Free The Pretty One by Cheryl Klam

and in their place are the sculpted cheeks of Pocahontas, Native American princess. Even though they didn’t do anything to my lips, they look different, too, fuller or plumper or something. But maybe my new straight white choppers just make them stand out more.
    â€œIt’s so weird, isn’t it? My nose is different. And this,” I add, sucking in my cheeks.
    â€œThe doctor said you lost a lot of bone in your mouth. Maybe that’s what did it. The loss of those front teeth of yours. And the new ones they put in…well, they don’t stick out. Plus you lost a ton of weight when your jaws were wired shut,” she says simply, handing me some blush.
    This is new, the sharing makeup thing. Before my accident I hardly ever wore makeup. But lately it’s been different. I like wearing makeup. It helps to acquaint me with my new features.
Hello, eyelashes, how long are you today? Hello, cheekbones, there you are!
    â€œNow you need lip gloss,” she says when I’m done.
    I recently came to the earth-shattering conclusion that I can’t stand lip gloss. Why would anyone want to put a sticky paste on their mouth? But still, I hand Lucy back the blush and accept the lip gloss. I like to defer to the experts. And Lucy is an expert at applying makeup.
    I dab it on my lips as Lucy watches. “Go like this,” she says, smacking her lips together again. So I smack my lips together. Why didn’t Lucy worry about my makeup (or the lack of it) before my accident? Was I just too hopeless? (Like painting a toilet. What’s the point?)
    â€œPerfect,” Lucy says, smiling at my reflection in the mirror.
    It’s Saturday, and since school starts on Monday, my sister decided that she and I should go out together to celebrate. So even though I would prefer to stay home and watch the gross medical reality shows I became addicted to during my convalescence, I’m trying to be a good sport. “Do you think anyone we know will be there?” I ask.
    Anyone.
Read: Drew. I have thought about him so much this past year. I was able to pry some information about him out of my sister (he and Lindsey dated all year and went to prom together), but she hasn’t spoken with him or seen him all summer. I wondered if he ever thought about me or wondered how I was doing, especially when I was scared, like right before surgery, or after, when the pain got so bad I felt like my head was going to explode like the tomato I once microwaved. (In my defense, it was for a science experiment. As in, I will see if the act of exploding this tomato in the microwave alleviates my boredom and/or causes me to go blind. My conclusion: only temporarily.) I would think about Drew and wonder if all these surgeries might make me look good enough to get his attention; that it might all be worth it in the end. And then I would imagine him pulling me into his arms and sweeping me off my feet as he laid a big wet one right on me. And then I would think,
Hell yes. What’s a little asphalt up your nose for a guy like Drew?
    â€œNo,” Lucy says. “It’s too far away.” Lucy and I went to this club once before, about six months before my accident. Although she has wanted to go back ever since (sans yours truly), my parents had refused since they didn’t want Lucy driving all the way through the city at night and they said it was too far away and too much of a hassle for them to take her. But when Lucy suggested taking me there tonight, they practically jumped up and down for joy, calling it a “great idea!” They still didn’t like the idea of us driving through the city by ourselves, so they were taking us and dropping us off. They were going to go to dinner, see a movie, and pick us up afterward.
    I finish applying my mascara and turn back toward my sister. “All done,” she says, smiling from ear to ear. She hurries over to the top of the stairs. “Mom! Dad!” she