Flawless by Lara Chapman Page B

a picture.
    With last year’s school picture on the screen, I study the different noses available. There are about a million different choices. Who knew there were so many different shapes and sizes? Geez, talk about a tough decision.
    I start with the one that looks most like Kristen’s, which I’ve always considered God’s best handiwork. But on me, the nose looks positively puny. I mean, maybe I’m just used to seeing myself with this oversized sniffer, but it totally doesn’t fit me.
    The next nose I click is a little longer, but still well within the normal limits as far as noses go. It definitely looks better than the first one, turned up just a little, and not too wide for my face.
    I print the picture and lay it next to my laptop. It looks good, real good. But it’s still so different from what I’m used to. It’s just not … me.
    Rubbing my hand over my nose, I try to imagine what it’d be like to go to college completely normal. With nothing freakishly large plastered on my face. A fresh start where no one would know the old me, the old nose. There would be nothing to stop me from doing or being whatever I want. No excuses.
    As I’m about to close the website, I see a button that reads “Watch Us at Work” and click it. A video begins playing and the screen is filled with images of some poor schmuck with half his face peeled back. I have to stop myself from upchucking what little I’ve eaten today. It’s beyond gross.
    Someone narrates the rhinoplasty procedure like what they’re doing isn’t the nastiest thing ever. Shuddering, I close the window and slam the laptop closed.
    Picking up the picture of me with a new nose, I think of the video. Good as the new nose looks, it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let someone butcher me like that.
    I wad up the picture and toss it into the trash, thankful I finally came to my senses before I did something foolish.

No object is so beautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly.
    â€”OSCAR WILDE
    Chapter Ten
    Just after midnight, my cell phone rings, pulling me out of a deep sleep. I seriously consider ignoring it, but I know it’s Kristen from the unfamiliar tune screaming at me. She has a really bad habit of changing my ringtone for her. Of course, she never tells me when she’s done that, so it’s always a surprise. Her choices are superobscure: usually oldies because she knows I love them. This time, I’m treated to the theme song from The Golden Girls , “Thank You for Being a Friend.” I should recognize the tune easily enough; it’s one of Mom’s favorite shows.
    I reach for the phone, because she’ll just keep calling until I answer. I’ve tried to dodge her long-winded late-night calls before and nothing works. She’s like a dog with a bone.
    â€œThis better be good,” I grumble into the phone.
    â€œOmigod, Sarah,” she squeals, the high pitch shooting through my ears straight to my brain. “It’s about a gazillion times better than good!”
    I roll over and turn on the lamp. There are at least a thousand other things I’d rather do than listen to Kristen recount every last sordid detail of her night with Rock, but this is our postdate routine; there’s no changing it now. And deep inside, there’s a sick part of me that almost wants to hear it all, like the car wreck you don’t want to see but can’t stop looking at.
    â€œTell me all about it,” I say.
    â€œWell, first of all, his hands are freaking amazing,” she gushes, like I don’t already know. Like the memory of those hands doesn’t torture me. Especially now, knowing she’s felt them, too.
    â€œUh-huh,” I mumble, eyes closed.
    â€œI mean, they’re like totally huge and, omigod, they’re so soft.” She pauses abruptly. “But you already know that, don’t you,” she whispers,