Mirrorless

2,907 words - teen fiction

"You are beautiful."
"I know."
"N-not just beautiful." This guy says it like no one has ever told me before. Like he is revealing truth from heaven. "You are-"
"Radiant?" I ask. "Gorgeous? The most divine being you've ever seen? Like I said, I know. Can we get in the car or what?"
His fingers, clasped over his heart, stiffen.
I purse my lips. "Why is it always beautiful, anyway? Why can't someone tell me I'm smart, or charming, or daring for once."
My mother intercedes in her cocktail gown, her own beauty flowing off her like radiation.
"Oh, baby, its alright." Her hands flutter around me, like she thinks she is fluffing my gown and smoothing my hair. "He's just giving you a compliment."
I roll my eyes. "Yeah, I kind of realized that."
"No, r-really!" the guys says. "Have you seen yourself?"
I laugh. Not because it's funny, but because it's not. My mother frowns at me.
His face turns red. "Oh. I d-didn't mean- Um..."
"Do you I have to open my own door?" I ask. "Or are you a gentleman as well as a flatterer?"
He clears his throat. "Of c-course." He hurries to open the door. His suit leg rides up and a black sneaker peeks out at me. It is definitely a sneaker. He is standing here, in front of my parent's million dollar mansion, wearing sneakers.
I get in the car, trying to lift one edge of the gown and ease myself into the seat, but I haven't ridden in a car in a while, especially not in a dress, and I end up hiking my skirt to my knees and dumping myself down.
The side mirror has been artfully covered with a fitted piece of metal, red to match the car. I'm sure it took a lot of time and probably a lot of money to make it so exact. I think it looks like the car's skin grew over.
I'm sure my mother waves, but I don't turn around to see.
As he drives - no chauffeur - his face stays red. It should match the car, both of them being the same color. But his face is so shamefully dark and the car is freshly cleaned and waxed, that they clash.
"I would like to apologize," he says, speaking slowly to cancel out the stutters. "I spoke without thinking. That was rude."
I wonder how long he had to save up to win a bid like this. Most men only get a lunch and a handshake. This is the first outing I've had in a few weeks. I know it can't have been cheap. Maybe that's why he's in sneakers now and a non-tux suit.
He is going heavy on the gas, and I lean my seat back to get a look at his speedometer. Ninety-two. We're on the freeway now. But still.
"Of c-course I was briefed on your... um..." He takes a gulp of air and I wonder if I should relieve him or let the show go on. "Your situation," he gets out.
"It's okay." I sigh, giving into civility. "It really doesn't matter. I've been cursed since birth, so it's not like I'm sensitive or anything."
"Oh." Then, as if he thinks he should remember his manners, "Th-thanks."
Silence. But the needle on the speedometer does drop a little.
"Can I ask you something?" he says.
"Why do people ask that? If you want to say something, just say it." I shrug. "Who cares what I think about it?"
He furrows his brow like he has to think about that for a moment. "I care," he says.
I laugh this time, a real laugh, because this is funny. "Men always think they're in love. I'll let you in on a little secret. Beauty doesn't equal love."
The furrow in his forehead gets deeper. He peers at the road in front of us like he can't figure out where it's going.
"D-does my stuttering bother you?" he asks.
This makes me look at him, maybe for the first time tonight. His profile is sharp. Defined edges. No extra fat or scruffy stubble. Roman nose. I can see the outline of his jaw, even the ninety degree angle below his ear.
"It makes you real," I say, focusing on the road, shrugging deeper into my seat. "None of the other dozen men I've met this week had a stutter. And PS- I like your shoes."
His face gets so scarlet I'm worried he might burst an artery. I don't know how to drive from the passenger seat.
We pull up in front of the restaurant, and the valet raises his eyebrows for a half-second. I'm guessing we're the only non-limo of the evening. I think of this guy's sneakers - what was his name again? - and hold back a laugh.
Carl. I think his name is Carl. No, maybe it's Clark.
Whatever his name, he gets out and opens my door for me, handing the keys to the valet who tips his hat and smiles at me.
"Evening, Miss Charlotte."
I nod back, my look blasé. At least he didn't tell me I'm looking beautiful tonight.
Two security guards sent from home flank the doorway. They look even more stern than normal tonight and I am glad when we are past them.
Inside, Carl or Clark or maybe Clyde, asks the hostess if our reservation is ready.
"Right this way!" She smiles in a way that makes my cheeks hurt. "And don't worry," she says as she marches down the restaurant. "Everything has been prepared for your arrival." She gestures at a full-length frame hanging on the wall that has been draped with gold fabric. "Even our silverware is the finest brushed steel. Not a reflection to be seen in this place!" She winks at me like this a joke and we're insiders. Never mind that the whole country is in on this one.
"And may I just say," she says, clasping the menus to her chest, "it is an honor to meet the most beautiful woman in America."
I wince.
The hostess sets out our menus, smiles some more, and marches off.
Clyde pulls out my chair for me and I hover in it, knees bent, while he pushes it in for me. I never did master how to pull that one off.
"So," he says, as we peruse our menus. "D-do you mind?"
"Mind what?" If he's going to ask a question like that, I'm not letting him get away with it. He's either going to have to spell it out or shut his mouth.
He peers at me the same way he did the road, like he isn't sure where I'm going either. Then he leans forward, an inch at a time like even his movements have a stutter, and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. His finger lingers on my cheek.
I don't move. No one touches me. Ever. At all. My mom doesn't even hug me or pat me on the head good night. My father barely looks at me. The men who come to the charity auctions my parents hold and bid exorbitant amounts of money to spend an hour with me, only look at me in snatches, like my beauty is too bright. They are careful around me, like I'm blow glass that will crack if the temperature gets turned up.
I realize I haven't breathed in about a minute, but I can't find the inhale button. Clark takes his hand away but still peers at me, brow furrowed.
"I want you to know," he says, his voice slow again, "that you are strong. Remember that." Then he leans back.
And I inhale, coughing on the air, and grab for my water glass before remembering the waiter hasn't come yet.
I look at the table cloth until a pitcher of water arrives, ice cubes clinking like melting glass. I gulp my water while the waiter asks if we know what we want, so he has to refill the glass ten seconds after he's poured it.
"I'll have what he's having," I say, and the waiter leaves.
Then I sit and shiver. Why are restaurants so cold?
Carl is tapping the side if his water glass. I'm worried his expression got stuck on his face when he used it on me, because now he's peering at the ice cubes. And we both know they're not going anywhere.
"Charlotte?" He doesn't look away from the water. "I think you d-deserve to know." His eyes flicker around the room. He slides the water glass toward me and it leaves a transparent streak behind, like a slug trail. He crosses his arms on the table, getting his sleeve wet, and I notice that the suit he's wearing is a little too small in the shoulders.
"Listen," he says. His voice is low. "I d-didn't win an auction to be here tonight."
"What?" I have to lean closer just to hear him.
"I wanted to meet you," he says. "So I volunteered to come. Usually they have to p-pay men to spend time with you, but-"
I jerk back, almost tipping my chair over and grab the table to stay upright, the glasses wobbling. "Sorry. What did you just say?"
"Shhh!" His eyes flicker around the restaurant again, but we are the only ones here. We are always the only ones, me and my date, wherever we go. My mom doesn't want people ogling me.
"They p-pay them. All the men who come and spend t-time with you. Your parents hire them."
I inhale deeply, trying to get enough oxygen to my brain to understand what he's saying. "You are making zero sense."
"There's r-reason all the men have to t-tell you that you're beautiful."
"They don't have to tell me anything." This evening isn't going as okay as I had been hoping for, and I hadn't really been hoping at all. "I was cursed. Or blessed. Whatever. You heard the waitress. Most beautiful woman in America, and all that. My parents don't want me getting to vain, staring in mirrors all day. I mean, I can't even walk down the street without guys honking their horns and sticking their heads out to shout things at me I am not going to repeat. Think what it would be like if I had to look at myself every day? It's bad enough having everyone else stare. It's like being a celebrity, but worse." I know I'm talking too much and my mother would frown if she heard me, but the speech-faucet it stuck open in my mouth and I can't turn it off. "And how am I ever supposed to get married? Men try to break into our house all the time just to get a glimpse of me, and did you know we've had to triple the number of security guards since I turned sixteen, and then we had to fire half of them and hire new ones all over again because most of them sign on just to stare at me. And who is going to marry me for anything except being able to say they got the most beautiful girl in America, right? No one is ever going be like, hey, that girl is smart. I think I'll marry her for her charm and wit and bravery. No one even talks to me really, they just pop out their eyeballs like their at an all-you-can-see-"
Chase puts his finger to my lips and the faucet shuts off. When he takes his finger away, I press my lips together and stare at his ice cubes.
"That's what you p-parents tell you. They think you were c-cursed, like you said. But n-not with beauty. Your p-parents are angry about the curse. They're trying to undo it. They think if you really believe that you are b-beautiful, you will break the curse."
He is crazy. Truly. How did he pass his evaluation to be allowed to take me out?
"Th-think about it. Why have they never let you look in a mirror?"
"I told you!"
He says, "Just one, you have to t-try looking-" But then the waiter is there again, with plates of food that make my stomach curl. I don't even know what we ordered. Whatever it is, I don't want to eat it anymore.
The waiter sets the plates down in front of us. Pasta with little springs of parsley, not enough sauce, and too much oil.
The waiter beams at me, and his smile makes me edge away from him like he might bite me.
"Can I please say, it is an honor, Miss Charlotte, to finally meet the most beautiful woman in America?"
I pick up my knife, like I'm going to have to defend myself.
"Th-thank you," Charles says for me, and mercifully, the waiter leaves.
I set down the knife and realize my hand is shaking. "This is ridiculous," I say, and gulp more water. "I want to go home. Right now. I don't know what you are talking about, and I want to go home. I'm calling my chauffeur."
"Wait!" Chris grabs my wrist as I stand. "You have to look in a mirror. P-please. Just once."
I shake off his hand and stumble backwards, upsetting the chair behind me.
"A mirror, Charlotte. Just look in a m-mirror!"
"Miss, is everything alright?" One of the security guards from home is beside me.
I point at Chris or whoever he is. "No. No, everything is not alright. This man needs to be removed from my presence."
Chris stands with his hands up like he's being arrested. "You h-have to believe me, Charlotte. P-please." He takes a step toward me and I shy away, afraid he might touch me again.
The second security guard steps up and puts a hand on Clyde's upper arm.
"Right this way, Miss." The first guard gestures for me to walk ahead of him, and I turn.
Behind me, I hear the second guard on his earpiece. "Ma'am, we have a situation. Mr. Livingston has broken the code."
I look over my shoulder. Carl Livingston is peering at me with that oddly familiar crease in his forehead, and I stop walking.
"Wait," I say. "Wait, I'm okay now. I don't want to go back."
"The car is ready for you, Miss." The guard nods out the front doors.
"No, that's okay. I'm fine. I want to finish my dinner." I try to step around him, but he blocks my path. "Really! I just got a little worked up. It was nothing."
Around his elbow, I see the second guard cuffing Clark's hands behind his back. Clark is still watching me.
"Wait! What's going on?" I try to move around my guard again, but he puts out his arm. "This is for your safety, Miss. I'm going to have to ask you to get inside the vehicle."
"No! I don't want to go home."
The other guard is leading Clyde away. Clyde is still watching me over his shoulder until he gaze stretches and breaks.
"Where are they taking him?" I ask.
"It's for your safety, Miss."
"Tell me!"
The guard is corralling me toward the door, yet somehow he still hasn't touched me, like there is a forcefield keeping everyone back. Everyone except Chris.
"Get away from me!" The words come out like a shriek. I dart under the guards arm but he catches me around the waist, and I shriek again. "Don't touch me!"
Clyde turns and I peer straight back him.
"Mirror," he mouths.
"What's your name?" I call.
But his guard has grabbed his elbow and hauled him out a back door. I hear his voice, but I can't make out the word.
I slump, and the guard instantly releases me, like he is relieved the force field is back up. So much beauty in me. You'd think guys wouldn't mind touching me. I guess that's what a million dollar threat can do.
I turn toward the door.
Mirror.
I take a step.
I have to look in a mirror. Just once. Just in case.
I look over my shoulder and see the full-length frame, draped in gold fabric, and I run, my toes pivoting me around the guard. His arm can't swipe at me fast enough. He lunges for me, and my middle feels too tight, like where the guard caught me the first time is still recovering from the impact.
I dive at the gold fabric and rip it off as the guard tackles me, all of us collapsing on the floor - girl, guard, and gold.
And I see my face.
The guard tries to twist me away from my reflection, but I see.
I see myself.
For the first time in my life I am looking at what everyone else pays to see.
Or maybe, if that guy who's name I don't even know is right, what everyone else is paid to put up with.
Squashed nose. Small eyes. Mismatched lips. Gaping forehead. Blotchy skin.
This face is mine.
This face is not beautiful.
I have never seen anyone so ugly.

(photo courtesy of Brendan C.)