Friday, 3:37 P.M.
“Kacey Simon. Didn’t expect to see you back here so soon.” When Dr. Marco leaned over the exam chair with his mini flashlight, his spicy cologne burrowed up my nostrils into my brain, making my stress migraine a million times worse. I forgave him because he rolled his r’s, which would be cute if he weren’t solely responsible for making me miss rehearsal.
“Mom forced me.”
“I see. And have you been using the drops I gave you twice a day?”
Drops? I squeezed my eyes shut to block out the tiny light daggers screwing into my pupils. “Weren’t those optional?”
“More like mandatory.” And then he did it. The tsk.
The tsk was the universal sound all doctors made when you were in serious trouble. My dentist, Marvin Haussmann, D.D.S., was a major tsker. Specifically when I swore I’d been flossing and then his assistant, Darleen, whose claim to fame was an honorable mention in a Jessica Simpson lookalike contest, snitched that she just excavated half a chocolate cupcake from my upper molars.
“I’m concerned she’s having an allergic reaction,” Mom butted in from her seat by the door. “Her eyes have gotten worse since she left for school this morning.”
“Waaay worse.” Ella snapped the elastic on the black eye patch she’d found in the waiting room. “Ow.”
Tsk. “Looks like you have a minor infection, Miss Kacey.”
“But this pair is probably just defective, right?” I hooked my nails into the leather chair. I’d already chosen my outfit for Molly’s party: a gray off-the-shoulder sweater dress with over-the-knee boots and one of Liv’s birdcage veil hairpins. AND VIOLET CONTACT LENSES, for a pop of color. “You just have to give me another pair? And then I’ll be fine?”
With every second Dr. Marco didn’t answer, my heart rate was tripling, thrumming to the beat of Quinn’s voice. Cool contacts. Cool contacts. Cool contacts. What if Molly kissed Skinny Jeans from Seattle before I offstage-kissed Quinn? Was there no end to the lengths she’d go just to beat me at something?
“RIGHT?” My throat was starting to feel tight. I was probably having an allergic reaction to the idea of Molly beating me at anything. It wouldn’t be natural.
Dr. Marco pushed back his rolling stool and headed for the door. Once he came into focus, I noticed that his curly black hair was still over-gelled, even though I’d told him last time: When they said dime-sized amount, they were serious. “Take your contacts out for me. I’ll be right back,” he said.
“Kacey Elisabeth,” Mom said as the door clicked closed. The dreaded double name. And in the dark, which made it even freakier than usual. “What was our agreement?”
“Hold on.” I hunched over in my chair and pretended that taking out my contacts required live coverage–level focus. The second they landed on my fingertip, the wildfires in my eyes smoldered to contained brush fires.
“Kacey! Did you know crickets hear through their knees?” For once I was glad Ella had no concept of when to be quiet.
“Liar,” I said, crossing my fingers for a tantrum.
“Miss Deirdre said!” Ella stomped her foot right on cue. “Their ears are in their kneeees!”
But Mom didn’t skip a beat. “Kacey? Our agreement?”
“ThatIcouldgetthemaslongasItookcareofthem.” It was the same agreement we’d had when I got a ferret in fifth grade. That agreement didn’t last long, either. But only because Ella made the ferret a mini theme park complete with a Gravitron, which was just a fancy name for a run through the spin cycle. Rest in peace, Oprah Winfurry.
“That’s right. And do you think you’ve shown that you can be responsible enough to take care of them?”
I don’t answer leading questions so I kept my mouth shut.
Dr. Marco reappeared in the doorway and flipped the overhead light on.
“Ahhhh!” I pressed the heels of my palms over my eyes. “Dr. Maaaarco!”
“POLO!” Ella shrieked gleefully.
“Sorry.” Dr. Marco chuckled, adjusting the dimmer to the candlelight setting. “So here’s the deal. It’s going to take a couple weeks for that infection to heal.”
“I’ll do the drops every day this time. Twice. Swear,” I promised.
“Twice a day,” Mom repeated.
Dr. Marco opened his fake lab coat and fished around in one of the inside pockets, probably looking for a pamphlet on juvenile glaucoma.
I cracked my neck on both sides and closed my eyes. “You should make these into massage chairs. Then people probably wouldn’t hate coming to see you so much.”
“Kacey.” Even without looking, I could tell Mom was massaging her temples.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Dr. Marco’s voice came close to my ear, and I felt something cold and weighty settling onto my nose. “Try these for me.”
“What?” My eyes snapped open. Those crunchy black curls were six inches closer and about six zillion times more defined than they had been a minute ago. It was suddenly painfully obvious that someone was in desperate need of a pore strip.
My hands flew to my face and collided with chunky plastic. “What’s going on?” I gulped, bolting upright. “What are these?” My toes curled in my Converse.
Dr. Marco lifted a handheld mirror in front of me, revealing a pair of thick-lensed tortoiseshell glasses that took up at least seventy-five percent of my face. Then he threw his head back and let out an evil cackle, the overhead light illuminating his every wrinkle as he hissed, “Any last words?”
Okay, fine. What he actually said was: “Your new glasses.”
I ripped off the frames. “Is this your idea of a joke?” My voice cracked, making me sound uncertain. But I’d never been more sure of anything in my life. Glasses meant immediate social death. And now was not my time. I would not be one of those girls who peaked in middle school.
Dr. Marco’s lips were moving, but no sound was coming out of them. All I could hear was this loud static buzzing in my ears. It was like dead air—the same sound I’d be hearing once all my friends ditched me, Quinn Wilder moved to Canada to get away from me, and Simon Says was cancelled on account of an unacceptably ugly host. If the show went down the drain, then my entire broadcast career was finished. And if my career was finished, what did I have?
Nothing. Except for a giant hunk of brownish-orange tortoiseshell perched on my worthless face.
“… just for a little while, while your eyes heal,” Dr. Marco was saying.
“You don’t understand.” Coolcontacts.Coolcontacts.Coolcontacts. “I can’t wear these.”
“Why not?” Dr. Marco’s forehead crinkled.
I racked my brain for excuses, apart from the obvious. What would my friends say if they were in my place? Molly would somehow find a way to make glasses seem… sexy secretary, but Liv would—
“They’re tortoiseshell. And that’s inhumane to all the… endangered… turtles.” My stomach lurched, and I didn’t even try to stop it. It would serve him right if I threw up all over his non-massage chair. “I’m calling PETA.”
“Kacey Elisabeth.” Again with the double name.
“Have you guys seen me in these?”
Dr. Marco patted my shoulder. “It won’t take long, Kacey,” he said gently. “Just a couple weeks. When your infection heals, you can go back to contacts.”
I tilted my head back and blinked at the ceiling, scanning a mental list of upcoming personal appearances. Molly’s party. Classes. Rehearsal. OPENING NIGHT. The cast party, where I was supposed to have my first offstage kiss with Quinn Wilder.
I rubbed my eyes, surrendering to the tears spilling down my cheeks. I didn’t even care anymore if Dr. Marco saw me cry. He’d already seen the worst.
He’d seen me in glasses.
“I think you look smart,” Dr. Marco tried, holding up the mirror again. He lifted the frames and nudged them gently onto my nose, but they kept sliding off.
I snuck another glance into the mirror. Puffy green eyes, red nose, and splotchy cheeks. I looked like someone else. A girl who huddled in the corner, trying not to be noticed. A girl whose school pictures haunted her for the rest of her life. A girl who was completely alone. A girl who was a… loser.
“That’s it.” I ripped off the frames again and lunged out of the chair, yanking my messenger bag over my shoulder. “I’m outta here.”
I think Mom called my name, but all I could hear was the sound of my own pathetic sobs and Quinn’s voice saying, Coolcontacts.Coolcontacts.Coolcontacts.
My phone buzzed in my bag as I stalked through the waiting room and headed for the elevators. “What?” I choked.
“Change of plaaaans,” Molly chirped annoyingly. “Instead of The Drake? We’re going someplace way better. I can’t tell you where, but here’s a hint—”
I couldn’t. Not now.
“I have a bad—” I reached into my coat pocket and found a discarded gum wrapper. Then I crinkled the foil into the receiver. “—can’t hear—tunnel—”
I hung up. It was unbelievable how shallow some people could be. Who cared about birthday parties when horrific, tragic things were happening in this world? Unspeakable disasters, wreaking havoc on millions of helpless victims across the globe? Hurricanes. Floods. Earthquakes.
Glasses.