my letter to the world

The little slip of paper in my school bag weighed more than all of my books combined. I trudged home with the burden in my bag, scheming ways around it. I could transfer to public school, with the excuse that I wanted to save my parents' money. Given that I had just asked for a new ten-speed bike, I doubted they'd believe that one. I could contract mono and be home-schooled for the rest of the year. But mono was the kissing disease. First, I'd have to find a boy with mono. Then, I'd have to convince him to kiss me. Not likely. Maybe I could get abducted! There had been a rash of kidnappings out on Long Island. I could visit my aunt in Massapequa and hang out at the mall. I could appear really low maintenance, weak and meek, a girl who wouldn't scream or fuss or fight. I didn't really know what that girl would look like, and the thought of what would happen once I was kidnapped sort of scared me, so that one was out. There was no avoiding it. I had no recourse. I had to participate in the Science Fair.

Science was my least favorite subject. There was no wiggle room, no talking yourself in circles around a question. There was a right and a wrong, a yes and a no, and I usually found myself on the losing end of the equation. And there was no way I could win. Not with kids like Vin and Sara in my class. Vin's father was an engineer, and helped him build models and conduct experiments that not even our teachers understood. He usually won the top prize, by simple virtue of the fact that he (and his father) knew more than the entire teaching staff combined. Sara's father was a surgeon. She brought in jars with things floating in formaldehyde, and wrote whole encyclopedias on their contents. I never really knew what was inside those jars. The gross factor kept me far away. With no chance of placing in the science fair, I quickly lost interest and left my chances up to fate, (and Mom).

My previous science projects had involved as little time and effort as possible, and Mom usually had a heavy hand in them. She vibrated with excitement every time I came home with a Science project to complete. There was the year we turned white flowers purple by mixing food coloring into the flowers' water. The problem was, about four other kids (and their parents) had had the same project idea, and the Science Fair was punctuated by purple and green and orange daisies in paisley-colored water.

Mom got truly inspired the year after the purple daisy disaster. She found a black and white Science book with pictures of girls wearing poodle skirts, and settled on a revolutionary project involving earthworms. It was simple, it was quick, and it involved no actual thought. I was all in. We only had to wait for the optimal conditions in order to collect our specimens.

Rain bounced off our windows like bullets in the dark night. Mom quietly donned a raincoat, chuckling and shushing me the whole time. I was giddy with the knowledge that what we were doing was forbidden, but I was also worried about Mom going out into such a heavy downpour.

"Can't you wait until it stops raining?" I asked.

"No, Noreen. The book says it's easiest to collect worms in the rain. They come up to the surface so they won't drown or something. I hope I don't get caught!"

Mom giggled like a little girl with a secret, and I realized that this was fun for her. She threw a towel out the window into the backyard and snuck out the door, armed with a Ziploc bag, a glass jar and a beach shovel. I raced back to the window overlooking the backyard to act as her scout.

Our crusty old landlords never let us use the backyard. We were only allowed to set foot in it to rescue laundry that fell off the clothesline suspended over the yard. Mom threw the towel out the window so she would have an excuse for being in the backyard. I wondered how she would explain away everything else she was carrying.

The landlords never used the backyard anyway. A large plot of dirt lay barren, with no flowers or plants or even weeds growing in it. The plot was guarded by a sinister-looking statue of the Virgin Mary; her eyes glowered and her lips turned down in disapproval. She closely resembled the miserable old Italian lady downstairs, who always looked like she had been sucking lemons, but smelled like she had been sucking sardines.

The screen door squeaked open below. It sounded like cracked fingernails inching down a chalkboard. Mom tiptoed slowly over to the dirt, looking up at me and waving wildly. She quickly went to work, scooping dark mud into the jar. Once the jar was full, she plucked long strands of what looked like squirming spaghetti out of the dirt, and placed them in the Ziploc bag. I trembled with nerves at my post, terrified she'd be caught and we'd be forced to live with my aunt in Massapequa, where men cruised in blue vans snatching kids off the street.

"Come on, Mom. You got enough. Get outta there!" I whispered at the window.

Finally, Mom disappeared from the backyard and slipped back into our apartment. She was soaked and soggy, streaked with mud, triumphantly holding up the mud jar and the Ziploc full of fat earthworms.

"Don't ever say I don't love you," she smirked, feigning. But I knew she had loved every second of her earthworm excavation.

Mom did not have to fake anger when I didn't win any awards for my earthworm project.

"Unbelievable! Not even an honorable mention. How many clay hearts or exploding volcanoes can they have every year? This project was original! Unique! Honestly, Noreen. I just don't know what those nuns are looking for. But they were wrong this year."

We walked home from the Science Fair, Mom cradling the jar of worms like a newborn baby. The project had only consisted of putting the worms in a jar of dirt, and watching them burrow paths around the jar. I didn't really understand the point of the project myself, but Mom was excited by it and did most of the work, so I didn't complain. The worms remained on our kitchen counter for weeks after that, and then one day they were gone. I wondered if Mom snuck out in the middle of a storm to return them to their muddy home beneath the unsettling eyes of the Virgin Mary. Then again, she might have found them a better home, in a garden full of flowers. She had become pretty attached to them.

This year, however, there would be no help from Mom. She had declared me "old enough to do it yourself". The kiss of academic death. I exhausted every tactic:

"Mom, you're way smarter than me. I can't do it without you."

"Tough. You'll learn."

"Mom, I really enjoy spending time with you, Mommy, and working on this project is one way to
do fun stuff together."

"Really, darling? Then why don't you skip Diane's party Friday night and we'll go see a movie together?"

A silence as loud as thunder surrounded us. If I went to a movie with my mother, would she help me (translation: do) my project? If I missed Diane's party, how would I know who spent seven minutes in heaven with whom? Would I be missing an opportunity to spin the bottle and land my first kiss while I sat through 3 Men and a Baby with my mother?

"Forget it, Noreen. You're doing your own project this year and that's it. Besides, your brother's in fifth grade now, and it's his first Science Fair. He'll need my help."

So this was how it was going to be. I had been dumped for my brother. Maybe Mom thought she'd have more luck winning with Chris than she had had with me. I daydreamed of ways to sabotage Chris' (Mom's) project as I ransacked my brain to come up with one of my own.

I dozed in the dermatologist's waiting room, waiting for my weekly appointment. After several sleepless nights and countless hours in the library, I had still not settled on a project. Glancing up, I saw Mom peering at me over the top of an Accutane brochure. Her eyes appraised every inch of my face as her forehead scrunched up in a tangled mess of worried lines. I knew Mom was comparing my complexion to the before and after pictures featured in the Accutane brochure. I had been on the medication for about eight of the twenty weeks of treatment, and my skin looked no better. My acne had settled comfortably into my pores. I imagined each little pimple burrowing deep under my skin, moving in furniture and preparing to live in my cells forever. The pimple colony was clearly ignoring my obvious eviction notices. I felt like a Petri dish. I was a Petri dish. And that's when it hit me.

I didn't need to come up with a Science experiment, I was a Science experiment! As I made a mental list of everything I would need, I shoved fistfuls of Accutane pamphlets into my bag.

"What are you doing, Noreen?" Mom mumbled under her breath, mortified by my sudden compulsion to horde reading material.

"Tell you later," I whispered back as I composed my winning Science essay in my head.

"I don't know, Noreen. Are you sure that's something the nuns would accept?" Mom worried after I explained my idea on the way home from the doctor.

"Why not? I can write an essay on acne, describe what causes it, and show all of the different treatment options available. And the best part is, I'm part of the actual experiment. My face will be right there for them to see. The Accutane brochures only show the before and after pictures. I'm a living example of the during. What's wrong with that?"

"But what will people say?" Mom chewed her fingers nervously. I knew that's what was bothering her. My project would be an open invitation to everyone to stare and laugh and insult. Mom turned into a rabid bulldog whenever she heard anyone taunting me. I worried that she would eventually end up in jail for defending me.

The previous week, on our way to the dermatologist, Mom and I approached a group of teenaged girls hanging out on a corner. I could practically taste the insults waiting on their tongues, and I braced myself for the verbal grenades that were about to be lobbed at me. Naturally, the kids did not disappoint.

"Hey, crater face! Any space ships land on your surface lately?"

"I was gonna eat some pizza, but after seeing that pizza face I lost my appetite."

"Can't your mother afford some soap to scrub those zits off you?"

Keeping my head down, I studied the cracks in the sidewalk and quickened my pace. While staring down at my Nikes, Mom's sensible walking shoes disappeared from my side. Before I could turn to see where she had gone, I heard the roar of her voice, inhuman with hate and rage.

"What the hell's the matter with you little punks?" Mom's pointer finger was dangerously close to the nostrils of the largest of the girls. I wasn't sure if I should keep walking and pretend it wasn't happening, or prevent my mother from ripping out the girl's nose ring. I waited and watched, wondering if embarrassment could possibly cause spontaneous combustion.

"You think she wants to look like this? She's on medication. What's your excuse, you fat slob?"

The large girl was clearly losing patience, and I was losing face. I ran over to Mom and yanked her by the elbow, just as she was rolling up her sweater sleeves.

"Forget it, Mom. Let's get outta here." I pleaded.

"Punks! Somebody oughta teach you a lesson. You better hope I don't run into you again. You slob!"

The girls cackled and sneered as I dragged Mom down the street.

"See ya later, Pizza Face. Bye, Mommy!" The big girl waved and blew kisses, daring Mom to rush back and rip her tongue out.

"You'll get yours. You'll see. Punk!"

I didn't dare let go of Mom's arm until we were safely inside the doctor's office. I was proud of her for not gouging out the girl's eyes. I was equally proud of myself for not crying until I reached the relative privacy of the exam room.

"Whatever people say, I've heard it all before," I assured Mom.

I had stayed quiet for so long. This was my chance to speak. I wanted my project to explain that the acne wasn't my fault: I wasn't dirty or addicted to grease. I didn't want to hide and pretend that this wasn't happening to me anymore. I was tired of being the pockmarked elephant in the room. Maybe, just maybe, if I brought it out into the open and put it all on display, it would lose some of its novelty and fade away into the background.

"All right, Noreen. If you're sure that's what you want to do. Do you need my help?" Mom asked.

"Yes. Get me two mannequin heads."

"I hope you know what you're doing."

"Of course I do."

I lied.

I held Jane by the back of her head and punctured her cheek just below the left eye. The screwdriver slid in with surprising ease, gouging out a deep crater. Moving on to her chin, I used quick stabbing motions to burrow out holes. As I worked across her nose, cheeks and forehead, my movements became faster and more furious. Years of pent-up rage and hurt exploded out my arm, exacting revenge across her face. Her lifeless eyes sat like stones in her sockets as I decimated her complexion.

Cassandra looked on impassively. A slight smirk played on her passion fruit-painted lips. Jane and Cassandra had been identical, until I had gotten my hands on them. Mom had brought them home from a wig shop, and I knew exactly what I wanted to do to each of them.

Jane was my "before Accutane" model. I dotted her now pockmarked complexion with angry red paint, throwing in splashes of purple and blue for dramatic flair. Her lips were a sickly gray, and I chipped away some of the Styrofoam around her mouth to denote chapped skin. Using canary yellow paint, I drew dull, limp locks of hair around her inflamed face. Jane looked utterly dejected, so I added a touch of pink rouge to her cheeks and purple shadow to her eyes to brighter her up a bit. Every girl wanted to look her best, and my plain Jane was no exception.

Cassandra was my "after Accutane" beauty, which called for an exotic name. She was not to be called "Cassie" or even "Sandra"; her beauty demanded that she be called by her full and proper name at all times. Her lips curled up in an inviting smile, thanks to my careful application of lipstick. Aqua blue eyes glimmered under a shimmery peach shadow. Chocolate curls framed her delicate features, and I stuck a ruby hairpin into the hairline to accentuate her eyes. For realism, I gently added a dab of red on the chin to hint at a tiny little blemish.

My Science project was promising to be very visual. I emptied the medicine cabinet of all the skincare products and prescriptions I had used over the years. I had a virtual pharmacy of remedies: over the counter creams and soaps and lotions, prescription antibiotics and ointments, home remedies like toothpaste and zinc oxide. I carefully penned a description of each item and its supposed benefits on an index card to be displayed under each remedy.

I then raided the kitchen for samples of foods that were thought to cause acne: chocolate and soda and potato chips. I labeled this section of supporting data: "Nature or Nurture? Is acne caused by the foods that you eat or the genes in your body?" I wrote a persuasive essay arguing that it is in fact nature that is responsible for most cases of acne, with direct quotes from my team of dermatologists. The experts were all on my side.

I had been so involved perfecting the complexions of Jane and Cassandra that I hadn't bothered to look at my own. When I finally glimpsed myself in the mirror, I took a long, hard look at myself for the first time in weeks. It was as if a mask were slowly being peeled away from my face. Patches of clear, healthy skin were making a path across my complexion. The previous mountains were being reduced to molehills. My cheeks were a perky pink instead of an enraged red. Stubborn pimples hunkered down around my hairline and chin, puffy and brazen, but it looked like their days were numbered. For the first time, I spied the pretty girl I could be. The experiment was working!

Inspired by my budding beauty, I sat down to complete my project. It was a virtual love letter to the makers of Accutane. A large piece of oak tag queried: "Accutane - The Answer?" Underneath it, I glued before and after pictures from the Accutane brochure, along with quotes from patients and doctors. Included was my final essay. There, I described the emotional pain of acne as being far greater than the physical discomfort. I then detailed all of the failed treatments I had endured, the doctors I had entrusted, the Ouija boards I had consulted. Accutane, I wrote, was the cure I had been longing for, and I was lucky to have finally found it. I concluded my essay with a plea for compassion for acne sufferers, and a reminder that everyone deserved to be treated with respect. The nuns would be proud to see that their teachings had penetrated my thick skull. That had to be worth at least an honorable mention.

The burn of bile raced up the back of my throat. Racehorses pounded furiously in my chest. Earthquakes erupted inside of me, causing my hands to tremble uncontrollably. I could not go to the Science Fair.

What had I been thinking? I was going to be crucified once I walked through those doors. This was all my mother's fault. If she had only done my project for me, I wouldn't be facing a social execution.

"Ready, Noreen?" she asked, holding out my coat.

"Not going."

"Yeah, you are. Come on. We're gonna be late."

"Can't. I have a stomach ache."

"Tough. Take a Tums."

"But, Mom...."

"But nothin'. Let's go."

Reluctantly, I stood to face the firing squad that would no doubt slaughter me with ridicule. My only hope was that Vin and his father had invented a time machine that would cart me away before the humiliation hit.

The smell of gym class sweat and Sunday bingo cigarette smoke hung in the air of the auditorium. The chatter of conversation buzzed in my ears. Mom took my coat and not so gently pushed me in the direction of my project, where I was to stand and answer questions for the evening. I stood facing Jane and Cassandra. They looked angrily at me, asking with their eyes:

"How could you humiliate us like this?" I would have gladly traded places with either of those Styrofoam heads in an instant.

I thought of the Dragon Coaster at Playland. I had waited for years to be tall enough to ride it with my father. Finally, by the age of nine, I had reached the height limit. I eagerly anticipated the steep drop, until we got to the top and looked straight down at our deaths. The only way through it was to throw my arms in the air and act like I enjoyed every inch of it. I couldn't raise my arms and scream in the auditorium, but I could fake bravery.

I concentrated on my project, arranging and rearranging my exhibit. While I was adjusting Cassandra's hairpin, I heard a gurgle of phlegm behind me.

"Wow! You did a project on how ugly you are?" Timmy was frothing with giggles. Whenever he laughed, spit bubbled out of the corners of his mouth and splashed whoever was unlucky enough to be hear him. I flinched in anticipation of the spit shower headed my way.

"Go away, Timmy. I'm busy." I would not waste any good insults on this loser. He looked like a garden gnome and smelled like a sweat sock after soccer practice in the rain.

"Oh, man. I can't wait for everyone to see this. Guys, come and see. Noreen did a project on her zits. You gotta see.... Oww!"

"Shut your mouth, you dumb goon. Sorry, Noreen." Timmy's mother had wacked him in the back of the neck.

"Timmy, tell Noreen you're sorry," his mother demanded.

"Okay. Sorry, Noreen. Sorry you're ugly! Oww! Would ya stop, Ma?" A second slap stung the back of his neck.

"Don't pay any attention to him. He's an idiot. The curse of my life. Let's go, stupid."

As I watched Timmy's mother yank him away by the ear, I remembered Dad saying that there was always someone worse off than me. At that moment, I felt luckier than Timmy and his mother.

Once that first humiliation was out of the way, I was ready for the rest. Sharpening my mental pencil, I prepared some pretty witty comebacks. As it turned out, however, none were necessary.

Teachers, parents and kids paraded past my project. There were some muffled chuckles, but for the most part, my project inspired silence. Each person read all of the information and flipped through the pamphlets. Several times I caught adults sneaking glances at my complexion, and I pretended to be staring at my shoes so they could get an eyeful. After all, I was on my way to becoming an Accutane success story. They could look all they wanted. Within weeks, I would be unrecognizable as the former Zithead. I would soon be sporting a clear complexion.

Arms engulfed me, squeezing the air out of my lungs. The smell of baby powder and floral perfume choked me as I was smothered by an armpit.

"Oh, Noreen. You are very very brave. Bravo. Very brave. Just wonderful!" Miss Luigi, the fourth grade teacher, attempted to asphyxiate me with her bulk.

"Fank hue," I muttered into her bosom, trying to free myself without seeming rude. When she finally released me, I gulped air like a dying fish.

I had several unexpected hugs and encouraging pats on the back that night. The attention made me feel uncomfortable, but it was preferable to the name calling and cackling I had expected.

By the end of the night, I was ready to pack up Jane and Cassandra and head home. The fake smile I had plastered across my face made my jaw ache. I just wanted to sit in the bathtub and frown.

I was so preoccupied trying to survive the night that I almost forgot about the awards ceremony. Sister Roberta wobbled up the microphone and heavy-breathed like an obscene caller for two whole minutes before she could speak.

"Settle down, now. We are about to announce the winners of the Science Fair."

Mom came rushing up to me.

"Are you excited? I really think you have a chance at this, Noreen. Have you looked around? No originality here. Yours is something special."

"Shhh. I can't hear."

Desert sand filled my mouth as every drop of moisture flooded out of my palms. I wasn't afraid that I would lose; I was terrified that I would win. Sister Roberta wouldn't just call out my name if I won. She would announce the title of my project - Acne: Its Causes and Treatments. I could already hear the howling laughter that would echo throughout the auditorium.

I looked at Jane and Cassandra for comfort.

"Let's get out of here before this thing gets out of hand!" Jane advised, her face turning an even deeper shade of scarlet.

"No way! We deserve to win. And we'll look good doing it!" Cassandra argued, puckering her lips.

Before I had a chance to grab the girls and go, I heard it crackling over the microphone.

"And for the eighth grade, third place goes to Noreen Heslin for Acne: Its Causes and Treatments."

Applause boomed around me but I heard nothing but the echo of my heart pounding in my ears. Mom beamed with pride. Jane frowned doubtfully while Cassandra exuded triumph. My jelly legs carried me to the microphone, fearing the worst. Once there, would I be pelted with tubes of Clearasil? Was a pail of Zit-B-Gone waiting to be dumped on my head?

Sister Roberta pumped my hand in her panda paw before handing me my third place ribbon.

"Excellent work, Noreen. I'm very proud."

"Thank you, Sister," I muttered, anticipating a flurry of insults from the crowd. But none came. I looked out to see parents and teachers and yes, even kids, cheering for me. Relief flooded over me and I allowed my muscles to relax. I marched back to Mom, proudly displaying my ribbon. I realized I still looked like Jane, but I was starting to feel more like Cassandra.

Sara came in second, and as usual, Vin came in first. I think Sara cured cancer and Vin built a nuclear reactor. They both congratulated me after the ceremony, and Mom took a picture of the three of us donning our ribbons. It was the first time in weeks that I didn't shy away from the flash of a camera.

Mom helped me carry my project home. I cradled Jane and Cassandra in my arms, and we three enjoyed the cold night breeze on our faces. Even Jane seemed to be smiling.

"That wasn't as bad as I thought it would be," Jane admitted.

"I think it went well," I agreed.

"Don't worry, Noreen. You'll be looking like me in no time," Cassandra assured me.

The Accutane was coursing through my veins, eradicating the acne, zit by stubborn zit. I imagined the photo shoot for my "after" picture in the brochure. I would borrow Cassandra's ruby hairpin, and I might even experiment with her passion fruit lipstick. The photographer would be so taken with my radiant beauty he would forget to take the cap off the camera lens. The doctors would look on approvingly, patting each other on the back. The pictures would prove so alluring, they would make their way to Seventeen Magazine, where I would be featured in the Spring Fling layout, wearing a cute white tennis outfit and lobbing a ball over the net. I would become the next teen sensation.

"Of course you will," Cassandra purred. "You'll be gorgeous."

"Maybe we shouldn't put the cart before the horse," plain Jane warned.

For once, I let Cassandra's voice trump Jane's skepticism. After all, I was not publicly stoned at the Science Fair. I had even placed third, receiving congratulations from everyone. I had survived the worst of the side effects, and my skin was finally clearing up. What could possibly go wrong?

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