Free The Pretty One by Cheryl Klam Page B

both. To make matters worse, due to the “sensoral” nerve damage, my nose and the entire area underneath it to my mouth are totally numb. End result: I can blow a lung through my nose and still not be aware that I need a tissue.
    Fortunately, the doctors gave me some nasal spray that they said would turn off the faucet in my runny nose. And it pretty much does, except for when my eyes get watery, like if I’m crying, or like now, if my eyes are watery from a flash. None of the zillion doctors I’ve seen can figure out for sure why this is happening, but they think it’s due to a “misplaced” tear duct. (Gee, I wonder who misplaced it: perhaps the doctor who was poking around back there with a scalpel?) One thing is certain: I now possess the remarkable and annoying trait of being able to cry through my nose. Beat that, Zippy the bike-riding chimp!
    Lucy takes the tissue and dabs my nose for me, like she’s my mom.
    â€œGod, I’m not five!” I say.
    She pulls the tissue away and smiles at me. “Perfect!”
    Then Lucy hands the tissue to my mom and the flash goes off once again. I grab another tissue and wipe my own nose. (Just to show my adoring fans I’m more than capable.)
    â€œLook girls,” Dad says, showing us the picture. “Look how great you both look.”
    He scans through the pictures, stopping at the last one we took before my accident, the one with Simon and me in front of the fireplace. My father quickly turns off the camera, as if the reminder of my previous appearance is too painful. Even though I don’t look anything like I used to, I’m still irked by his rejection. I’m privy to info no one else seems to realize: this new face of mine isn’t truly me. That’s right. The real me is the one in the old photo, the one my dad still can’t stand the sight of. The one that wants to kick him in the shins. Really hard.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    My parents drop Lucy and me off in front of the club a few minutes later, and we make it inside rather quickly. (Let’s just say, two girls can budge the line if the bouncer likes what he sees. Given how Lucy holds my hand and plays with my hair, I’m pretty sure the bouncer has seen lots of late-night Skinamax.) I survey the crowd as my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. There are a few tables here and there, but most people are either on the dance floor or standing in groups, talking or laughing with friends. Everyone looks like they eat lunch at the popular table during daylight hours.
    â€œLet’s get away from these speakers and find some place to sit down,” Lucy yells, motioning toward the bar. “Do you want something to drink?” This place has a bar (just like a regular club), but instead of alcohol it’s stacked with soft drinks and a Slushee machine.
    I nod as I follow her over, putting my hand on my purse, ready to pull out my wallet. Lucy puts her hand on mine and shakes her head. “Put that away,” she says, stopping by a table filled with guys.
    â€œI thought we were going to get something to drink.”
    Lucy locks eyes with a guy at the table and smiles. “We are,” she says.
    â€œI don’t know about this, Lucy,” I say nervously. “Maybe we should just find a place to sit by ourselves.”
    â€œThere aren’t any seats,” she proclaims, still maintaining eye contact.
    â€œBut I don’t know how to do…to do…
this,
” I say, stepping out of the way as a studious-looking guy with braces leads a pretty brown-haired girl to the dance floor.
    â€œAll you have to do is talk to them,” Lucy says. “Ask them questions about themselves. All guys
love
to talk about themselves.”
    â€œQuestions,” I repeat. “Like where they live and stuff?”
    â€œAnything at all. They love it. And you just need to sit there and open up your eyes really wide and nod