E. M. Crane - Skin Deep

My name is Andrea.

My locker is the fourth one down from Mrs. Donoughs room. Shes the teacher they call the Doughnut.

The Doughnut teaches earth science and I think shes all right, but I guess you cant be a fat teacher with a last name like Donough and get off easy. If you look like adorable little Kimberlee Dorcus, with her tiny sweaters and lip-glossed mouth, not too many people will call you the Dork because of your last name. But the Doughnut isnt cute and perky. Kimberlee is.

Actually, I consider myself lucky not to have a horrible last name. Its Anderson. Andrea Anderson. If I had a last name like Beagle or Dumley, Id be screwed. There are kids with ugly faces or bad skin, annoying personalities or fat thighs. Theres the girl with the receding chin that makes her nose look like a ski jump. The boy with bad breath. These are the kids who learn to keep to the edges, to hide.

Then theres that other category of kids. The Desirables. Them.

I am definitely not one of them. I am plainish, boring, nervous. Average student. No school activities. Andrea Anderson, a Nothing. I just am.

Its better to know where one falls in the social stratosphere, and I fall somewhere between Too Lame to Invite to a Party and Too Ugly to Go Out With. I move through the halls of school as if Im not really there. The hallways between classes are like the stage in the school auditorium. There are actors performing roles from different plays, not noticing that a million other performances are going on at the same time. Simmonsville High School Presents: Act 1Cheerleader Ashley Gets Bad Haircut and Cries. Act 2Psycho Tries to Make Crystal Meth in Science Lab. Act 3Future Valedictorian Accused of Cheating on History Test. Some acts, naturally, are accompanied by predictable choreography. And its the choreography of the Cheerleaders Im watching from my locker: they are huddled around Cheerleader Ashley-with-Bad-Haircuts locker. Ashley-with-Bad-Haircut dabs at tear-stained cheeks in a tiny locker mirror.

Itll grow back, honey, Teena Santucci is saying, running her jewel-color fingernails through her own glossy hair. Teena wears a diamond-studded bar through her navel that makes me shudder because it had to hurt, didnt it?

The Doughnut sticks her lightbulb head out her door. She looks right through me to the Cheerleaders and sighs.

Okay, ladies, get to homeroom.

Ashley-with-Bad-Haircut frantically repairs her makeup as the Cheerleaders drift away.

The bell hasnt even rung yet, Mrs. Donough, Teena mouths off, but shes already heading down the hall. The Doughnut ignores her and pulls her big head back into her classroom.

The bell rings, and its just me and sniffling Ashley in the hall. Ashley grabs a notebook from her locker. She slams it shut. She sees me looking at her and looks back, not smiling.

Tell me the truth, she says.

Her eyes are red-rimmed, outlined with gray eyeliner. Her face and neck are flushed and pretty, like shes just dashed back to the sidelines from the center of the basketball court. Shes wearing a blue kilt and a tight baby-doll T-shirt just concealing her stomach.

Her hair isnt so bad, I decide. But I hesitate to tell her. If I say it looks okay, shell think Im kissing up. If I say its horrible, shell think Im a jerk.

About my hair, she says when I dont answer right away. She points to her head as if Im stupid. What used to be a sleek ponytail is now a short bob, gelled to stick out here and there. Tousled.

I guess it matters more how you like it, not how I like it, I say, shrugging.

Well, I hate it, she barks.

I shrug again and shut my locker.

Doesnt make a difference to me either way, I say.

Ashley doesnt respond. I notice from the corner of my eye that shes still standing there, facing me.

I look up.

Ashleys face is registering surprise. She blinks hard at me. I wonder briefly if shes angry.

Oh, its so stupid, she laughs suddenly. You know, when I was seven, my brother cut my hair. Snipped my bangs back so far it looked like the first two inches of my forehead had been shaved.

Took months for it to grow back. Every kid in the neighborhood called me Forehead. I survived it, and Ill survive the jackasses who make fun of me today.

Ashley flicks her hair with cherry-red fingernails and heads for her homeroom.

Its not like I have a choice, do I? she whispers as she passes me. Im surprised by how confiding her voice sounds. Like maybe she thinks I matter.