when I’m onstage, I’m Prudie, the love of Bobby’s life, temporary resident of the moon, and the owner of a whole lot of singing pigs.

  What’s not getting easier is waiting for my surgery to happen. It’s almost exactly one month away, and I can’t believe that the moment that will change my life (presuming I don’t die, of course) is so soon. Every morning I look at myself in the mirror, zero in on my jaw like usual, and think, This isn’t permanent. It seems too good to be true.

  I have to skip practice one afternoon to go to yet another appointment with Dr. Kelley so she can check my braces and make sure everything’s lining up in the right place for my surgery. Mom comes with me again, even though (as usual) I tell her she doesn’t have to. I wouldn’t be surprised if she tries to put on a surgical mask and sneak into the operating room, too.

  Dr. Kelley is her typical brisk and efficient self, checking out what’s going on with my jaw and pronouncing everything “beautiful” as she snaps the gloves off. That might be an overstatement, I think.

  “I almost forgot,” she says, grabbing a pamphlet and handing it to me. “This has more information about what happens during your surgery. Of course, you’ll be asleep, but some people feel more comfortable knowing exactly what’s going to be happening.”

  I eagerly grab the pamphlet.

  Mom asks Dr. Kelley something about how long the surgery will take, and I zone out as I flip through the pamphlet. There are cartoon drawings of women before and after underbites, technical terms explaining what’s going to happen, lists of the possible side effects (aka Numb Lip, Unintended Corn Syndrome). But there’s one paragraph that mentions something I haven’t heard Dr. Kelley talk about before. I read the small print under a before-and-after drawing of a woman’s profile.

  “Some patients choose to have rhinoplasty while having their jaw placement corrected. This surgery can further enhance facial symmetry.”

  A nose job? I self-consciously touch my nose, which I’ve never really thought about before unless I have a cold or a particularly prominent zit on it. But maybe there’s something wrong with my nose and I’ve never known it; maybe my face is horrifyingly asymmetrical, like a Picasso painting, and I’ve just been living in a state of blissful ignorance and assuming my jaw is my only problem.

  Mom and I drive home, her phone shuffling through music from badass female rock stars who’ve spent years fighting the patriarchy and sticking it to the man. These are the women my mom’s always held up as heroes—Kathleen Hanna, Carrie Brownstein, Kate Bush. I start to feel a little bit weird about my surgery—am I betraying some sort of feminist ideal by wanting to change my face? Is there something wrong with changing how I look?

  “Is it a bad idea to get surgery?” I ask.

  Mom turns down the music. “Are you still worried that you’re going to die? Because, honey, Dr. Kelley told you that’s not likely.”

  I shake my head, not exactly ready to explain to Mom that I’ve created an entire plan around the assumption that I’m going to die during surgery. It’s not the time. “I mean … am I, like, conforming to society’s pressure by getting my jaw fixed? Am I basically getting a nose job?”

  Mom glances at me before looking back at the road. “I’m not sure how this relates to getting a nose job, but you know what Dr. Kelley says: If you don’t get the surgery, you’ll have to deal with more jaw pain later on, and you’ll keep getting headaches. You might even end up having speech difficulty. And our insurance wouldn’t agree to cover a surgery that’s just cosmetic.”

  “Sure.”

  “But,” Mom says, turning onto our street, “if you don’t want to get the surgery … you don’t have to. This is one hundred percent your choice, and I don’t want you to feel like you’re being pressured into it.”

  “I don’t feel like you’re pressuring me,” I say, and I’m not lying. Mom and Dad have never made me feel like I need the surgery. But I’m more concerned about what I think, and I’m not sure why I actually want to have this surgery. Am I excited about being able to chew better, about not havin
g lasting jaw pain? Duh. But do I also want my face to look different? Well, yeah. And is that a bad thing? I’m not sure.

  I’m still mulling all this over when we pull into the driveway and I see Evelyn sitting on our front porch steps.

  “Did we have plans?” I ask as I step out of the car, already feeling crappy about forgetting.

  “No,” Evelyn says with a wry smile. “This is a surprise visit. A little ‘my mom blew up and says that if I don’t pass my next history quiz she’s going to make me drop out of the musical’ social call.”

  I gasp. “Seriously?”

  Evelyn nods, then looks at my mom. In a voice that sounds smaller than usual, she says, “Sorry to show up unannounced.”

  Mom unlocks the door, and I can tell she’s trying to be easy-breezy even though she shoots me a concerned look. “You know you’re always welcome here, Evelyn. Wanna stay for dinner? It’s taco night.”

  Evelyn looks at me, and I nod eagerly.

  “Rebecca, you’re a doll,” Evelyn says with a bit more bravado.

  I pull Evelyn upstairs to my room after giving Mom strict instructions to let us know when dinner’s ready. I’ve barely shut the door behind me when I explode.

  “Seriously?! She wants to make you drop out? But then who will make our costumes?”

  Evelyn sighs and flops back on my bed. “Listen, no offense, but I’m less concerned about your costumes and more concerned about the state of my college applications if I can’t list being in charge of costume design. Like, there are only so many opportunities to stand out in Brentley, you know? And I don’t think Parsons is going to be all that impressed by my mood-board Tumblr.”

  I slide down the wall and sit on the floor. “So … you just need to pass your next quiz.”

  Evelyn lets out the world’s most sarcastic snort-laugh. “Just. Easy for you to say, genius. I’m not like you and Derek. I can’t just look over my notes in the five minutes before class and still ace every test.”

  “I study!” I say defensively, but Evelyn has a point. The truth is, Derek and I definitely study, but it’s not like school is a struggle for us. I spend most of my free time watching TV, and Derek is always researching lemurs or whatever.

  “Everything is so easy for you,” Evelyn mutters into my pillow.

  I bristle, unsure where Evelyn got this idea. Everything is easy for me? Has she forgotten about the little problem known as my rapidly expanding jaw?

  I don’t want to get into an argument, so instead I change the subject. “Do you think I’m a bad feminist?”

  Evelyn lifts her head and squints at me in confusion. “What?”

  “I mean,” I continue, leaning my head against the wall, “I’m a feminist. Voting! Equality! Beyoncé! Down with slut-shaming! I’m here for it all!”

  “Right?”

  “But what does it say about me that I might die soon and the main thing I care about is smashing my lips into Noah Reed’s perfect mouth?”

  “May I ask what brought this up? Did Abbi cancel her subscription to InStyle and start getting Bitch?”

  I fill her in on what happened at the doctor’s office and the pamphlet.

  “Shouldn’t I be spending my limited time on earth, like, doing something? Protesting something? Helping people? Marching? What are people marching for in Brentley? Where can I march?!” I ask, growing increasingly frantic.

  “I think the citizens of Brentley are mainly concerned about getting McDonald’s to carry the McRib year-round,” Evelyn says.

  “At least that benefits other people.”

  “Debatable. Do you know what’s in a McRib?”

  “But my goals are all about me. Kissing a boy, for God’s sake. Making my face look pretty. That doesn’t feel very feminist.”

  “Isn’t your surgery going to make it possible for you to chew normally?” Evelyn asks, propping herself up on her elbows.

  “Well, yeah,” I say.

  “There are reasons why you need this surgery that have nothing to do with how you look. But if you do care about how you look? That’s okay. It doesn’t make you a bad person or a bad feminist or whatever. No one’s saying you can’t care about social justice or even McRib permanency and also want to be pretty on your own terms.”

  I realize that she’s right. Literally no one—not Dr. Kelley, not my mom, not anyone—has tried to make me feel bad about getting my surgery. That’s something I did all on my own.

  “Maybe you should incorporate all this wisdom into your English essays,” I say. “You would definitely get an A.”

  “I’m not sure your surgery relates to Our Town, but sure.” Evelyn sighs, then gives me a serious look. “Listen, I hate to say this, but … I think I need your help with history.”

  “Of course!” I say. “We’ll spend the rest of the night making flash cards! I’ll quiz you during dinner! I’ll—”

  “Whoa!” Evelyn holds up her hands and laughs. “I’m gonna take a pee break first, then I’ll come back to nerd out with you and hopefully save my musical-costuming career, okay?”

  While Evelyn’s in the bathroom, I stand up and walk over to the mirror above my dresser. I look at my face from the left, then from the right. I smile and look at my braces, my teeth, the way my jaw juts out.

  Maybe she’s right. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with caring about how I look, or with wanting to change it.

  I flare my nostrils. I’ll probably still skip the nose job, though.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Here’s something that surprises me: I’m good at singing. I mean, I’m not Beyoncé singing the national anthem or anything, but I’m, like, a local person you might get to sing the national anthem at a Minor League Baseball game. The weirdest part is that I actually enjoy singing. Noah and I have a duet about how much we miss each other while I’m on the farm and he’s in a spaceship, and I manage to find surprising emotional depth in a chorus that’s mostly about space ice cream. After a lifetime spent making sure no one sees or hears me, it’s weird to realize that maybe I do actually deserve to be heard after all. As long as I can focus on the song, the lines, and the musical itself (and Noah’s grounding presence), I can sort of forget that everyone’s staring at me.

  One day after practice, I’m about to leave through the auditorium’s double doors when Marla stops me.

  “Hey, Jolie, wait up,” she says. It’s not a question, but a command.

  “Actually, I—I…,” I stammer, trying to think of any excuse to get away from her. “I have food to eat.”

  She looks at me quizzically. “That’s what you came up with? ‘Food to eat’? You’re ranked number eight in our class—you should be better at coming up with excuses.”

  I recoil. “How do you know my rank? I don’t even know my rank.”

  She waves a hand. “I know everyone’s rank. I’m number one and I intend to stay that way because I’m going to Harvard.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Okay. That’s … impressive.”

  She exhales impatiently. “Who cares? That’s not what I want to talk about.”

  I take my hand off the door handle and move out of the way of some cast members who are leaving. “Could you, um … tell me where this conversation is going, Marla?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound too rude.

  “I just wanted to say … I’m sorry.”

  Whoa.

  When I don’t say anything, Marla leans toward me. “Did you hear me?”

  “Um, yeah. But what are you sorry for?”

  “For, you know … being mean. Or whatever.” She shifts her feet, clearly uncomfortable. “I thought you didn’t deserve the lead, but you do. You’re actually good.”

  I feel a little bit of pride at hearing her say that, but I can’t stop myself from saying, “You know, compliments lose a lot of their power when you preface them with ‘actually.’”

  She nods. “Good point. In that case, you’re good. Full stop.”

  “Um, thanks. That means a lot, coming from you. I’m so
rry you didn’t get to be the lead this year.”

  She bristles. “The pigs are actually one of the most important parts of the musical.”

  “Right.”

  “Anyway, I don’t even like acting. Or singing. I wanted to pad my transcript for scholarship purposes, but instead I just started a Brentley chapter of Habitat for Humanity. Did you know we didn’t have one?”

  “Uh … no.” Only Marla would “just” start a local chapter of a national charity.

  “Well, anyway … break a leg.” She shrugs and walks away, her ponytail swinging. She bumps into Peter’s backpack as he rushes down the aisle and barks, “Watch where you’re going, Turturro!”

  I shake my head, unsure of what just happened. I’m not saying Marla is nice, but she might not be entirely mean.

  And I might—maybe—be sort of talented.

  * * *

  Derek’s house is kind of my second home. I don’t spend a ton of time at Evelyn’s house, since she’s usually over at mine. Her house pretty much reeks with her mom’s general disinterest in Evelyn’s chosen career, which doesn’t exactly put out “relaxing, comforting, come over for meat loaf” vibes. Which Derek’s house definitely does, although his mom is more likely to make grilled salmon than meat loaf since she’s always talking about cholesterol and vitamins now.

  Derek was originally going to be an only child, but then his mom got surprise-pregnant with the twins, and now no one can imagine life without Jayson and Justin. While my house is, if comfortable, still pretty quiet and chill, their house is constantly loud and full of Legos and Nerf darts—which is nice, because it makes it a little bit easier to forget that his dad isn’t here.

  After Marla’s aggressive apology on Friday, I head over to Derek’s, give a courtesy knock, and walk in (his mom, Dr. Jones, told me a long time ago that they’d never hear me if I rang the doorbell and I’d be waiting on the steps forever, but I still feel weird unless I at least symbolically announce my presence), where Jayson greets me wearing a surgical mask and holding a lightsaber.

  “Hi.” I give him a wave.

  “There’s a zombie outbreak,” he says, handing me a mask. “Wear one of these if you don’t want to get zombied.”