Authors: Emily Franklin
At Face Value
Emily Franklin
For A, N, S, E, A—again, always, forever.
M
AYBE IT’S YOUR HIPS
, how they never seem to fit into those jeans the way you wish they would. Or maybe your eyes are lopsided, just enough for you—and Steven Minsker in ninth grade—to notice. Or your coarse hair won’t gather a lustrous sheen no matter how much conditioner and pomade you slather on it. Everyone has something even if they won’t admit it, something about their physical being that bothers them. Myself included. You’d think that as a senior at Weston High I’d finally be over it—and maybe I am, kind of. But do you ever
really
completely get past your big butt, your ears that stick way out, your—
Wait
.
In baby pictures, you can’t tell. I still look cute, proportional in my green and yellow striped footie pajamas. Mom and Dad are in the background—you can just see Mom’s ugly-duckling slippers (um, foreshadowing, anyone?) and one of Dad’s enormous hands. He’s tall, six feet seven inches, the kind of tall that always elicits stares. Mom always told me I’d be statuesque, too, but I’m totally average at five foot five.
In toddler pictures, my hair is so blonde it’s white, and you still can’t tell. The thing that will become my defining characteristic has not taken over, has not dominated my world.
Yet.
Then, fifth grade. Wait—backtrack. In fourth grade, I had about ten minutes of huge popularity when Daniel Simkins decided he liked me and made his intentions known on the playground (in other words, he pushed me into the muddy patch under the tire swing and told me he hated me, which resulted in a chorus of approval from the other boys and a love note from Daniel’s sidekick, Robert, in my cubby). Ah, fourth grade. The total extent of my glory days.
But back to fifth grade, the year everything changed. You know those school pictures that come in a stunning variety of sizes, perfect for wallets, desktops, Grandma’s piano, Mom’s office, the attic, and so on? In fifth grade, my parents buckled and finally ordered the mega-set. Ninety-two photographs of me ranging from thumbnail sized for the locket no one owns to the convenient 3x5 size, bypassing the large enough 8x10 and going all the way up. to the enormous 12x18, requiring custom framing.
Up until fifth grade, Dad’s frugality always made them choose the standard package, two of each “Regular Size” (a phrase I wish could be my personal mantra), and that was plenty. But in a fit of parental sentimentality and an odd request from each grandparent for a new photo of me, they heaved up the extra money and went for it.
In the picture, my shirt is plain—Starbucks green, like my eyes—and my hair is long, draped carefully over my shoulders in the very self-conscious, fifth-grade way. I’m sitting with my shoulders back, as instructed by the photographer. I should have known something was wrong by the way he told me first to turn left, then to angle my head down and look up, then sighed and shot me face-on. Clearly I was not a candidate for that fake mist technique that causes an extra image of you to hover like an angel—those were only offered to the class beauties.
When we got the pictures back they were in thick manila envelopes taped to the blackboard. I pulled the one marked Cyrie Bergerac off and looked inside. Staring back at me was a shocking image: not so much a fifth grade face, but just a giant, huge, goofily large thing. My nose.
You’ve seen big noses, no doubt. Been at the mall and thought
wow
—
that’s quite a honker.
But you haven’t seen me. I mean that both ways—you’ve never seen a nose as big as mine and, if you had, you wouldn’t have seen me. Because what I’ve found, in the seven years since those fall pictures were taken, is that no one sees past the thing they notice first.
We have tons of those pictures left over. Sure, grandparents wanted one, and my parents—blind in their love—framed the enormous one and hung it over the mantle until, in seventh grade, Wendy Von Schmedler’s taunts got to me and I asked my mom and dad to remove it. Now it’s in the attic somewhere—my fifth grade, canoe-nosed self stashed away with old toys and faded fashions I wish I could forget. Of course, everyone has their awkward stage, their year or two labeled with words like
gawky, chubby, lanky, high-pitched, bean pole, just a phase.
Except my awkward stage has stuck with me.
Easy solution: get a nose job. Everyone does it, right? Everyone who has parents that let them. My “love yourself,” post-hippie parents (who are totally “love and help everyone” except when they watch me play tennis, at which point they become every bit as ruthless as I am) are appalled that I would even consider changing my “natural beauty.” I’ve tried every possible angle to get them to see my point of view, but for every point I come up with, they have a counterpoint (that comes with the territory when you have a lawyer as a father).
My point: “Dad, do you know how many girls at school have their noses fixed?”
His point: “So now you want to be just like everyone else? And what’s with the word
fixed
—it’s like you girls treat your bodies like cars.” Before he could start in on loving my dents and dings, or some fender analogy, I left the room.
My point: “It’s considered a
minor
procedure. And it would totally help my self-esteem.”
Their point: “First of all, doctors call things
procedures
to make people feel more comfortable about what’s really an
operation.
The fact is, a nose job is elective surgery—and we don’t agree with it.”
My counterpoint: “What if I needed to, like for reconstruction or something?”
Their point (#4,532): “That would be different.”
Me: “So basically, I should hope that I get clunked in the face with a tree limb or something …”
Their response (shaking heads): “You have so much going for you—good grades, editor of the paper, natural blonde hair in a society obsessed with hair color …”
And lastly …
My Point: “But Mom, you highlight your hair—that’s not
natural
.”
Rebuttal: “I only started that three years ago after the grays started taking over my head—I feel younger inside than I look outside.” Dad gives her hand a squeeze for moral (and follicular) support.
My second point: “Well, I feel prettier on the inside than I do on the outside.”
I felt so lame for saying that out loud, partly because it’s a lie, that I retreated to the bathroom for an extra-long shower. I like to sit on the floor of the shower and let the water rain onto me like I just happen to be caught in a storm (of course, one would hope if I were caught outside in a storm that I wouldn’t be naked—but I overlook that little factoid).
The result of all this rhinoplasty back-and-forth is that, since I’m a minor and they won’t sign the consent forms, I made an appointment at Dr. Singer’s in town for the first open slot after my eighteenth birthday (I was born at 12:02 a.m. on January 1). Since he’s a friend of the family, I’m allowed to go in this fall for pre-op consults. I figure I can always change my mind … but at this point, I’m expecting that day to change my life.
I
KEEP A REMINDER—A
tiny remnant of my fifth grade discovery that I will never be the kind of girl people instantly (or ever) crush on—pasted in my journal: one of the tiny, thumbnail-size pictures from that year.
And it’s this miniscule image of myself, complete with bird’s perch nose, that I’m staring at when Eddie Roxanninoff gets up on stage in front of the whole school to make his plea for SBP (student body president). I flip my journal closed, concealing the picture, and look around. Eddie takes a seat next to the other candidates, on one of the wooden chairs at the side of the stage, and waits calmly for the assembly to begin.
Clusters of sophomore girls sit off to the left, drooling at the senior guys who sit way at the back of the auditorium feeling as though they’ve earned their place there, and juniors are sprinkled to the right. Even though I’m a senior and have trudged through the first three years of high school like everyone else, I’m not coveting a back row spot. Since I’m covering the event for the
Weston Word
(is it possible that something as seemingly tame as a school election warrants a two-page article in the school paper?), I have to sit up at the front like it’s a presidential press conference.
I have a habit of putting my feet up on the seat in front of me—a big auditorium faux pas—and Mrs. Cutler makes it clear with a cough that this is most unacceptable. I put my boot-clad feet on the floor and sit up, trying to make some notes for the article. With my right elbow balancing on the armrest and my notebook on my lap, I try to list all the other class-president nominees in the order they’re seated on stage. Except, as I lean forward to see them, the notebook slides off my lap and my papers scatter all over the less-than-clean auditorium floor.
“Do you want me to help you?” Leyla Christianson asks, immediately leaning down to collect my fallen pages.
“Thanks,” I say and try to shake off my klutziness. Not because I care that I dropped my notebook, but because anything that brings attention to me usually results in someone making a crack at my expense—and ends with me flattening the insult-thrower with a cutting remark.
I look behind me. I’m in luck today, since Wendy Von Schmedler and her popular cronies are settled at the back, the freshmen are too new to risk insulting a senior, and the sophomores are too busy trying to look cool to notice me—or rather, to notice my nose. But I’m not interested in the general audience. I’m here for one reason and one reason only.
Crushes start like insect bites. Hardly there at first, then a sharp sting, and then the absolute need to deal with the itch. I’m about to indulge in some serious scratching when my reverie is broken by—
“Can you move, please? We want to sit here with Leyla.” This to me from Wendy Von Schmedler, who has brought her Xeroxed minions with her. Each girl is trying to stand with a hip cocked to one side, Wendy’s trademark pose from seventh grade when she tripped me in the back stairwell and I fell onto my face. The blood stains never came out of my white sweater.
Maybe I should move to another seat. I could. But I don’t, because—
“Actually, Wendy, I need to sit here.” I pat my notebook as if this will inform her of why (the paper, the article, facts and figures). I can feel a swirl of words brewing inside my head, waiting for the slightest provocation to be spewed all over Wendy’s made-up face.
Wendy does the combination hair-toss-with-shoulder-shrug to signal to her troops that a situation is starting. No one is supposed to mess with the Schmedler. “And the reason you need to sit here is …” I open my mouth to answer while I’m still calm, but she side-checks me: “… because you adore the smell of old stage sweat and you know that this—” she gestures to my body part in question “—will suck up any scent?” A couple girls near her giggle, and Wendy grins, giving me a look that somehow mixes contempt with pity.
Give me insults, but don’t feel bad for me. Inside, the anger boils. “You know what?” I say. “You’d be better off doing the insult in another way.”
Wendy looks confused. I’ve found that if you react to meanness, you’re doomed. More insults will fly right at you. But you can really get to people by slapping them with their own missteps. They suffer, and you can revel in their pathetic attempts at a comeback.
I cross my arms over my chest and offer, “Why not stress the size of my nose and say ‘Hey, Cyrie, you can afford to sit at the back. Your schnoz can certainly pick up scents from miles away.’” Cue laughter from Wendy’s minions until she shoots them a look.