Authors: Ellen Hopkins
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Issues, #Drugs; Alcohol; Substance Abuse, #Self-Esteem & Self-Reliance, #Dating & Sex
do it. She is forty, trying to look twenty-
five. And she wants me to look the same
age. Easier for me. First, concealer, to cover
those sleep-deprivation shadows. Wait. OMG.
Close inspection reveals embryonic tendrils
at the corners of my eyes. Perfect. Wrinkles
before I graduate high school. Oh well.
That’s why they invented Botox, right?
Mrs. Sanders has great skin. Wonder if
she’s doing the Botox thing. Wow. Talk
about irony. Wonder if she’s had a boob
job, if that’s why Conner chose her over
me. Damn it. If I keep stressing over this,
I’ll really get wrinkled. The irony, like
frown lines, deepens. I need something
to take my mind off it. I’d hit the liquor
cabinet, except alcohol is so fattening.
(One hundred calories per ounce for
the hard stuff, and I’d want it hard.)
But here in the medicine chest, between
the ibuprofen and the Benadryl, is a little
amber bottle, with Jenna’s name on
the prescription label. Percocet.
I Don’t Know What It Is Exactly
But I do remember that Jenna got it after
oral surgery. Some kind of painkiller.
And I also remember it made her really
giggly. I could use a good laugh. I read
the label. Lots of warnings. Don’t drink
alcohol with. (No problem.) Don’t drive
while using. (Could be a problem.)
Don’t use for more than five days,
as dependency is a risk. (Not enough
pills left in the bottle to worry about.)
There’s a whole list of possible side
effects, too. But I’m only going to take
one. I wash it down with a huge
glass of water. And by the time I finish
my makeup—blush, liner, smoky eye
shadow, mascara, lip gloss—I feel better.
By the Time
I get in my car and drive halfway to
the studio, I’m feeling great. No worry,
no pain at all. And, in fact, my empty stomach
doesn’t bother me either. This stuff rocks,
except it does make my eyelids heavy.
I turn up the radio, crack the window. Cool
air streams over my face, fights a sudden
desire to let my eyes close. Just for a second.
Thut-thut-thut-thut-thut.
Whoa. That’s why
they put those bumpy things in the yellow line.
Okay, I’m awake now. Lots of traffic around
me, and this time of day, there are bound to be
cops doing speed control. I signal, pull
into the slow lane, and somehow I manage
the last five miles without drifting off, arrive
at the shoot all in one piece. And happy.
The Photog
Isn’t quite ready for me, so I sit in a big
comfy chair. I’m not alone in the waiting
room. The man, who is fit and tan and wears
pricey clothes, stares without apology. “What?”
His smile reveals perfect predatory teeth.
Sorry. It’s just that you’ve got a great look.
You here to do portfolio stills?
His eyes—
striking green—continue their assessment.
I shake my head. “Pre-pageant publicity.
Miss Teen Nevada. I’ve got a portfolio.”
Of course you do.
I’d love to take a look
at it.
He pauses. Then,
You repped?
“Yep. I’m with Maxine Delgado.”
The studio door opens just as he says,
She’s good. But I’m better. Here’s my
card. Call me. I think we need to talk.
Sean
We Need To Talk
Four words. Twelve
letters that strike terror
like a hint of a slither
through tall grass.
I
know what she wants
to ask me, know how
I made her feel. But I
am
afraid to admit
there’s something wrong
with me. Something
fundamental. I’m
not
sure if it’s fixable.
But without it,
I am less than
a man.
How can I possibly
tell that to
the perfect woman?
Can’t Stop Thinking
About the other night—Cara
so coming on to me, and me
unable to give her what she
wanted. What I wanted too.
My body’s betrayal is not
acceptable. And the really bad
thing is, nothing is making
it work right. Not the girl
I’ve lusted after, but had to
wait for since we were freshmen.
And not the hottest Internet
porn. Okay, probably not
the best thing for me to be
looking at in my spare time,
but I figured if anything could
encourage this piece of dead
wood attached to my groin,
that would be it. So far, no
good. Not giant boobs, not
girl-on-girl action, not even
the vilest three-way romp
I’ve ever been not-quite-
disgusted to view. The damn
thing just lays there, like
a bored housewife. And now
Cara wants to talk to me.
If she wants to break up
over this, I’ll totally freak
out. Maybe I should go
to a doctor. Except a blood
test, if he wanted one, would
not be a good thing. Can’t
talk to Dad. Embarrassing.
That pretty much leaves
Chad. He’s a loser, capital
L
.
But I have to trust someone.
I’ve trusted him with other
stuff, maybe even bigger
(so to speak) than this.
After all, he is my brother.
Chad Is A Senior
At UNR, majoring in nutrition.
Not that he cares much about
it. He wants to go into sports
medicine, and nutrition
was the closest he could get
without moving too far from
home. He’ll go to Vegas
next year, if he can get into
their graduate program.
Grades may be a factor.
Like I said, he’s not the most
ambitious guy, which explains
why he never became Dad’s
best hope for a professional
athlete son. Lucky me. I did.
Chad has been very helpful
to me there. Glad he isn’t
the envious type. Then again,
jealousy takes a certain
amount of effort. Just saying.
I Could Call
But a visit to his apartment
is almost always an interesting
experience. He attracts a certain
kind of people. Partiers, mostly.
And that usually means girls.
Yeah, I’m already attached
to one. But it doesn’t hurt
to look at other ones, especially
hot coeds. Chad may be lazy,
but I guess he’s got charisma.
I go straight to his place after
practice, stopping to pick up
sub sandwiches—the healthiest
fast food I know. Chad would
probably prefer burgers and fries,
but oh well. I do let him know
I’m on my way, so if he does
have a female there, they won’t
be mid-dirty. Wonder if watching
it live would fix my little problem.
But Today He’s Company-Free
Good thing. His place is a sty.
I pick my way through piles
of clothes—clean or dirty,