shadow between her breasts. When he looked up he noticed Kate Joliet, Charlotte’s
best friend, staring back — disgusted. Jake looked ahead and pretended to focus on the film.
After class, Charlotte excused herself to the bathroom, her two best friends in tow. The two girls had spent the film staring
at Jake in this super-critical way — and Jake thought he knew why.
Why
was why. Charlotte sat next to him? Why? Laughed at his jokes? Why? Asked to borrow his sweatshirt when the air kicked in?
Why?
Once they asked, Jake could kiss his luck goodbye. Because once they asked, Charlotte would realize: she really didn’t
know
why. Before long
why
would become
what
(had she been thinking?) and
how
(could she let this happen?) and
where
(could she blow him off ?) and
when
(as soon as possible).
Jake watched the object of his affection drift toward the exit, growing smaller and smaller, like a balloon he’d let go by
accident. As a kid, he would have thrown a tantrum. But he wasn’t a kid anymore. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets
and shrugged it off. It was just a balloon. It was just a girl.
The tide of the crowd guided him to the exit, through the corridor and into the sun. He blinked, taking a moment to adjust
his eyes to the light. Jake was on Accutane, and one of the side effects — sensitivity to light — made exiting buildings somewhat
of a challenge.
It was a small price to pay.
When Jake and Janie first transferred to Winston last year, their skin had gone from bad to worse. Pores gave way to pimples.
Pimples gave way to pustules. Pustules gave way to pustules with pimples.
Which was to say, even their zits had zits.
“We’re lepers!” they had cried to their parents, wringing their hands and running through the house.
“Good,” their dad muttered, tightening a string on his twelve-string guitar. “We can send you to a colony.”
But Mrs. Farrish booked them an appointment with a dermatologist.
Dr. Kinoshita spent the entire appointment connected to a swivel stool with little wheels that squeaked. Instead of walking,
Dr. Kinoshita pushed his feet to the floor and launched. He rocketed across the smooth, white tiles. He swung an enormous
mirror in front of their faces and stared with one unblinking, magnified eye. He was a cyclops. A cyclops on wheels.
“This is a very bad case of acne,” he declared, slapping his hands to his knees. Jake and Janie looked at each other. Can
you say, “duh” ?
“We’ve tried everything,” their mother sighed.
“I’m going to ask you two a question.” Dr. Kinoshita laid a hand on Mrs. Farrish’s shoulder. “I call it ‘the paper bag test.’
It’s very easy, only one question long, and the question is this: when you go outside, do you feel like wearing a paper bag
over your head?”
“More like an entire paper luggage set,” Jake said.
Dr. Kinoshita nodded. “There’s a medication called Accutane,” he explained, “but I only prescribe it to people with acne so
severe they feel like they can’t go outside in public.”
“Well, I feel like I can’t go outside in public, and my skin is fine,” joked their mother. Dr. Kinoshita chuckled. Her children
were unamused.
“Does this stuff actually work?” Jake couldn’t help but feel suspicious.
“Well, everyone is different. But let’s just say all of my patients have been very happy with their results.”
“Doesn’t this medication have side effects?” Mrs. Farrish interjected. Jake and Janie groaned in dismay. Their mother wasn’t
going to let a little thing like side effects stand in the way of clear skin, was she? They could turn into twin Hulks for
all they cared! As long as their green skin was blemish-free,
who the hell cared
?
“It does have some,” Dr. Kinoshita confirmed, handing their mother a glossy paper insert, “but it’s important to keep in mind
—”
“Oh my Lord!” Mrs. Farrish gasped, her eyes darting down the list.
best friend, staring back — disgusted. Jake looked ahead and pretended to focus on the film.
After class, Charlotte excused herself to the bathroom, her two best friends in tow. The two girls had spent the film staring
at Jake in this super-critical way — and Jake thought he knew why.
Why
was why. Charlotte sat next to him? Why? Laughed at his jokes? Why? Asked to borrow his sweatshirt when the air kicked in?
Why?
Once they asked, Jake could kiss his luck goodbye. Because once they asked, Charlotte would realize: she really didn’t
know
why. Before long
why
would become
what
(had she been thinking?) and
how
(could she let this happen?) and
where
(could she blow him off ?) and
when
(as soon as possible).
Jake watched the object of his affection drift toward the exit, growing smaller and smaller, like a balloon he’d let go by
accident. As a kid, he would have thrown a tantrum. But he wasn’t a kid anymore. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets
and shrugged it off. It was just a balloon. It was just a girl.
The tide of the crowd guided him to the exit, through the corridor and into the sun. He blinked, taking a moment to adjust
his eyes to the light. Jake was on Accutane, and one of the side effects — sensitivity to light — made exiting buildings somewhat
of a challenge.
It was a small price to pay.
When Jake and Janie first transferred to Winston last year, their skin had gone from bad to worse. Pores gave way to pimples.
Pimples gave way to pustules. Pustules gave way to pustules with pimples.
Which was to say, even their zits had zits.
“We’re lepers!” they had cried to their parents, wringing their hands and running through the house.
“Good,” their dad muttered, tightening a string on his twelve-string guitar. “We can send you to a colony.”
But Mrs. Farrish booked them an appointment with a dermatologist.
Dr. Kinoshita spent the entire appointment connected to a swivel stool with little wheels that squeaked. Instead of walking,
Dr. Kinoshita pushed his feet to the floor and launched. He rocketed across the smooth, white tiles. He swung an enormous
mirror in front of their faces and stared with one unblinking, magnified eye. He was a cyclops. A cyclops on wheels.
“This is a very bad case of acne,” he declared, slapping his hands to his knees. Jake and Janie looked at each other. Can
you say, “duh” ?
“We’ve tried everything,” their mother sighed.
“I’m going to ask you two a question.” Dr. Kinoshita laid a hand on Mrs. Farrish’s shoulder. “I call it ‘the paper bag test.’
It’s very easy, only one question long, and the question is this: when you go outside, do you feel like wearing a paper bag
over your head?”
“More like an entire paper luggage set,” Jake said.
Dr. Kinoshita nodded. “There’s a medication called Accutane,” he explained, “but I only prescribe it to people with acne so
severe they feel like they can’t go outside in public.”
“Well, I feel like I can’t go outside in public, and my skin is fine,” joked their mother. Dr. Kinoshita chuckled. Her children
were unamused.
“Does this stuff actually work?” Jake couldn’t help but feel suspicious.
“Well, everyone is different. But let’s just say all of my patients have been very happy with their results.”
“Doesn’t this medication have side effects?” Mrs. Farrish interjected. Jake and Janie groaned in dismay. Their mother wasn’t
going to let a little thing like side effects stand in the way of clear skin, was she? They could turn into twin Hulks for
all they cared! As long as their green skin was blemish-free,
who the hell cared
?
“It does have some,” Dr. Kinoshita confirmed, handing their mother a glossy paper insert, “but it’s important to keep in mind
—”
“Oh my Lord!” Mrs. Farrish gasped, her eyes darting down the list.
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