"I want to talk about what plastic surgery can do for you and what it can't do." She sighed just like Mom had after she saw my hair. "As a surgeon, I can help you work with what you have. I cannot transform your face to look like the models in your notebook. You cannot order a new nose like a sweater from a catalog."
I turned my notebook over in my lap. Why had I glued photos on the back of it too? Blond actresses smiled back at me with cute little crinkled noses.
"I didn't want to order a nose, exactly." My voice sounded babyish.
"Plastic surgery cannot solve family problems, or boyfriend problems, or make you popular."
"I don't want to be popular—that's Megan," I protested. "I want to be beautiful. I want to like myself."
"Plastic surgery can help you feel better about yourself, sometimes, but only if you already feel pretty good about yourself. The way you feel about yourself comes from your thinking, not your appearance."
"You sound like some guidance counselor slash advice columnist slash mother." Maybe I hadn't chosen the right plastic surgeon. This one was too touchy-feely New Age psychobabbly.
Dr. Lawrence folded her arms across her rather small bosom. "What does your mother think about this?"
I looked down at a small scrap of paper on the ground. "She doesn't know." I looked up quickly. "But she'd totally approve. She's always fussing over my looks because the rest of my family is gorgeous and I'm not, and she really cares about appearances and things. She would totally approve. I think."
"So why haven't you told her?"
"I just wanted to surprise her with my new nose." I'd planned it all out: how I could forge Mom's signature for permission, stay with a friend (probably Megan—she'd be good at post-op care) until I'd healed and everything, then return home. Surprise! I'm beautiful too.
"Rhinoplasty is major surgery, Jory. You don't go home with a brand-new nose like it's an outfit from the mall. You will have weeks of recovery time. It's also quite expensive."
"Oh, I have the money," I said. "Some of the money." My voice sounded more wobbly than I wanted it to. "I have to pay to fix the van I wrecked at work." A stupid tear fell out of my eye. "But I'll still have some left over."
"It sounds like you have a lot going on." The doctor rummaged around in her desk drawer. "You might want to talk to a psychologist."
"I'm not crazy. I'm ugly." More tears. Don't sob. Keep your voice steady. Tom's angry voice reverberated in my memory: "Not even worth it." You can't do anything right, Jory, I thought to myself. You can't even buy beauty.
"I'm ugly. Why won't you fix me?"
"Jory, you're not ugly. Your nose actually fits your face." She tapped her own nose. "Most of us will never look like the girls in magazines—and most of them wear a lot of makeup to achieve those looks."
"You're not going to tell me that nose-minimizing makeup will solve all my problems, because it won't."
"There's nothing wrong with using makeup to enhance your features." Imperfect Nose Doctor gave me a look of pity. "You can also show off your best features. You might want to think about growing your pretty blond hair out."
I lost it. Big, loud, make-the-nurse-come-running sobs. The doctor handed me tissue after tissue.
"But I have the money. Won't you just do it for the money?" I held out a wad of cash and waved it at her like a desperate idiot. "If you won't, I'll find someone who will."
"Jory, I won't ever operate on someone who has unrealistic expectations. No surgeon will. Not to mention you need parental consent." Her voice softened. "With maturity, you will discover that you possess beauty in a package uniquely yours."
I kept crying, filling tissue after tissue with wet globs of snot.
Dr. Lawrence called my mom (at work!), told her absolutely everything, and asked her to come pick me up. My whole plan came crashing down like that wedding cake, totaled like the delivery van.
Chapter Twenty-six
TANTRUMS, BEADING, BOYS?
With my face buried in my pillow, I screamed out another tirade of obscenities. If Mom was going to send me to my room like a five-year-old, I was going to act like one. It's all her fault! She's the one obsessed with her body! So what if I want a new nose? That stupid surgeon and her special adolescent psychologist! I'll just fly to an obscure country in South America and have some doctor who got kicked out of medical school do the surgery. Or maybe I'll go live in the Amazon with one of those weird ancient tribes we studied in Mrs. Currie's class. I will become a legend. Future generations will try to find Crazy Big-Nose Girl, the way people go to the northwest to look for Bigfoot. Big Nose. Has a ring to it, right? I could leave nose prints for people to find—or used tissues.
Mom opened my door. "I expect you to be ready for beading class in half an hour."
"I'm not doing your little bonding activity because I hate you and I'd rather be dead than go anywhere with you. What am I, anyway? Your special charity case of ugliness? I am never showing my face in public again. If you make me go, I'll just run away from home and join some whorehouse out in the desert. Guys with a thing for giant noses will request me."
I wept at the fact of my true ugliness. How sad to be so ugly, so unloved. It took Judith Hearne years to achieve the desperate state I'd reached at the young age of seventeen. I didn't even need much alcohol. Kind of impressive, really.
I gave in to one last good pillow-and-stuffed-rabbit-soaking cry. Fifteen minutes later, I peeled myself off my bed and walked into the hall bathroom. That's when I saw that Finn had a friend over playing computer games in his room. Just what I needed: a witness. The kid would go back to school in two weeks. Yeah, Finn has a sister. She's really ugly and I was there, dude, when she lost it. Yeah, the dudes from the crazy farm came and hauled her off. No, Finn's not really upset. He likes having a bathroom to himself, and they're turning her old room into a museum for his trophies.
My nose glowed in the bathroom mirror. Big. Red. Jurassic. My eyes looked like dirt clods in pools of blood; they'd need hours to recover. I'd have to wear sunglasses. Maybe I could wear a ski mask. It could become my fashion statement, the way some celebrities carry small dogs everywhere. I'd knit ski masks in different colors and become mysterious, interesting. I splashed water on my face. My eyes stung. Mom tapped on the door and handed me a bottle of eye drops; I doused my eyes until fake sticky tears ran down my cheeks.
My hair. I had refused to see Mom's stylist after the whole plastic-surgeon-psychologist-phone-call thing. My blond hair stuck up in punk-rockish tufts. Work with it, right? I sprayed tons of glitter in my hair (Mom thinks glitter makes girls look like streetwalkers). I spritzed a little more on my most likely candidates for bangs before adding dark lipstick and too much eyeshadow.
Mom could make me go beading, but I could certainly make her regret it.
On the drive down to the Jewel Café, Mom didn't talk much. Part of me wanted her to say something—anything—about the plastic surgeon incident, or the school photo shoot. All week she'd been unusually quiet—not silent-treatment quiet, but thinking quiet, and that made me nervous.
Like an old regular, Mom strutted into the classroom, dragging her special jewelry-making supply case. Over the past three weeks Mom had purchased all the little pliers, wires, and magazines for the Enthusiast. Her love of jewelry-making pretty much ensured that I would despise it and suck at it. Yup, it was going to be a hell of an evening. I didn't even allow myself to think about Gideon; thankfully, his door was closed when we walked past. I didn't hear him playing his violin either. My hands got sweaty and my heart beat fast every time I thought about all the crap he overheard at the photo studio. Mom swore they couldn't hear anything, but I stood there waiting for her nose to grow. I think mine just grew for her. I'd heard the photographer gushing over Ashley, so I know Helen and Gideon heard everything I'd said at a much louder volume—every last pathetic, embarrassing syllable.
Mom patted the plastic chair next to her at the table.
"Hello, girls." Mom grinned. "Some of
you know my daughter, Jory."
"Nice to see you again, Jory," said an older lady wearing so many beaded necklaces that she resembled the jewelry rack at Hannah's favorite secondhand store. They all knew. Every sordid detail. I could tell by their too-kind smiles of sympathy.
"I thought her daughter had long hair?" the lady next to her whispered.
"She cut it, Rita," Necklace Lady said. "Remember?"
Cynthia Simons from the Ranch made a tsk-tsk sound. My hands flew up to my head; I crunched a stiff clump with my fingers, dusting the table with purple glitter. I smashed the rest of my hair down with my hand. I don't know if it looked better. At least it felt better.
Helen swept into the room, carrying a tray of cake slices and a teapot.
"Here come the goodies, ladies! Jory, welcome back. I'll teach you how to knot, even if these other ladies insist on moving on."
Everyone laughed as if she'd made an actual joke. Old people!
Helen set the tray down at the end of the table. "Go pick out something special. Ten large beads, twenty small ones."
I tiptoed past Gideon's room. I might have heard music playing low, but it could've been my heart beating like a drum solo. I swung the door to the main room open, feeling exposed, like even the walls watched me, mocked me. I quickly chose several swirly orange-green-yellow beads. I wasn't going to wear anything I'd ever make anyway, right? I was only here for enforced mother-bonding-with-crazy-nose-obsessed-daughter night.
As I walked back down the hallway, I watched the beads roll around on the little tray, like jaundiced eyeballs. Wham! The beads flew up in the air as I sprawled flat on the floor.
"I am so sorry, Jory," Gideon said. "I keep tripping you like some kind of idiot."
I sat up, rubbing my stinging palms. "No, I keep tripping like some kind of idiot."
"Let me see." Gideon sat down next to me, taking my hands in his. I nearly jerked away, but his touch felt so warm. He blew ticklishly on my palms while I stared at the rip in the knee of his jeans. "You'll be okay." He gave each hand a little squeeze before dropping it. He stood, pulling me up with one hand. "Why did you choose the vomit beads? They're so ugly."
"Maybe I'm in an ugly mood." I reached down to pick up a couple of beads. Why couldn't he let me suffer in peace?
"Yeah, Helen said she'd be surprised if you showed up."
"Great. I'm a regular gossip item." I blinked to prevent tears, noticing glitter on my eyelashes. "Why can't my mom just shut up? Blabbing about every stupid, embarrassing thing I do and then you—" I stopped myself from saying something about Gideon eavesdropping and hearing stuff but getting half of it wrong—like his thinking I actually had a boyfriend.
"Give her a break," he said in a soft voice. "She's worried about you."
"Whatever." Figures he'd take her side, though I probably deserved it. I scanned the floor for my other beads. Gideon's big toe stuck out of a hole in his sock. "Where did the rest of my stupid beads go? I just want to get this over with."
Gideon held the door open for me. "Come on, I'll help you pick out some new ones."
I stood among the bins of beads with my arms crossed while the gray and white cat wound itself around my legs. Gideon held the little tray. What a dork. He plays the violin. Dorky. He knows how to make jewelry. Major dorky. He likes his mom. Freaky dorky. He was still being nice to me even after knowing all about me. Just plain freaky.
"What color do you want?"
"Black."
Gideon shook his head. "Not your color." He walked around the room picking up beads here and there. I concentrated on his feet. Wears socks in the summer. Super dorky. But I kept looking up at his face and glorious hair. I touched my hair. At least it didn't feel too stiff, but I probably looked like a raving lunatic/rejected showgirl/cheap whore.
Gideon glanced at me sideways. "I like your hair. You kind of hid behind that long hair."
"No, I didn't." I turned away from him. Did I? I'd had to develop a whole new set of gestures since I'd cut my hair. All that twisting, flipping, and tossing—gone. I'd even tried biting my nails, but it didn't do much for me.
Gideon stared at me with a half-smile. "Maybe I should cut my hair."
"No, don't!" I plunged my hand into a box of beads. "I mean, you can do whatever you want, right? You don't have an image-obsessed mother who'd be embarrassed by you."
"You don't embarrass your mother."
"Yeah, right."
"You may freak her out, but you don't embarrass her." Gideon came over and handed me the little tray of beads, all different shades of soft brown and green. "Trust me. I do hear more gossip than is good for a growing boy's gender identity. Your mom's proud of how you worked hard all summer."
"Did she mention that I wrecked the van?"
"Well, I think anyone who knows you knows that you're accident-prone." Gideon ruffled my hair. "Ooh, it's sparkly too." He showed his purple glitter—covered palm to me. "You better get back in there or Helen will come searching for you." He rested his hand on my cheek. Just briefly. "Hang in there, Jory."
I could still feel his handprint on my cheek as I walked back into the beading room. Everyone ohhed and ahhed over my beads when I set the tray down. Matches your eyes, suits your blond hair, sassy style. I put my hand to my cheek. When I took it away, it glittered.
"That stuff is getting on everything." Mom sighed. "Girls and their hair."
"Leah, remember that awful colored mousse we used to use?" Mrs. Caughlin Ranch said. "I once ruined one of my mom's shower curtains with that stuff." She fluffed her streaked hair. "Now I can pay to have it done properly."
Everyone laughed (pathetic, humor-starved old people!). Helen sat down next to me and showed me how to use the needle-nose pliers to crimp the clasp onto the end of the silk string. I put my beads in order. Each bead was a little bit different, but they all belonged together somehow.
Helen showed me how to make a knot. "Hold the silk like this; now, give God the finger." I couldn't help but giggle as she demonstrated. "Throw little Timmy in the well." She dropped the silk down the center. "Use your tweezers to send Lassie down for the rescue. And pull." She'd made a perfect knot.
I tried, and I did it on the first try! I picked up a green bead with a pink rose on it and strung it onto the silk.
Helen nodded. "Great. Now make another knot. Use your cutoff straw as a spacer. Add your next bead."
Helen watched me do the next few beads before moving on to help one of the other ladies do something complicated with earrings.
I felt calm as I strung a little green bead on top of a new knot. My necklace actually looked pretty good! I half listened to the other ladies gossip. Well, you know, she found out about the cancer only the week before. And he still left her! Oh, I did give her the name of a great lawyer. Speaking of lawyers, my son is changing his major yet again. Another year of tuition; my husband is about to disown him. Well, that's nothing. My daughter was out with her boyfriend and came home so drunk—she had actually driven her car home in that state. I don't know what to do. All the other ladies chimed in with advice.
Mom leaned over to me. "Thanks for calling me that night from the casino," she whispered.
I threw little Timmy back into the well, thinking that just a couple of hours ago I had wanted to throw myself into a well.
On the way home, Mom suddenly pulled to the side of the road. "I'm not very good at this," she said. "You're my oldest and it's always taken me longer to figure things out with you." She turned the engine off. "I don't mean that as a criticism." Mom sighed, filling the silent car with a whoosh of breath. "What I want to say is that I love you. Just the way you are. It hurts so much to think that I've made you feel bad about yourself—bad enough to want surgery. Just thinking about your Nice Nose Notebook makes me cry." Mom wiped tears from her eyes. "I never thought that my feelings about myself would affect you—"
"You care so much about looks."
"Only my own." Mom slapped her hands on the steerin
g wheel. "No, I'm sorry. I've established a standard of perfection that neither one of us can meet. And I'm sorry that I've hurt you. I love you so much, Jory. And I want you to love yourself too."
"I'll try, Mom."
She leaned over and hugged me tight. "I'm going to do better, Jory. That's a promise." A passing car honked, flashing its lights. "Get a room!" a guy screamed.
"I guess we'd better move along or we'll get arrested."
"Wouldn't be the worst thing that's happened this summer."
"Oh, come on, it hasn't been that bad." Then Mom giggled. "That poor bride's cake."
"What about the van? The surgeon?"
"That appalling photographer!" Mom burst into laughter. "You're right. It's been quite a summer!"
Chapter Twenty-seven
JEWELING
I have to get over my face. Rolling over in bed, I grimaced at the clothes and other junk scattered on my floor and noticed my Nice Nose Notebook half buried under a dirty T-shirt, supermodels grinning, like being on my floor was the best place ever. I don't look like those girls and, according to Dr. Lawrence, I never will. Maybe I don't even want to. Okay, I guess I'd really be crazy if I didn't want to look gorgeous and exotic. But those girls have problems too. How many of them suffer from eating disorders, or addictions, or just plain old insecurity?
I reached for the notebook, sat up, flipped through the pages, and mimicked a beaming model stepping off a train. Anyone can fake happiness in a photograph. I made several more model poses. Pouty lips. Kissy lips. Coy smile. Pissed-off diva. Laughing like I'm having the most fun in the world. Maybe I could walk around pretending like I'm self-confident. No one is ever really satisfied anyway, right? Hannah complains about her hair, as much as she tries to live in the moment, and sometimes she gets completely frustrated by her back problems and not being able to ski and stuff. Megan hates her hands because she thinks she has stubby fingers. Whatever.
The photographs in my notebook looked so artificial—super-skinny models don't eat huge slices of pizza. Rip. I tore the page into tiny pieces. Three gorgeous guys offering a girl diamond bracelets? Rip. Not in my world. Walking a dog in those stilettos? Rip. Don't think so. Wearing that much makeup to the beach? Rip. Rip. Rip. Yeah, right. One by one, I tore the pages from the notebook, creating glossy confetti. Adios, fake-happy models—even if you do have fabulous little noses.
My Big Nose and Other Natural Disasters Page 19
