Rolling Dice (2 page)

When I was little, I’ll admit I was totally scared of her. She was eighty-nine when she croaked. A tall, bony lady with thin gray hair and false teeth that always fell out and clacked together noisily when she spoke. But when I saw the photos, I realized why she’d been some big-shot model in her younger years. Despite her scary-old-lady appearance, though, Great-Aunt Gina had been a genuinely nice person.

She’d lived in Florida, in a big house by the sea. And when she died, she left us everything.

And I do mean
everything
. A massive inheritance, her house, and all the vintage clothes and jewelry.

At first we weren’t sure what to do about it. Sell the property and maybe upgrade to a nicer house in Maine? Keep it as a vacation home?

I still don’t remember who suggested moving to Florida. But whoever it was, I owe them big time.

Dad looked into it. He found a private clinic near the beach where Great-Aunt Gina’s house was, and they were looking for a new doctor. Mom found a nice three-bedroom house with a big garden, and even a small pool, in the suburbs, near a high school. Being a teacher in elementary school, my mom didn’t have too hard a time getting a new job in Florida.

Jenna, my older sister, was already out of Maine by then; she currently attends NYU, and she didn’t care if we moved from Pineford, Maine, or not. She was out of there, and she planned to stay out.

“It’s so boring. Nothing happens here,” she’d told Mom and Dad when they asked why she didn’t apply to college closer to home. “Besides, the course looks better in New York. Plus, I want to get out, see the world. That’s not happening if I stay in Pineford.”

The only thing that might’ve stopped them from going ahead was me. And I could not
wait
to move.

There was just nothing for me in Pineford. By the end of my sophomore year I’d pretty much stopped trying in class, and it wasn’t like I had a million friends and a busy social life I was leaving behind.

So when Mom tentatively asked me, “Madison, honey, do you think you’ll really, really be all right if we move to Florida?” my reply was instantaneous:

“Can I start packing now?” Because moving to Florida meant I could have a whole new life.

My sister, Jenna, was the girl everyone knew back at my school in Pineford. She was on the homecoming committee, she was class president, the blond cheerleader who got the beauty and the brains. The All-American It Girl.

Then there was me.

And I just … I wasn’t Jenna.

I tried, though. And I was happy enough to keep to myself—though it wasn’t out of choice that I’d never really gone to parties, been part of high-school gossip, had a boyfriend … I didn’t make myself the lonely loser; it was a spot in high school designated for me by other people.

But moving to Midsommer, in Collier County, Florida, was my big chance for a completely new life. Nobody was going to judge me by the standards my sister had set. Nobody had to know what I’d been like in the last couple of years.

I could be me.

Just, you know, a better version of me.

I pick up the little spoon that rests on my coffee saucer and turn it over in my hands, angling it so I can see my distorted reflection in the back of it. I’m still getting used to seeing a stranger when I look in the mirror.

When I realized I could build a whole new life for myself by moving here, I also realized that this was really the perfect time for a makeover. Because that’s what people do, right? They move someplace new and re-create themselves to be a whole new, better person, don’t they? So that’s what I wanted to do.

Okay, I didn’t have to do anything too drastic. Fatty Maddie had disappeared over a year ago—it was just that nobody had cared enough about me to notice. I lost the braces last Christmas. I’d had contacts since February too, and lost those hideous glasses.

But when people have this opinion of you, it’s very hard to change it. They’ve judged
you, and they like to label you, and they like you to stay with that label forever. You’ve been allocated a place in their society, and that’s where they want you to stay.

So even when I lost weight, even when I had my braces taken off, even when I started wearing contacts simply because they were more convenient than glasses, nobody cared. People can be shallow and superficial, but sometimes they’re too selfish to care about you.

It got to the point where I stopped caring. Once you build up walls, it’s hard to tear them back down.

Now, though, I do care, for once, what people are going to think of me.

The new Madison is cool, spontaneous, daring
.

Looking at my stretched-out reflection in the spoon, I can kind of believe I’m on my way to the new Madison.

I touch a hand to my hair—not out of vanity, but because I’m still getting used to having, like, no hair. It’s a pretty drastic change, actually: I had long hair my whole life. On anyone else—like Jenna—people might’ve envied it. But considering my hair was a bland shade of dishwater blond, and I didn’t even have layers or bangs to liven it up a little, you can see why I cut it all off.

Well, not
all
. But close enough.

Mom flipped when she saw what I’d had done at the little salon in our town. She went all bug-eyed and gawped at me. “I thought you said you were just going a
little bit
shorter!”

But now I smile at myself in the tiny silver spoon, because I love my new hair. I opted for a short bob, the hair longer at the front so that it frames my face. I got some lowlights as well as highlights to try and make it look a bit less dull. Oh, and the sweeping side bangs that almost obscure my left eye give me a kind of “rock-chic edge,” according to Bobby, my hairdresser. I took his word on that one.

The main reason I did it, though, was so I wouldn’t have anything to hide behind. Not so I’d look better—although that
did
factor into it. Back in Pineford, I could duck my head and hide behind my hair, put in my earphones and do my best to be invisible. I wanted to change, be the new Madison. So by hacking off my hair, I’d
have
to try. It’d be harder to back out.

I’m not particularly pretty—I know that, and I’ve never expected any haircut or makeup or whatever to change it. Still, compared to how I used to look back in Pineford, with the ugly glasses and braces and extra pounds, I look good—not so drab. And that is good enough for me.

One thing I did strike lucky on when it came to the gene pool was inheriting my
mom’s flawless skin. Well, all right, mine isn’t
that
flawless—teenage hormones don’t allow that. But it’s close enough.

The new Madison is cool, daring, spontaneous
.

Daring was the haircut. Cool was covered by my buying a new wardrobe—you know, one that didn’t just consist of plain, baggy T-shirts and shapeless jeans to obscure my figure. My parents were only too happy to finance all of this and see me finally behaving a bit more like a normal sixteen-year-old girl.

I had yet to check off
spontaneous
, but that’s something I really can’t plan out.

I set the spoon down and pick up my mug, swallowing enough of my lukewarm latte that nobody will know I don’t actually like it.

Then I pack away, putting the phone box back in the carrier and my swanky new cell phone, now fully functional (and with no more help from Dwight the barista, I’m proud to say), into the back pocket of my jean shorts.

Dwight is cleaning out a coffeepot when I go up to the counter. “Thanks again,” I say to him. I hand over the check, leaving a ten-dollar bill, which is a huge tip for only a latte, but I feel like I owe him for the help with my cell phone.

When I speak, he looks around and then smiles at me. “No problem. You’re heading off now?”

I nod. “I need to be home for dinner, so … Well, um, I’ll … I’ll see you around,” I stammer. Then I flash another smile and give an awkward wave before heading for the door.

“Hey! Uh, Madison?”

One foot is poised to step through the open door, and I swivel around to look at him. “Yeah?”

My voice is shockingly calm, seeing as how my heart is suddenly racing, my palms clammy. I clutch the plastic carrier tightly. My mouth turns dry, and I swallow hard.

Because for a moment I think:
Oh my gosh, is he about to ask me out?

Don’t be so ridiculous, Madison. You don’t look that good. You just met. He wouldn’t ask you out
.

Then Dwight speaks, calling a halt to all my inner ramblings and bringing me back to reality.

“What’re you doing tomorrow?”

I blink.

Was that … Did he just … ask me out?

“Nothing. At least, I don’t think I’m doing anything. Why?” I think I’m babbling, so I
clamp my mouth closed.

“Well, I was just thinking, since you’re new to town, if … Have you been to the beach yet?”

“No, I haven’t had a chance.”

“I’ve only got the afternoon shift tomorrow,” he says, with that easy lopsided smile. “There’s a party there—on the beach—tomorrow night. They do it every year—you know, like an end-of-summer thing. I just thought maybe you’d like to go. You can meet some new people.”

All those rambling thoughts are gone; now my mind is blank, and it takes me a couple of seconds to respond. Because a) this guy has just asked me to a party and I’ve never been to a party before, and b) this guy, who’s actually quite cute, has
not
asked me out on a date. “Sure,” I manage to say eventually, with a smile. “I’ll have to check with my parents first, but …” I trail off. Was it too dorky of me to say I had to ask my parents?

He grins back. “Awesome. Is your cell phone working okay now?” When I nod, he adds, “I’ll punch in my number. I’ll meet you somewhere before so you don’t have to turn up totally alone.”

I know he’s just being friendly, but I can barely suppress a massive grin.
He’s giving me his number!
I think as I hand over my cell.

“It usually starts up around eight,” he tells me.

“Okay. Um. Okay. Thanks. I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow, then.”

Would it make me look like even more of an idiot if I slapped my forehead? Jeez, can’t I just form a sentence?

“Bye, Madison.”

“Bye, Dwight.”

As I leave, I’m on Cloud Nine. Seriously.

I’m going to a party (as soon as I clear it with Mom and Dad)!

I bounce down the road. Here, on the outskirts of the town, there’s a small strip of shops: the Langlois Café, and the hair salon, and the library; then a drugstore and a couple of independent record and clothes stores.

I’m not sure what it is that catches my eye, but all of a sudden I stop to look at one shop. It’s not very big, and it’s a bit dark and not exactly highbrow, like the rest of the street. In big cursive writing on the window, I see:
Bette’s Urban Body Art Parlor
. And the windows are covered with photos of body piercings and tattoo templates. I stand there staring, totally mesmerized by it.

I jump when there’s the noise of a door opening, almost dropping the carrier.

There’s a woman standing in the open doorway, arms crossed, looking at me. I gulp. She’s like a catalogue for the place—piercings all over her ears and face, and tattoos on her arms. The soft, slightly tinny sound of an old Guns N’ Roses song plays from inside. She’s plump, with graying wavy hair to her shoulders.

“Can I help you with anything, hon?” she asks me politely.

I stare at her, and I know it’s rude, but I can’t help it. She looks like she should have pit-bull terriers at her feet, and a huge Harley Davidson; she sounds like a really sweet mom who’s always baking her kids cookies.

“Um,” I say, “I’m just looking …”

I turn back to the window. Out of the corner of my eye I can see her scrutinizing me, and it makes me shift from foot to foot uncomfortably.

“Ever thought of having your nose pierced, hon?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“It’d suit you,” she tells me, and there’s a smile in her voice. “On the right side, though, because of where your bangs are.”

“Oh. Well, I never really thought about it.”

“Well, you know where to find me if you ever change your mind—okay, hon?”

I turn to look at her and she gives me a warm smile.

A nose piercing? Mom and Dad would kill me. Didn’t it hurt? What if it got infected?

But the new Madison is meant to be spontaneous, right?

And it does sound kind of cool … Plus, it’d suit my new “rock-chic” hair, wouldn’t it?

I haven’t even finished thinking it through when I hear myself saying, “You know what? Sure. Why not.”

The lady (I’m guessing she’s Bette of Bette’s Urban Body Art Parlor) raises her eyebrows at me. “You sure, hon?”

And I smile and nod before following her inside, despite the fact that I’m pretty much freaking out—because a) I have the feeling it’s going to hurt really bad, and b) I’m
so
dead when I get home …

The nose piercing hurts like heck.

When I first see myself in the mirror, I can find barely any resemblance of my old self. The “rock-chic” haircut and the sparkly blue stud in my nose are one thing, but the artfully ripped Abercrombie shorts and a cute blue tank top with matching flip-flops are also hugely different from the old me.

I picture myself as I was back when I started out in high school. Chubby, and with thick lenses in my wiry glasses, and braces I’d had for at least a year. A shapeless sweater and jeans, to make it less obvious that I was far from a size zero.

It would’ve been better if I’d been invisible. But I wasn’t. It would’ve been better if I was really smart; but I only got As when I worked for them, so I wasn’t a nerd. It would’ve been better if I was a band geek or in the chess club—but I wasn’t.

I shake my head, because none of that matters now, not here. I don’t have to be that person anymore. I’m forgetting about her.

I smile at my reflection. Definitely cool, daring
and
spontaneous.

I’m pretty pleased with myself as I walk home. Not just because of the piercing, and not just because a cute guy put his number in my cell phone, but because everything is finally looking up for me.