The Story of My Face Page 5

  When no more tears come, I wipe my wet face and blow my nose. I walk down the hall to Dad’s room. There’s still a light on, so I knock on the door.

  “Dad?” I knock again.

  He opens the door a crack. Looks like hell.

  I say, “I’m sorry for what I said.”

  “Things haven’t been easy for either of us. Let’s both try to move forward as best we can.” Dad opens the door wide enough to stick his arm out and put his hand on my shoulder. It feels warm and gentle. I can’t remember the last time he touched me. I put my hand on his.

  TORMENTED

  From across the drama room, Mason shoots me a look so vile it gives me the shivers. Why won’t he just leave me alone?

  “Since Carter and Leon are the only one-act play team to have submitted both their first and second drafts early, they will begin their rehearsal today.” Mr. Owen tents his fingers and paces back and forth at the front of the class. “As for the rest of you,” he looks around the class, rests his eyes on me, “I need a draft emailed to me by tomorrow.” He turns to Carter and Leon. “Before you start rehearsal, give us a little background about why you chose to write this particular play.”

  Owen walks to the back of the class. Leon and Carter go to the front of the room.

  “Our play is called Imagine That,” says Leon. His black hair rests on his shoulders. “The story is loosely based on our childhood experiences. Strangely enough, we both had imaginary friends.” Everyone laughs.

  “My family moved from Melbourne, Australia, to Calgary when I was ten,” Carter says, still with a trace of an Aussie accent. “I was such a short, scrawny little guy and I looked about half my age. Everyone picked on me. Even the girls. I became the class clown to win over friends. And when that didn’t work, I always had Herman, my imaginary friend.”

  Leon takes over. “Growing up on a farm, my siblings and cousins were all into 4-H Club, horseback riding, skiing in the winter, and swimming in ice-cold lakes in the summer. From day one I was so different from pretty much everyone, a total sports klutz, and all I wanted to do was read. I started reading when I was four years old, always had my nose in a book. I got seriously picked on by my siblings and friends because of it. My imaginary friend, Theodore, understood me and loved reading, too.”

  The rehearsal begins. Leon sits on a chair intently reading War and Peace, while Carter darts around, stuffing notebooks and dog-eared papers into his backpack.

  “Merlin,” Carter says with his hand out, “give me my book.”

  “Go away,” says Leon, a.k.a. Merlin, who doesn’t take his eyes off the page.

  “My book. Now!”

  “I’m just at the Battle of Borodino—the big showdown between the Russian and French troops.”

  “Give it to me.” Carter grabs at the book, but Leon gets up and darts around to avoid him. Some hilarious physical humor. “Geez, Merlin!”

  “What are you going to do? Tell Mommy?” Leon says.

  “Yeah, right. Like I’ll say, ‘Hey Mom, remember my imaginary friend, Merlin? Well, he’s being an annoying nitwit—as usual.’” Carter tries to retrieve the book again, but Leon keeps deking Carter out when he tries to grab it. They play it up. Laughs from the class. Dax and Mason wear silly grins and laugh too loud. No big secret they were smoking up before class. I wish they were imaginary.

  “Your mom knows who I am. I mean, you invented me when you were three years old,” Leon says. “I think she might actually believe I exist.”

  “You do exist. But only in my twisted brain. I was supposed to stop believing in you years ago.” Carter swipes at the book Leon holds up high. “Just give me my book or I’m going to be late for school because of you. Again!”

  Leon suddenly looks serious. He closes the book and stares blankly into space, holding his chin with his hand. Carter angrily grabs the book and stuffs it in his backpack. He sits down to put on his runners.

  “So, if you stop believing in me, does that mean I’ll no longer exist?” Leon asks.

  “That would be my guess.”

  Leon looks worried. He quickly squats down and helps Carter tie his shoelace, sucking up big time. “Remember when we started that werewolf farm and you sold imaginary werewolves to your grade four class?”

  Carter laughs—so do the rest of us. “Yeah, I made about a buck-fifty that day,” he says.

  We all clap when their rehearsal is over—it was well written and acted. Funny premise—an imaginary friend having an existential crisis.

  “Okay, now for the pièce de résistance.” Owen looks around the class, raises his eyebrows up and down. “Theater on the Edge has offered to stage the best play from our graduating class in its summer festival.” I let out a gasp. Lots of woo-hoos and excited expressions. Theater on the Edge performs poetry, modern dance, fringe, music, satire, and just plain weird, thought-provoking stuff. I’ve always dreamed of acting with the troupe.

  “It behooves you, my dear students, to be imaginative, to color outside the lines, to be edgy,” he says. “Whoever’s performance is chosen will also be offered a summer internship with this very prestigious Calgary theater company. Don’t screw up this incredible opportunity.”

  I look around the class. Everyone is excited. There are a lot of talented people in this class. I want a chance at the internship, but can I pull it off? Would they even consider accepting someone with a disfigured face? If Theater on the Edge did choose me, would I have to put off my surgery this summer?

  After class, Dax follows me out of the drama room and we both start down the stairs. On the first landing, Mason and his stoner posse are teasing Leon, blocking him from going down the stairs. Leon is easily six inches shorter than all of them.

  Mason sees me. “Well, look who’s here.” I try to head back up the stairs, but Dax stands in my way, towering over me.

  “I think you should ask Bear Bait to grad, Leon,” Mason says. This makes the stoners laugh even louder.

  Leon glances at me, looking mortified, and I don’t blame him. Me as a grad date—could there be a greater insult?

  “Don’t listen to these losers,” I say to Leon.

  “Come on, Leon. I can almost guarantee Bear Bait doesn’t have a date yet. What do you say?” All the guys are still laughing.

  “Fuck off,” says Leon as he tries to push his way past. But Mason and Dax grab Leon under each arm and pretty much carry him in front of me.

  “Ask her, Leon,” Mason says.

  “Leave him alone,” I say with as loud a voice as I can.

  “Shut the fuck up, Bear Bait,” Mason says.

  “You’re still mad at me—I get it.”

  “Yeah, I am. For slutting around on me.” Mason puffs out his chest like a tough guy.

  “Leon’s done nothing to you. Just let him go.” I surprise myself by how strong I sound.

  Leon looks terrified. I try to give him an apologetic look. Teachers’ voices can be heard on the landing below us. Finally, Mason gestures to Dax and they let go of Leon. He doesn’t look at me as he runs down the stairs.

  My body is trembling. Mason looks me up and down. “At least there’s one good thing about your body. It isn’t as ugly as your face.” Again, Dax and the other guys crack up.

  Mason lets me by, but then Dax grabs my arm.

  I say, “Dax, what’s going on? We used to be friends.”

  “Friends? You kidding me? Last year you would barely give me the time of day. Looked down your snobby nose at me like I was a piece of garbage. Thought you were hot shit, didn’t you? Well, now look at you.” I try to shake out of his grip, but he holds my arm even harder.

  I finally shake him off and watch as he stands beside Mason. Dax copies Mason’s gesture of rolling his shoulders back and sticking his chest out in a tough-guy kind of way. I can’t help but compare Dax to Briar, mimicking the King and
Queen Bees. I race down the stairs. I run down the hall right past Schultzy’s office, right past the principal’s office, and right past the gym, where I hear 1950s Elvis music. No way am I in any shape for social dance. With my luck I’d get Mason as a partner. I push open the front door of the school and head for my car.

  ***

  Curled up in the fetal position, I lie on my bed listening to “For Emma” by Bon Iver while Ruby sleeps beside me, snoring softly. Such great melancholy music, but the tears just won’t come. A shame because I feel desperate for a release right now. I grab my phone. “Siri, what should I do about being bullied?”

  “Here’s what I found on the web for ‘What should I do about being bullied.’ ”

  There are scads of websites, but I read through one that says: Standing up for yourself isn’t about fighting back with force. Instead, it means doing your best not to give the bully the attention they’re looking for. Stay calm. Tell them to stop or else just ignore them. If you can, walk away. Try talking to a parent, a teacher, the school principal, or the guidance counselor. If bullying happens on the Internet, don’t respond to the message. Try blocking the social networking page.

  I flop back on my bed. Talking to someone about bullying sounds like advice for little kids, not someone who is ready to graduate from high school. Someone who’s almost an adult. With my new face, I’ll have to deal with jerks the rest of my life. Am I going to continue to be a victim or is it time to stand up for myself? I wonder if I can talk to Mason in a reasonable way to stop this shit. If only I were close to someone they looked up to. I sit up and grab my phone again.

  “Siri, does Liam still love me?”

  “Interesting question.”

  “Will I ever find love, Siri?”

  “Maybe you’re looking for love in all the wrong places.” Way to go, Siri.

  My life is reduced to conversing with my cell phone. I drop my phone in my purse and open up a new Word doc on my laptop. I start writing.

  Tormented

  by Abby Hughes

  It all started with a hiking trip. Little did I know when I woke up that morning my life would change forever. As the days and months have worn on, it turns out the grizzly bear was the least of my worries. Human beings have now become my most deadly predators, which means I’m done for.

  I write for over an hour. All my thoughts and feelings come pouring out of me in a monologue about what it’s like to be ugly, scared, and bullied. The set will be simple. A chair. Maybe a few different hats or masks, depending on which part of me is talking. Who knows? I read it over and am pleased with my first draft. I email it to Mr. Owen.

  A text bloops. I rummage through my purse for my phone. I find the brochure from the doctor’s office. Facing It: Supporting people with facial differences. It’s Thursday, which means there’s a meeting tonight in Calgary. The text is from Grace.

  Missed u at phys ed. U ok?

  Headache

  Poor u

  I’ll live

  Market mall tomorrow after school-mom letting me borrow her Volvo

  Just us?

  Serena and Briar too

  How can I face the Sticky Hive after hearing them trash me in the washroom? It still stings. A lot.

  I don’t think so

  Come on Abbs, it will be like old times

  It will never be like old times, but I feel so lonely. So desperate for some kind of normal, and I miss Grace like crazy.

  No, but thanks

  No is not an option-you’re coming

  I hesitate for a long while.

  K

  Cu 2morrow

  FACING IT

  I enter a large meeting room in Calgary’s downtown library. A few people are milling about, and others are seated facing a podium at the front. A woman in her early thirties comes toward me, smiling. She has a birthmark that looks like dark red wine stained most of her face and part of her neck. Even so, she’s quite pretty.

  “I’m Nadine,” she says.

  “Hi, I’m Abby.”

  “Is this your first Facing It meeting?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, welcome. Great night to come. We have a guest speaker, so I hope you enjoy it. If you’d like to hear about upcoming events, write your email address on our list on the back table. There is coffee, tea, and cookies there, too, if you’d like.” Nadine goes off to greet others.

  I head for the snack table and write down my name and contact info. I take a cookie off the plate, turn, and scan the room. Some faces are more deformed than mine, others less so. I see the same healing surgical scars on other people that I have on my face. I catch myself gawking, judging—exactly what I hate other people doing to me—but I can’t help myself. One guy looks like his face was made of wax, which melted into a permanently droopy position, his chin almost touching his chest. He struggles to keep a cookie in his gaping mouth. I also spot a boy about twelve who has growths that look like big clumps of purple clay glued to one whole side of his face, covering right over his eye. A girl about my age catches me staring at the boy and I’m embarrassed. “My guess is neurofibromatosis,” she says as she pours a coffee. “New to the freak show?” From the side, her face looks normal.

  “Ah, I guess,” I say. She turns around and I see that the other side of her face and neck have been badly burned—her skin looks like crinkled pink and red tissue paper.

  “I’m Jade.”

  “Abby.”

  Jade checks out the scars on my cheek and forehead. “Nice work. Dr. Baker?”

  “Van der Meer.”

  “I hear she’s pretty good, too.”

  I nod and take another bite of my cookie.

  “So, what’s your story?” Jade asks and takes a sip of coffee. This conversation feels weird but strangely appropriate. Sharing war stories.

  “A bear.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “True story.”

  Jade’s face lights up. “You were mauled by a bear?”

  “Yup, a grizzly.” I say this a little too proudly.

  “Shit. A grizz?” Jade looks impressed. “Most people don’t live to tell that story.”

  “You’d be surprised.” I won’t tell her how many dozens of YouTube videos I’ve seen and tons of articles I’ve read on survivors of bear attacks.

  “The next asshole who asks me what happened to my face, I’m so gonna tell them I wrestled with a grizzly bear.”

  “What did happen?” I gesture to Jade’s face, since we’re already showing and telling.

  “Car accident. Drunk driver.”

  “Geez, I’m sorry.”

  “I was the drunk driver,” Jade says very matter-of-factly.

  I’m tempted to ask for details, but Nadine is at the podium. “Everyone, please take your seats.” Jade and I sit together near the back of the room.

  “I’m glad to see such a great turnout tonight for our special speaker, who came all the way from Toronto,” Nadine says. “She is an advocate, a counselor, a motivational speaker, and one of the co-founders of Facing It. We’re very happy to have her with us here in Calgary tonight. Please welcome Heather McLaughlin.” Everyone claps.

  “Holy shit,” Jade says quietly when she sees Heather. I’m both shocked and strangely fascinated as Heather approaches the podium.

  “Cherubism,” Jade whispers in my ear.

  “What’s that?”

  “Weird genetic disorder. Someone who used to come to this group had it.” I wonder if Jade is as obsessed with researching facial deformities as I am with researching grizzly bears.

  Heather’s face looks way too big for her head, like she’s wearing a larger-than-life cartoon mask—with bulgy eyes and an enormously large square chin. Something you’d see in an animated movie. Here I go again, gaping. Judging.

  “Hel
lo and thank you for inviting me to speak to you this evening.” Heather clicks on the projector and an image of a beautiful, flawless young woman appears. “We live in a society that is obsessed with outward beauty,” Heather says. “We are continually bombarded by unrealistic images of beauty on TV, billboards, social media, and in films and magazines.” The large screen behind her shows images of stick-thin runway models, movie and TV stars. “Images of celebrities set an impossible standard, especially for people like some of us here who have facial differences.”

  Heather uses the word difference rather than disfigurement. Or deformity—the word I usually use to describe myself. Heather walks to one side of the small stage and talks to that side of the audience.

  Another photo comes on the screen. A grid, like graph paper, superimposed on a woman’s face. “One anthropologist discovered that an incongruity of a little over one-thousandth of an inch in the placement of a facial feature triggers something in the brain that makes us do a double take. As a rule, we humans do not like asymmetry.”

  I had never thought about beauty or attractiveness in a scientific way before.

  So what does all this mean for us asymmetrical types?” Chuckles from the audience. “Well, we get a lot of stares, that’s for sure. And some people think that because we look different, we also have a mental deficiency. Anyone experience that?” Lots of nods.

  ***

  “So, it’s all about symmetry, eh?” I say as Jade and I walk to the parking lot.

  “Yeah, but she failed to mention the studies that show attractive people are considered more likable, have more dates, get fewer convictions in serious crimes, and are more likely to get hired for jobs than less attractive people.”

  An Asian woman in her late twenties walks toward us. “Have a good look at this girl,” Jade says.

  Long, silky, black hair, perfect skin, and just the right amount of makeup. We turn around when she passes to see a perfect little bum in her skinny jeans.

  “Okay, if you were a landlord renting out an apartment—especially if you were a man—would you rent it to Miss Perfect or Inferno Face?”