Mirror Image

by K. L. Denman

  She makes that little tsk-tsk sound and says, “No pain, no gain.”

  “That’s for sports,” I shout.

  “Just chill, Sable,” she soothes. “Who says it’s for sports?”

  “Everyone!”

  “Well, I’m sure they won’t mind us using it too.” Lacey keeps plucking. Then she says, “Oh-oh.”

  “What oh-oh?” I shriek. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing. It’s fine. I just noticed that you’re starting to sweat a bit. We’ll have to do the foundation over again.”

  “Of course I’m sweating! Do you have any idea how painful this is?”

  “There you go,” she says sweetly, “it is like sports. Pain, sweat, everything.”

  My options at this point are laughing or crying. I start laughing.

  Lacey eyes me doubtfully. “You’re not getting, like, hysterical, are you?”

  I wipe my eyes. Shake my head. Take a deep breath. “No,” I say, “I’m fine. But I think I need a break.”

  “A snack?” Lacey asks hopefully.

  “Sure, why not. A snack.” I stick my head out of the bedroom door, listen carefully, hear nothing and make a run for the kitchen. Lacey follows and is clearly disappointed when we don’t find my mother.

  “Where’s your mom?”

  I find a note from my mom on the counter and read it aloud, “Out having fun with boys.”

  “Jeez,” says Lacey, “she doesn’t seem like that type to me. Are you sure that’s what it says?”

  I grab a couple juice boxes and a container of cream cheese out of the fridge and hand Lacey a box of crackers from the cupboard. “I have two little brothers,” I tell her.

  “Oh,” she says. She follows me back to my room in silence, but when we get there she adds, “You’re so lucky.”

  “Believe me,” I tell her, “you probably wouldn’t think so if you had brothers.”

  “It’s not just that,” she says. “It’s everything.”

  I can’t think of anything to say because I want to say no, she’s the lucky one, the popular, pretty one. She ought to get that, it’s so obvious. And then I know what to say. “Truth or Dare?”

  Lacey grabs a cracker and grins. “Okay. You first.”

  I’ve never played Truth or Dare, but I think I know how it works. “Truth. Why is this art project so important to you?”

  “That’s not how it’s supposed to go, Sable. I’m supposed to get a choice between telling the truth or taking a dare. But I’ll answer your question. I want to get a good grade because art is the only thing I like at school and I want to be an artist.”

  “Why do you want to be an artist?” I ask.

  “Well, that’s a stupid question. Why does anybody want to be anything? I just do. And besides, it’s my turn now.” She eyes me narrowly. “Truth or dare?” she asks.

  “Truth,” I say promptly.

  “Hmmm,” she says, “that tells me something already. Are you chicken?”

  “Chicken of what?”

  “I’m doing the asking. Are you afraid?”

  How did she get to my worst question already? I try to stall for time. “Of what?” I repeat.

  “Of dares!”

  “No, of course not. I just thought that it would be faster for us to get to know each other if we stick to the truth questions. Forget the dares.”

  “But that’s not the rules,” she says.

  “Fine,” I say, “but let’s make another rule. We can hear the question and the dare before we decide which one we’ll do.”

  “No way,” she says. And this tells me something about her. Lacey likes to do things by the rules. Not a bad quality.

  “Whatever,” I say. “Now it’s my turn. Truth or dare?”

  “Dare,” she answers promptly.

  I don’t have any idea about what I can dare her to do. “Um,” I say. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “Okay.” Think, Sable. Come on. Think. Ah, I’ve got it. “I dare you to cut a chunk out of your mom’s hair while she’s sleeping.”

  Lacey turns pure white. “Oh my God!” she shrieks. “That’s the stupidest dare I ever heard! You’re supposed to dare me to make a prank phone call or something!”

  “Well,” I say, “that’s the dare.”

  “Forget it. Tell you what. We’ll go with your rule. We can hear the question and the dare, then decide.”

  I consider arguing the point but since I’m in control for once, I decide to be gracious. “Okay.” Maybe I’m giddy with my success because I ask a useless question. “Have you ever kissed a boy?”

  Lacey does an eye roll. “Well, duh, yes. Have you?”

  “What’s the dare?” I shoot back.

  “I dare you to kiss a boy,” she says.

  “Okay, I choose truth. Yes, I have kissed a boy.” She looks faintly surprised, and I don’t tell her the only boys I’ve kissed are my brothers.

  “My turn,” I say. I’m starting to enjoy this game. “Let’s see. Is your dad an artist?”

  The frozen mom look appears on Lacey’s face. “My dad?” she asks coldly. “What are you talking about?”

  “You said your dad read that newspaper article about the mirrors, remember? When you told Mr. Ripley about your idea.”

  She goes perfectly still. “I did say that, didn’t I?” she mutters.

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “Oh well.” She takes a deep breath and comes up with a huge fake smile. “Yes, he is an artist. A very good one.”

  “So that’s why you want to be one too? So you can be like him and not your mom, right?” Lacey doesn’t answer, so I babble on. “But the funny thing is, you sure look like your mom.”

  “Shut up,” says Lacey.

  “What?”

  “I said, shut up. It’s none of your business.”

  “But...,” I begin.

  “Look, maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Most people, when they play Truth or Dare, they don’t get so weird.” Lacey eyes me angrily. “You’re weird, you know that?”

  A crappy thing happens. Tears start rolling down my face. I look away from her. Mutter softly, “Yeah, I know.”

  “Oh, man!” says Lacey.

  “I’m sorry,” I croak. “I can’t help it. I got weirdness from my mother.”

  “Sure you did,” she says softly. “Just like me.”

  I hiccup and ask, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” she says, “that I don’t want to be like my mom but in some ways, I am. It’s like I can’t help it.”

  “You don’t seem like her to me—except you’re both pretty.”

  “Right,” says Lacey. “Pretty. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t. Boys think I’m just a body. Girls get jealous. Nobody thinks I have a brain.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “Yeah, it sucks the way looks are such a big deal. Only....” Her voice trails away.

  “Only what?” I ask.

  Lacey wrinkles her nose, shakes her head. “I like it when things are beautiful. It makes me feel good. I like pretty clothes and shiny hair, sure, but other things too. Like beautiful music, or flowers, or sunsets, or poetry. I love that stuff.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “it beats ugly.”

  “It really does.”

  “But what if the beautiful things don’t mean anything? What if it’s just superficial? What if the ugly stuff is stronger?” I ask.

  “It isn’t!” Lacy says vehemently. “Beauty is powerful.”

  “How do you know?”

  Lacey tilts her head and studies me. “Truth or dare?” she asks.

  I feel like maybe I’ve had an overdose of truth. I take a deep breath and say, “Dare.”

  chapter eleven

  Lacey claps her hands. “Awesome! I dare you to let me give you a total makeover and then you’ll see.”

  “See what?”

  “The difference.”

  I have no idea what she thinks she can prove by giving me a makeover, bu
t I shrug and say, “Okay. Go for it.”

  “Right.” Lacey is all business now. “First you need to wash your face. Then I’ll do your makeup. Then we’re going shopping.”

  So that’s what we do. I have to admit what she does with the makeup is surprising. Maybe I do have pretty eyes. At least with the eye shadow and mascara and my plucked eyebrows, they look bigger. And the blush brings out my cheekbones. And the lip-gloss shows off the fact that I have lips. It’s only when we get to the mall and she insists that I try on a dark red T-shirt that things get tricky.

  “I only wear black,” I tell her.

  “Why?” she asks.

  “This is a dare, not the truth,” I shoot back.

  She plants her hands on her hips. “Then you have to finish the dare.”

  I guess she’s got me there. Lacey hovers outside the change room while I put on the top. It fits snugly. Much more clingy than my usual black shirts. It’s a shock to look in the mirror and see my body complete with breasts and a waist.

  Lacey pokes her head around the curtain and crows, “I knew it! You’re a babe!”

  “Yeah, right,” I scoff. But my eyes are glued to the mirror in the change room. It’s as if a stranger is standing where my reflection ought to be.

  “You have to buy it,” Lacey orders. “Then walk around the mall with me.”

  Walk around in public like this? The very thought makes my blood run cold. Goosebumps spring up over every inch of my skin. Okay, not on my face. For some reason we don’t get face goosebumps—thank God—but the rest of me is covered.

  “What’s wrong?” Lacey asks. “You look funny.”

  “I’m not wearing this in the mall!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not! It’s not me. Get out of here so I can take this thing off.”

  “Jeez,” says Lacey, “you’re not scared, are you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “I think you are,” she says. “Scared of wearing a T-shirt. Wow.”

  “I’m not scared,” I insist. But my voice is weak.

  “Listen, Sable. It’s no big deal. If you don’t want to wear it, fine.” She narrows her eyes. “But I’m telling you, this is the perfect opportunity for you to find out what it’s like to be me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Hmm,” she says. “I can’t really explain it in words. It’s one of those things you have to experience.”

  “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?” I ask.

  She tosses her hair. “Yes.”

  “Well, you’re not,” I retort. “There is no way that me wearing a T-shirt in a mall is going to change who I am. Or teach me anything.”

  “Oh really?” She says. “Prove it.”

  “This is stupid. I don’t have to prove anything!”

  “Fine, maybe not. But maybe I have something to prove, Sable. Did you ever think of that? Isn’t it about time you thought about someone besides yourself for once?”

  Oh. My. God. This girl thinks I’m self-centered? I put up a hand. “Okay. You win. I’ll do it. And we’ll see who’s right.”

  Lacey grins, grabs my arm and hauls me out of the change room. She tells me to leave the top on and asks the clerk to cut off the tag when I go to pay for it. “That T-shirt looks really good on you,” the clerk gushes.

  “See?” Lacey says.

  “Whatever,” I say. I feel completely exposed. Naked. I want to hide behind a clothes rack. Lacey asks the clerk to give me a bag for my old shirt, and then she’s tugging on my arm again, leading me out of the store. Into the wide-open mall.

  “Now,” Lacey instructs, “pay close attention. There’s a group of guys up there. We’re going to walk past them, and I want you to look at them.”

  “What?” I blurt. With an effort, I force my mind to focus on this new threat. “Why?”

  “So you can see them looking at you.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “No,” I mumble, “we don’t want to be seen.”

  “Huh?” says Lacey.

  “I mean, they’re not going to look at me.” There is no way I’m looking at the boys. The only place I ever look when walking in a mall is at the ground or off into the distance. I never look at people and as far as I know, they never look at me.

  “They are so going to look at you, and if you don’t notice, you’ll just tell me I was wrong, and I’m not!” Lacey’s blue eyes are sparking with determination.

  “What was the point of this again?” I ask.

  “We’re proving that beauty has power. Now be quiet. Here they come. Just put a tiny smile on your face. Here we go!”

  She is so into this, honest to God, you’d think we were about to embark on a mission to save the planet. I try to do what she says. I paste a smile on my face and start walking beside Lacey.

  “Look up!” Lacey hisses. “And forget the smile. Too fake.”

  My smile is fake? Well, of course it is. I glance up to see what her smile looks like and suddenly, there are the boys, right in front of us. And they are looking at us. In fact they are staring, but I don’t make eye contact with them. They’re fixated on places well below eye level. It’s only in the last millisecond before our pass is complete—too right, this is like sports—that one of the guys flicks his gaze upward. And he raises an eyebrow as if to ask...what?

  Lacey waits about two seconds, and then she starts doing a wiggle, sort of like football players do after they score a touchdown. “See!” she gloats. “I told you.”

  “Okay,” I say, “you were right. They looked. But it was creepy, and I didn’t like it, a nd it didn’t make me feel powerful.”

  “Huh?” says Lacey.

  “It made me feel like...a thing.”

  “Really?” Lacey’s brows furrow as she thinks about this. “But see, if you wanted, you could get them to pay attention to you. Maybe ask you out on a date. Isn’t that power? Getting what you want?”

  “That’s sick,” I say.

  She blinks at me. “Sick?”

  “Yeah, I think that’s more like them getting what they want.”

  “You’re really shy, aren’t you?” Lacey asks.

  “What?” I sputter.

  “Well...” She shrugs. “You are. And you pretend you aren’t with this whole tough girl act.”

  My head is spinning. How is it possible that this girl sees through me? And how did she figure me out just by seeing that I don’t think it’s great to have guys checking me out like I’m a choice on the dessert menu?

  “I’m not like you,” I tell her.

  “Jeez, Sable, I didn’t say that. You’re so serious all the time. Lighten up, why don’t you? Have some fun.”

  “You know,” I say, “I have to go now.”

  “Fine,” she sighs. “Maybe I’ll come by to pick up my stuff tomorrow?”

  “Sure, whatever,” I answer.

  And we go our separate ways.

  chapter twelve

  It figures that the second I walk through our door Mom is there. Of course she starts making a really big deal out of the “new me.” “Sable! Look at you!” Something, something in Bosnian, arms spread wide with delight. “This is amazing!”

  “Don’t get used to it,” I tell her.

  Dad wanders in, stops dead and says, “Well, don’t you look nice.”

  The boys, scenting prey, tumble into the room and start sniggering. “Gross, Sable! You look like a girl.”

  I ignore them and tell Mom, “I’m not really hungry. I think I’ll just go up to my room.”

  “Sable, you should eat dinner! You are not thinking to be dieting, are you?”

  An eye roll is totally called for. “You read too many magazines, Mom.” I bolt for my room with every intention of peeling off the makeup and red top, but when I get there, I don’t. Instead I look at myself in the mirror. For a long time.

  The girl in the mirror is not ugly. She might even be sort of, almost, pretty.

  I rem
ember Mr. Ripley telling us in art class that colors merge into each other. We had to paint a portrait, and things weren’t going well for most of us. I mean, if we were painting monsters or something, the pictures would have been great. Mr. Ripley tried to help us out, and one of the things he did was demonstrate how color is reflected in human skin. He got several different colored pieces of fabric and held them under his face. It was sort of cool, because when he held up bright blue, his skin changed color. Not a lot, but we could see a difference. When he changed to orange, his skin was tinged with warmth. When he used olive green, he looked sick.

  “This shade of green doesn’t agree with my skin tone,” he said. “Which is too bad because for a while, when I was a kid, the coolest stuff to wear was army gear.”

  We all laughed and we got the point. I’m getting it again now with the red top. This color makes me look...brighter. Even cheerful. But, big deal. It’s just skin deep isn’t it? It doesn’t change who I am. And the whole experience in the mall, with people seeing me as someone else—that was freaky. Okay, so maybe a tiny part of me liked being admired by the boys. Only what good does that do? What will it change? There’s no way it’ll change the world. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with liking beauty. I like it too, but it’s not as if....

  Wait a minute! There’s the strand of an idea here. The idea is so fragile and strange that I can’t quite catch hold of it. It feels like it could disappear the way dreams do in that moment of waking. I told Lacey that beauty isn’t powerful. But what if it is? What if beauty can change the world?

  I start pacing. Back and forth, back and forth. Maybe I need a definition of beauty? A really big definition. I’ll bet Mr. Ripley has one. He has lots of definitions for art.

  I keep pacing. There’s a knock at my door. My mother’s voice. “What are you doing in there, Sable? Exercising?”

  Overkill Mom strikes again. I throw open my door and say, “Mom, what’s beautiful?”

  She stands there reorganizing her thoughts, her mouth opening and closing like a fish, and I think, Oh great, I got that from her too. Finally she says, “Life. Love.” She gestures grandly. “Everything!”

  “Everything?” I ask. “What about bombs? Aliens? Pollution?”

  “Okay,” she says. “Not everything.”