Pretty Is

Hannah and I talked it over, again and again. I was the one with doubts; she dismissed them all. Finally I asked her something that had been in the back of my mind for a while. “How come you’re so excited about getting Kayla? She’s never done anything to you.”

“She’s stuck-up,” said Hannah. “She thinks she’s better than everybody else. Besides, she’s mean to you, and you’re my best friend.”

Right then I knew I’d go along with whatever plan Hannah wanted. Hannah, who liked everybody and everybody liked her, who had so many friends she never needed a best one—Hannah McLaren had named me her best friend.

I was glowing. So what if Kayla thought I was dorky like Monica? So what if Danielle and Jane-Marie and Samantha wouldn’t talk to me, and followed Kayla around like slaves? Hannah and I were best friends.

I still wanted revenge on Kayla. Before, though, I’d wanted it because she made me feel like a worm. Now I wanted it because she deserved it, and because Hannah and I could do it together.

I can’t believe we’re doing this, I kept thinking as I lay in bed Friday night, staring at the blue lighted numbers on my clock. I can’t believe it.

I lay on my back with the sheet up to my chin. The streetlight, shining in my window, made a shadow grid on the opposite wall, and in the center square was the shadow of the little origami bird that hung in the window. The bird shadow floated, turning slowly, always within its shadow cage.

I watched the blue numbers until finally, after an eternity, they said 11:45. Heart hammering, I got out of bed, took off my pajamas, and put on shorts and a T-shirt and sneakers. In the doorway of my bedroom I paused and listened, hearing nothing but the soft whir of the air-conditioning. Then I crept down the carpeted hall to the front door.

I turned the latch of the dead bolt with excruciating slowness, but it still sounded horribly loud. Then, more quietly, I turned the knob, slipped through, and shut the door behind me.

Stepping into the hot muggy night was like hitting a wall. I set off down the street, grateful for every streetlight, jumping at shadows and, once, at a lazy bark from the old dog who lived four houses down. “Hush, Fred,” I said to him, and my voice sounded small and shaky. His house was dark, but I hurried on by in case someone looked out.

All around me the cicadas kept up their crazy noise, as if a million tiny robotic aliens had descended from a spaceship and hidden themselves in the trees and shrubs, and were now chanting some mysterious message that no human could understand.

I was sweating, and there was a cold, hard knot in my stomach in spite of the heat. I tried to make myself Frodo, resolutely traveling toward Mordor, the thick air wrapping me like a cloak. But this only made me think of Black Riders sniffing out their prey, and creepy Gollum sneaking and spying. I was all alone on the street in the middle of the night. What if some scary stranger showed up? What if some neighbor who couldn’t sleep looked out their window and saw me and called my parents?

I kept darting glances all around, fearing that I wouldn’t hear approaching footsteps, with all the cicada noise and the hum of air conditioners and fans from every house. I turned onto Butler Street, and instantly I saw a car turning onto it, too, turning from the next side street toward me, a little orange light glowing on the side near the headlights, which swept a wide path and any second—I jumped for the nearest bushes. Crouching, I waited till the car was well past me, then emerged and kept walking.

Finally I saw Kayla’s house ahead. In this neighborhood you could walk down the street and not even hear the air conditioners, because all the houses were big and far back from the street, in the middle of huge yards. Kayla’s street was called Woodland Way, even though there weren’t any woods.

Not a single light showed in Kayla’s house, except the carriage light on a post at the end of the driveway. But I wasn’t going in the driveway. I looked at my watch, and it was five minutes past midnight. I hurried to the corner of Kayla’s yard where the big old weeping willow stood with its branches dangling almost to the ground. Pushing them aside, I stepped from the dark night into the even darker shadows of the tree. “Hannah?” I whispered.

I almost panicked. I was five minutes late, six by now. What if she’d gotten tired of waiting for me and left? I looked wildly around the willow’s branches and their trembling shadows, and beyond them to the street. Nothing.

What if she wasn’t coming at all? She could have fallen asleep, or chickened out. She could have gotten caught sneaking out of the house.

I began to hope she wouldn’t come, because then I could go home and this would all be over. I’d give her five more minutes, I decided. Or maybe four. But as soon as I thought that, a small figure appeared in the street, running.

“Oh my God, I thought you might have given up and gone home,” she gasped as soon as she was under the tree. “I was just about to leave and then Jake got out of bed and went down to the kitchen. He ate this humongous bowl of Cheerios. It took him like forever, and if I went downstairs he would’ve seen me, so I had to wait till he went back to bed.”

I nodded, and then we both just looked at each other in the dim, speckled light that came through the leaves. Hannah was still breathing hard from running, and I was breathing hard from terror. I wanted to say, “Hannah, I can’t do it. I’m scared and I just can’t.” The words were dry in the back of my throat, and though I opened my mouth, they wouldn’t come out.

Then Hannah patted the backpack that hung from her shoulder and said, “I’ve got everything right here. Come on, let’s do it.”

The words died in my throat and settled, deadweight in the pit of my stomach. And I followed Hannah across the dark lawn.

Later I would wish I’d managed to get those words out. I’d wish that Hannah would have listened. And I’d wish that both of us had turned around and gone home. But then it seemed that once we left the shelter of the willow and started across the lawn, there was no way to turn back.

We walked softly around the side of Kayla’s house and paused behind a big bush to survey the backyard. Right in the middle was exactly what we’d expected to see—a tent. And a few feet away was something we hadn’t expected at all—another tent.

“She said she’d sleep out with her cousin,” she whispered. “I thought it was just one cousin.”

“Who did you think was going to do it? This is your revenge. I’m just the planner. And now the scout.”

I hoped my face was as hard to see as hers. When I didn’t say anything else, she muttered, “Wait here,” set her backpack on the grass, and tiptoed toward the tents.

Holding my breath, I watched her lift the flap of one tent slightly, then a little more. After a moment she lowered it and moved toward the other tent. She must have tripped over a rope or a stake, because all at once she thumped down on one knee. She froze, but there was no sound from the tents, and after a minute she crept to the second tent and peered in.

She came back shaking her head. “It’s too dark in there. I’ll have to use a light.” Slowly she unzipped the backpack, both of us wincing at the sound, and pulled out a flashlight.

Then Hannah was back. “That one.” She pointed to the nearer tent. “She’s on the right side.”

I stared at the tent, at the triangular flap that concealed Kayla. Hannah reached into the backpack and handed me a pair of scissors.

For a second I thought Hannah looked frightened, too, but then she said fiercely, “Come on. You have to.”

“She treats you like dirt. She makes fun of your sister and you too. She thinks she’s like the coolest girl in North Carolina.”

“We planned this together, Erin. You and me. We’re not gonna be sweet little goody-goodies—we’re changing things around here.”

Slowly I nodded, watching her determined face in the moonlight. I gripped the scissors and turned toward the tent.

And I walked to the tent, knelt, lifted the flap, unzipped the mosquito net, and cut off Kayla’s hair.

The scissors made a slight crunching noise, closing two or three times on that thick hair before Kayla moved her head and made a little sound. I ran as hard as I could, back to the bushes at the side of the house. I thrust the scissors at Hannah, desperate to get them out of my hands. Then we both ran for the street.

There we paused and listened. No screams, not a sound from the Mortons’ yard. Hannah put the scissors into her backpack. “You did it,” she grinned. “You really did it.”

I think I managed to grin back. But all I said was, “I have to get home quick.” I ran all the way to my own driveway, and a minute later I was lying rigid in the bed. Triumph and guilt were both roaring through my veins. It was a long time before I got to sleep.