idiot. Anyone in that situation … I might have done the same thing.”
Right. Like “the smart one” would ever go to a party to begin with, let alone hop into a car with the captain of the football team. I remember her saying once, “I don’t get adolescent social rituals.”
But I didn’t argue with my sister. I kept going. “Jarrod tried to shut the door. He let go of the wheel for, like, a second and leaned over me…. I saw what was happening … we were hitting the soft part … the shoulder … I tried to grab the wheel, to straighten us out, but he jerked it back from me and we … The car just flew off the road….”
Ruthie grimaced.
I fingered the candy wrapper in my hand. “If Ryan was driving … he never would have … when we hooked up it was always, you know … through the clothes. And he was okay with that. I mean, I thought he was. And then, Taylor…” My voice broke off.
“I’m sorry, Lex,” Ruthie said quietly. “I really am. I didn’t mean to make light of what happened to you. The whole thing sucks.”
“The whole thing does suck,” I said.
“I know.”
“And you know what sucks even more? Tomorrow I have to get this skin-graft thing. They’re taking skin off my butt and putting it on my cheek .”
“I know,” Ruthie said.
“How twisted is that?”
My sister shook her head. She opened her mouth like she was about to say something, then closed it.
“What?”
“Are you scared?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
Because sometimes you lie. You have to, just to convince yourself. Otherwise, here’s the thing: you might lock yourself in a bathroom and never come out.
Bogus, Bulimic, Smack Shooters
IRONICALLY, THE DAY of the skin graft was the day I was supposed to be getting professional head shots. Modeling was my mother’s idea, based on this one time when we were in New York City and a photographer stopped us on the sidewalk, asking to take my picture.
I will never forget that moment, and I doubt Taylor will, either. We were on our way to the Met to see the Picasso exhibit since Tay and I had both been home with strep throat the week before and had missed the ninth-grade field trip. When we got to the museum, a photo shoot was taking place, right there on the front steps. The models were gorgeous—dressed all in red against the gray stone, with cherry-colored lipstick and bare legs that went on forever. They looked almost too perfect to be real. You couldn’t imagine them burping, or stepping in gum, or having a bad hair day—and probably if they ever did, some guardian hair angel would swoop down from the heavens and spritz everything back into place. Taylor, my mother, and I were mesmerized. We stood on the sidewalk for a full twenty minutes, gawking.
That’s when this man came up to us. He was dressed in black and holding a camera with the biggest lens I’d ever seen.
“Excuse me,” he said to my mother, “is this your daughter?”
When he gestured to me, my mom nodded and smiled.
“She’s stunning.” The man paused for a second, holding his chin and squinting at me, tracing my body with his eyes, like he wanted to be sure of something. “Yes,” he said finally. He extended a hand to my mom. “Zander Kent.”
“Laine Mayer,” my mother said.
He told her he wanted to photograph me and whipped out his business card— ZANDER KENT, COMMERCIAL AND FASHION PHOTOGRAPHY . Which of course got my mom all jazzed because, in addition to being runner-up to Miss South Carolina three years in a row, she used to do commercials. In fact, she helped put my dad through law school. Tussy deodorant was one, and then a Folgers coffee ad where, inexplicably, she got to dance with a refrigerator.
When she told this to Zander Kent, he laughed, revealing beautiful, pearl-colored teeth.
“Well…” My mother smiled, giving her hair a self-conscious pat. “That was a long time ago. It’s Alexa’s turn now.”
At which point, Zander Kent snapped my
Right. Like “the smart one” would ever go to a party to begin with, let alone hop into a car with the captain of the football team. I remember her saying once, “I don’t get adolescent social rituals.”
But I didn’t argue with my sister. I kept going. “Jarrod tried to shut the door. He let go of the wheel for, like, a second and leaned over me…. I saw what was happening … we were hitting the soft part … the shoulder … I tried to grab the wheel, to straighten us out, but he jerked it back from me and we … The car just flew off the road….”
Ruthie grimaced.
I fingered the candy wrapper in my hand. “If Ryan was driving … he never would have … when we hooked up it was always, you know … through the clothes. And he was okay with that. I mean, I thought he was. And then, Taylor…” My voice broke off.
“I’m sorry, Lex,” Ruthie said quietly. “I really am. I didn’t mean to make light of what happened to you. The whole thing sucks.”
“The whole thing does suck,” I said.
“I know.”
“And you know what sucks even more? Tomorrow I have to get this skin-graft thing. They’re taking skin off my butt and putting it on my cheek .”
“I know,” Ruthie said.
“How twisted is that?”
My sister shook her head. She opened her mouth like she was about to say something, then closed it.
“What?”
“Are you scared?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
Because sometimes you lie. You have to, just to convince yourself. Otherwise, here’s the thing: you might lock yourself in a bathroom and never come out.
Bogus, Bulimic, Smack Shooters
IRONICALLY, THE DAY of the skin graft was the day I was supposed to be getting professional head shots. Modeling was my mother’s idea, based on this one time when we were in New York City and a photographer stopped us on the sidewalk, asking to take my picture.
I will never forget that moment, and I doubt Taylor will, either. We were on our way to the Met to see the Picasso exhibit since Tay and I had both been home with strep throat the week before and had missed the ninth-grade field trip. When we got to the museum, a photo shoot was taking place, right there on the front steps. The models were gorgeous—dressed all in red against the gray stone, with cherry-colored lipstick and bare legs that went on forever. They looked almost too perfect to be real. You couldn’t imagine them burping, or stepping in gum, or having a bad hair day—and probably if they ever did, some guardian hair angel would swoop down from the heavens and spritz everything back into place. Taylor, my mother, and I were mesmerized. We stood on the sidewalk for a full twenty minutes, gawking.
That’s when this man came up to us. He was dressed in black and holding a camera with the biggest lens I’d ever seen.
“Excuse me,” he said to my mother, “is this your daughter?”
When he gestured to me, my mom nodded and smiled.
“She’s stunning.” The man paused for a second, holding his chin and squinting at me, tracing my body with his eyes, like he wanted to be sure of something. “Yes,” he said finally. He extended a hand to my mom. “Zander Kent.”
“Laine Mayer,” my mother said.
He told her he wanted to photograph me and whipped out his business card— ZANDER KENT, COMMERCIAL AND FASHION PHOTOGRAPHY . Which of course got my mom all jazzed because, in addition to being runner-up to Miss South Carolina three years in a row, she used to do commercials. In fact, she helped put my dad through law school. Tussy deodorant was one, and then a Folgers coffee ad where, inexplicably, she got to dance with a refrigerator.
When she told this to Zander Kent, he laughed, revealing beautiful, pearl-colored teeth.
“Well…” My mother smiled, giving her hair a self-conscious pat. “That was a long time ago. It’s Alexa’s turn now.”
At which point, Zander Kent snapped my
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