In the initial weeks following the accident, I used to hold my breath and dream that it would be gone—that my face might have magically healed on its own, without any need for a surgery so expensive it would require Mom to file for bankruptcy. But I’ve learned my lesson since then. There’s no such thing as an overnight miracle, and when I look now, the jagged edge is still ever present, running down my cheek like a frozen teardrop.
I examine my scar in the mirror, turning my head this way and that as I apply the concealer with its dainty little wand. With each new product I try, I can’t help but hope that this will be the one that finally delivers on the advertising’s promise: “Erase your most unsightly blemish!”
Yeah, right. All this concealer manages to do is tint the scar orange. But it doesn’t matter. Even if I did manage to cover the scar, it would still be there—still the first thing they saw whenever they looked at me, the rumors of That Night forever associated with my name.
It’s funny, because I never even used to care how I looked. All that mattered was how well I played. I guess it’s true what they say, that you don’t miss something until it’s gone—because the day I transformed from a decently attractive girl into the Phantom of the Opera’s sister was the day my wildly ambitious dreams devolved into just one: to look normal…or maybe even pretty.
With a sigh, I hoist my schoolbag over my shoulder and stick my earbuds into my ears. It’s time to leave the little haven of Room #403.
I open my door to the typical morning scene in the dorm hall: bleary-eyed girls yawning their way into the bathroom with toiletry bags in hand, their type-A counterparts thundering down the stairs as though they’re ten minutes late instead of early. The social butterflies are darting in and out of each other’s rooms, taking selfies and trading accessories, and it’s hard to believe that for a minute I was one of them.
Even with my headphones on, I can hear two of my classmates saunter up behind me, their conversation a low hum punctuated by a loud burst of laughter. I’d know that laugh anywhere. And that’s when it happens—a sickening lurch in my stomach. A moment when my vision turns pixelated. A fuzzy memory pokes its way into my consciousness, edging out the music playing in my earbuds, and I can feel myself falling again, my body tumbling over a precipice, the earth scratching at my face.
I let myself sink down onto the top stair, ignoring the weird looks I’m surely receiving. Inhale, exhale, I chant silently, until the feeling of dread lifts, and Alexandre Desplat’s horns and piano return to my ears.
It’s just another day, Nicole, I remind myself. You’ve gotten through it before. You’ll get through it again.
Oyster Bay Preparatory School is the kind of place you’d find in a Thomas Kinkade painting, with its quaint cobblestone walkways, lush lawns, redbrick walls, and arched windows. It oozes privilege and peace, a little bubble existing only for the fortunate ones who were good enough, smart enough, talented enough, to make it inside. You had to be the best to pass the entrance exams and get in. Okay, maybe a certain few didn’t need to worry about that, but most of us did. So it’s nearly impossible to walk through the velvet-carpeted hallways without feeling a twinge of pride, looking upon the portraits of presidents, artists, and geniuses lining the walls, luminaries who were once just like us, sitting in these same classroom seats. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what keeps me here—the idea that one day, I could be a legend on the wall. At least in portraits, they can paint away any flaws.
The school is shaped like the letter H, with our sleeping quarters, known as the dorm wing, making up the left building. Joyce Hall of Music & Arts is on the right, while the adjoining wide structure between the two buildings is what the school brochure calls “the crux of it all,” Academics Hall. You can probably guess which wing I’m most loyal to. My violin is the only reason I’m here.
My first class of the day is Biology: Genetics & Ethics, a class I used to look forward to because of who I shared it with. But when I enter the classroom, shaking my hair in front of my face like armor, I notice one of the desks is empty.
Brianne Daly, the one friend I can still count on, gives my hand a squeeze as I slide into my seat next to hers.
“Hey. Notice something weird?” she asks.
My eyes fly to the empty desk.
“I mean, have we ever made it to class before Mr. Isaacs?”
That’s true. Our biology teacher is a stickler for punctuality, so this is a first. The final bell rings, the minutes stretch on, and still no Mr. Isaacs. Brianne and I watch as the rest of the class celebrates this temporary freedom. Lizzie and Felix, the senior class’s newest It Couple, take the opportunity to squeeze into one chair and make googly eyes at each other, while the social butterflies flit around their desks, talking loudly over one another to be heard above the Kendrick Lamar track blaring from Charlie Fields’s portable speakers. No one wonders what’s keeping our teacher. No one cares.
And then I feel Brianne nudge me in the ribs.