Finally Page 13

  I scoop it into my other hand, lift my leg until it’s resting on the counter, and spread the shaving cream in a long line from my ankle to my knee. I squirt, scoop, and apply until my leg is completely covered, with no hair showing through anywhere. With a deep breath, I place the razor at my ankle, and slowly draw it upward. All it does is take off a layer of shaving cream. Maybe I piled it on too thick? I wipe some off on a towel until it’s about half as thick and I can see the tops of the hair. This is very messy. I have to grip on to the counter to keep from slipping, getting shaving cream from my hands onto the countertop in the process.

  Take two, as they say in the movie biz. This time I can see the razor is making contact with my skin. I think it’s working! Hair is definitely piling up on the top of the razor as I slide it up! And I don’t even feel it! When I get to my knee, I turn the razor over in my hand and start back down. The razor is about halfway to my ankle when the pain registers in my brain. OW! It stings! It stings! It hurts a ton! I reach blindly for the shaving-cream-covered towel and press it to my leg.

  A minute later, still stinging, I pull the towel away and instantly get dizzy at the sight of the blood soaking it. I reach for the counter to catch myself, but my hand slides right off because of all the shaving cream. I fall backward, razor in one hand, bloody towel in the other. It’s a miracle I don’t hit my head on the bathtub or slice up my face with the razor as my arms flail around. I land square on my butt. Fortunately the bath mat saves me from direct contact with the hard tile floor.

  Ten seconds later, Mom is knocking loudly on the door. “Everything okay in there?”

  I shake out my limbs to make sure nothing’s broken. “I’m fine, just slipped.” If she pulled the towel out of the hole in the door, she’d have a perfect view of me splayed on the floor. Instead she just says, “You really need to be more careful, Rory.”

  As soon as I hear her go back downstairs, I limp into my room, a new towel pressed against my leg, and call Annabelle. I know she told me to text her, but I only have one hand. She answers, and I can hear people talking and laughing in the background. Before she has a chance to tell me she can’t talk, I say, “I used the razor. I’m bleeding. A lot. What do I do?”

  “What did the babysitting book tell us to do about bleeding?”

  “I didn’t read that part.”

  “Did you put water on your leg before putting on the shaving cream? You did use the shaving cream, right?”

  “Yes, I used it; no, I didn’t wet my leg first. Was I supposed to? It hurts!”

  “Did you shave your leg up, and not down?”

  “Yes and no. First up, then down.”

  “Didn’t you read the instructions on the can?”

  “There are instructions? And don’t yell at me. I’m in pain here.”

  “Okay, I just found the babysitting book. It says to clean it off with cold water, and then hold a towel over it until the bleeding stops.”

  “Okay.”

  “It also says if it doesn’t stop in ten minutes, you might need stitches.”

  I look at my clock. It’s probably been a good six minutes already.

  “And it says to elevate it. That means lift it up.”

  I thank her and also mutter that she never should have left me, then limp back to the bathroom. I wish I’d wiped the shaving cream off first, because I’ve left a trail leading from the bathroom to my room, and back again. Once I’ve stuck my leg under the bathtub faucet to rinse off the remaining shaving cream, it is easier to assess the damage. Seems like I managed to peel a few layers of skin off the inside of my left calf. The skin is actually hanging there, mocking me.

  On the positive side, the swath of leg directly next to the gash is nearly hair free.

  Eight Band-Aids later, I’ve pretty much managed to hold the skin back in place. But as soon as I put my leg down, the blood starts flowing again and I have to peel all the Band-Aids off and keep pressing the wet towel to it. Who knew legs bled so easily? After about ten more minutes (and two more towels), the blood finally stops. The only Band-Aids left now are Sawyer’s, which means my leg is a collage of Saturday morning cartoons. Bugs Bunny on top, followed by Big Bird, Tigger, Dora, Diego, Garfield, and Snoopy.

  And I’m no closer to those smooth, silky legs I’ll need for the soccer scene tomorrow. In fact, I’m considerably further away. The box of wax catches my eye. The slogans on the front proclaim: PAIN-FREE WAXING! NO BURNING! LONG LASTING! ALL NATURAL! The words all natural don’t impress me anymore, but I like the pain-free, no-burning part. I shove the towels all the way to the bottom of the laundry bin. The bathroom window reveals Mom watching Sawyer out back in his sandbox, which means the kitchen is free for at least a little longer. According to the instructions on the box, I only need to heat the wax for two minutes.

  The gash is on the inner part of my leg, so if I walk too quickly, it rubs up against my other calf. This is not good. This hurts like heck. I have to walk very carefully and slowly, which is frustrating, because Sawyer’s short attention span to any activity means he could get bored of the sandbox at any minute and lead Mom back inside. Once the rest of my legs are hair free, she’ll be so impressed she won’t bother to question me about the bloody gash.

  When I finally make it to the kitchen, I carefully peel off the plastic and stick the container of wax in the microwave. Dad always says A watched pot never boils, and usually I agree with him. But the timer on the microwave is ticking down the seconds SO SLOWLY and I really, REALLY don’t want Mom to walk in right now.

  I stop the microwave a few seconds before it can make its loud beep, grab the container, and hobble away as fast as I can, which is to say, very slowly. They must be right about the “no burning” part, because the container only feels mildly warm. Back upstairs in the bathroom, I make a point of reading the directions over twice, then spread a new towel out on the floor and ease my way down. A thin wooden spatula and strips of gauze fall out of the box when I turn it upside down. According to the directions, I have to slather on a thin layer of the wax, lay one of the gauze strips on top of it, press firmly along the length of it, grab one end, and quickly tear it off. Sounds painful, but the lady on the box is smiling as she reveals her hair-free legs, and that gives me hope.

  I scoop up some of the wax with the spatula and slowly bring it over to my non-injured leg. The wax has a pleasant smell, sort of like toasted marshmallows. I’m prepared to flinch as it makes contact with my skin, but it’s not hot, only warm and sort of comforting. I spread it upward, then add a little more to cover the spaces that the spatula skipped over. It’s not as easy to get the gauze to cover the stripe of wax exactly, and I have to push and pull it in a few directions, trying not to bunch it up too much. Maybe I took too long, and the wax hardened. I don’t know. But when I rip the gauze off, it feels like my entire leg is on fire. I gasp at the pain and watch as it turns bright red right in front of my eyes.

  Are those … blisters?

  This is so not good. I manage to stand and hobble out to the hallway. Swallowing my pride and summoning my strength, I yell, “Mom!”

  “What is it, Rory?” she calls from downstairs. “I’m making dinner.”

  “There’s been an … incident,” I call down, borrowing her own expression.

  She comes running, Sawyer at her heels. I try not to wince from the throbbing. Her eyes widen when she sees my leg — the red, blistery one — and then widen even more when she sees the one with all the Band-Aids. She quickly pushes Sawyer behind her legs, but he ducks around her. His mouth opens in a silent scream when he sees the damage I’ve inflicted.

  “You’re traumatizing your brother,” my mother scolds, ushering Sawyer into his bedroom.

  “What about me?” I shift my weight, and grimace. “I’m pretty traumatized, too!”

  “Look on the bright side. Now no one will notice your puffy face.”

  “You always know how to make me feel better, Mom,” I say, wincing as I try to turn arou
nd.

  “C’mon, let’s bandage up that leg,” she orders, helping me shuffle back into the bathroom.

  First she puts antiseptic on it, which almost makes me jump out of my skin. Then she gently coats it with some kind of ointment and wraps a gauze bandage around it, securing it with surgical tape. Good thing we have a well-stocked first aid kit! When she’s done, she stands back to admire her handiwork. I’m glad I hid the bloody towels so she won’t realize how bad the other leg is.

  “Can you make it back to your room?”

  Since both legs hurt now, the only way I can walk is with really wide steps, like a cowboy who’s sat on a horse for too long. With her help, I make it to my bed and lie flat on my back.

  “You’ve had a tough couple of days. What can I do to help?”

  “You could do my homework for me tonight.”

  “What else ya got?”

  I’m momentarily distracted by the fact that both my legs are throbbing in tune with my heartbeat. She repeats her question. I turn my head toward her and say, “Well … you could get me the bunny from the pet store. A bunny would REALLY cheer me up.”

  She laughs and walks toward the door. “I’ll think about it.”

  “It’s on the chart!” I call after her.

  After a few minutes of staring at the ceiling, I reach out my arm and feel around on the bed for my phone. I have to scoot over about a foot to reach it, making little ow sounds every inch or two. A text is waiting from Annabelle.

  YEAH. I text back. THAT REALLY IS TOO BAD.

  She’s your best friend, I tell myself as I let the phone flop out of my hand onto the bed. She didn’t mean to stick you with the bad stuff. I stare up at the ceiling and listen to Mom comforting Sawyer in his bedroom.

  I wish I had Throckmorton to comfort me. I consider getting him out of the box in the closet, but it would be too much effort to walk over there. Plus, curling up with my teddy bear isn’t very mature for a leg-shaving twelve-year-old.

  Instead, I comfort myself by focusing on how nice my one hair-free stripe is.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Omigod!” Annabelle runs over as soon as she sees my mom helping me out of the car. And to think, I used to be embarrassed by my mom simply dropping me off. At least she let me wear sweatpants to school, which is something I never get to do. But they’re the only pants loose enough to be comfortable.

  “What happened?” Annabelle asks as I hobble by, doing my cowboy walk. “Did you fall off your bike or something?”

  I stare at her, trying to quell my rising anger at her question. “My legs? The razor? The waxing?”

  “Oh, right! Duh, sorry!” She slips my bag off my shoulder and swings it onto her own.

  How can I be mad at a person who does something thoughtful like that? Although when I look down at her hair-free, blood-free, and blister-free legs, it gets harder to be forgiving.

  “Are you going to be okay?” she asks.

  People throw sideways glances at me as we walk down the hall. Probably because I’m moving at, like, one mile an hour. “I’m sure I’ll survive.”

  “Look on the bright side.” She grins. “Now people won’t notice your face anymore.”

  “You know, you and my mom should really hang out more.”

  “Hey, what about the movie today? You have to wear shorts, and like, run around and stuff.”

  We have to squeeze past a group of crew members setting up equipment, and my legs rub against each other. I grimace and say, “I know. I guess I have to tell that Brenda lady that I won’t be able to go.”

  Annabelle stops walking to stare at me in disbelief. I know it would mean I’d lose the job, but what other choice do I have? She opens her mouth to argue, but starts frantically pointing behind me instead. Before I can figure out why she’s acting so weird, I hear a boy’s voice say, “Definitely a one today.”

  I’d recognize that voice anywhere. I hold my breath and turn. He’s smiling. “A one, you know, your face. I had an allergic reaction last summer. We were shooting out in a field, and a bee stung me. My face swelled up like a pumpkin. Everyone stared at me, too, so I know how you feel.”

  For the millionth time, I wish I knew if a one was good or bad on the one to ten scale. I’m hoping it’s good. Jake is flanked on both sides by security guards who already look bored. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and jeans and his teeth are so white I can’t believe they’re real. So I’m supposed to talk to him now? How am I supposed to do that? Annabelle kicks me and I can’t help it, I grab my leg and scream. That’s one way to get out of talking!

  “Oops!” Annabelle says, throwing her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, I forgot!”

  “What’s wrong?” Jake asks, glancing down at my leg in concern. “Are you hurt?”

  I force a smile on my face and say, “Just an old war wound acting up. I’ll be fine.”

  He laughs. “Good. Well, see you guys on the field.” With a wink at Annabelle, he says, “Try to keep your friend out of harm’s way.”

  “Oh, I will. See you later!”

  He and his oversized buddies walk away, and I watch him stop occasionally to comment to other kids. What a nice guy!

  Annabelle smacks me on the arm. “Old war wound? Where did that come from?”

  I rub my arm. I don’t think Annabelle knows her own strength. “I heard my dad say it once when he didn’t want to explain why he was limping.”

  “Why was he limping?”

  “He stepped on one of Sawyer’s toy soldiers, and his foot got all infected with pus.”

  “That’s gross.”

  “That’s why he didn’t want to tell people.”

  “Do you realize Jake Harrison just told us he’d see us later?” she says, reaching out to grab me, but I step out of the way of her killer grip.

  “I know! I guess I’m going to the filming after all!”

  “You sure are!”

  We reach my homeroom, and Annabelle hands me my bag. Before I go in, I say, “Hey, did you hear from Sari last night? I hope she’s okay.”

  “Omigod, she didn’t tell you?” Annabelle asks. “She IM-ed me late last night!”

  “Tell me what?”

  The bell rings, and we both jump. As she backs away, she says, “She got a job working in the makeup trailer!”

  “WHAT? How?”

  “Long story, she’ll have to tell you at lunch.”

  But Sari doesn’t show up for lunch, so Annabelle fills me in. “Okay, so you know how Sari didn’t get picked to be an extra?”

  I don’t bother to answer, since obviously I know that. Annabelle takes a sip of her soda and continues. “So after she left the gym, she went to scope out the trailers and starts chatting with this one lady who works in the hair and makeup trailer. The lady was super-impressed with how much Sari knew about hair, and said they could use an assistant. She’s gonna get five bucks an hour!”

  We keep watching the cafeteria doors for Sari, but the bell rings and she never shows up. Turns out she had snuck out to the trailer at lunch, a fact I learn during gym class. She tells me that the makeup ladies don’t think very much of Madison. “They gossip right in front of me!” She shakes her head at the wonder of it all. “How cool is that?”

  Before I can answer, she launches into a detailed description of all the beauty supplies in the trailer, and how the ladies told her they have to use this really heavy powder on Madison because of her acne scars. She’s describing the rows of hairbrushes when the gym teacher blows the whistle, and she hops up to join the volleyball game. That girl is a ball of energy. Getting out of gym is the first positive thing to come out of my injuries. All I had to do was show the gym teacher one of my legs and she waved me over to the bleachers.

  By the time school is over, the pain has faded a bit. They feel less raw. I’m still moving slowly, though, so by the time I get to the locker room to change for the filming, everyone is already gone. When I slip off my sweats, the sight takes me by surprise. My legs
might feel better, but they sure don’t look better. In fact, they look like something out of a horror movie. I quickly slip on my shorts and head out to the field. Cameras with big microphones dangling off the front of them are scattered around, with crew members darting every which way. I can’t help noticing that the field has never looked better. Freshly planted grass, newly painted white lines on the football field. Even the wooden bleachers have been sanded and repolished.

  I join the other extras behind the goalpost. With so many people, it’s easy to hide in the back. And Annabelle is kind enough to stand directly in front of me whenever possible. It’s fun to watch the action on the field as the director is blocking out the scene. Then Jake and Madison arrive, along with a group of other actors who will have speaking roles in the movie. I recognize two of them from guest-starring roles on TV shows. Jake and Madison are both wearing soccer uniforms, and look much better than any of the rest of us in our dorky gym clothes. Madison’s hair is pulled back perfectly into a high ponytail, which makes her look even prettier, if that’s possible. One of the PAs runs up and spritzes Madison in the face with a water bottle. I expect her to freak out, but she just closes her eyes and lets the girl spritz away.

  Annabelle leans in and whispers, “Movie stars don’t sweat, they glow.”

  Finally, Brenda comes over and tells us it’s time. Day One of filming Playing It Cool! is about to begin! She demonstrates the exercises we’ll be doing when the scene starts shooting. Jumping jacks, relays, that sort of thing. Fortunately she doesn’t make us practice because time is short. We line up in rows (I take the back), and when she yells, “Action!” we begin our jumping jacks. I can see the cameras are trained on the action happening on the field, but the shot must be picking us up, too. I’ll never watch a movie the same way again.

  Each time my legs move in and out, I feel a renewed sense of jealousy that Annabelle got the wipe-away lotion and I got, well, the stuff that pulls your skin off. I feel a little tickle on my left leg. To my horror, a drop of blood has leaked out right next to Garfield’s head. If I stop moving, I could risk messing up the whole scene. All I can do is hope it doesn’t start running down my leg. After about five minutes of jumping (and, for me at least, praying), the director yells, “Cut!” Brenda walks the line, giving us pointers for the next shot. Apparently they now have to film it from the opposite angle, so we have to do the jumping jacks all over again. When she gets to me, she says, “Geez, what happened to you?”