Outer Layers Part III

Outer Layers Part III

In the afternoon, I lap up “What’s a pretty girl like you doing riding the bus?” I am awestruck that someone this cool would drop down next to me a second time.  All I can really think about besides this guy’s skinny jeans appeal is washing down today’s trouble with a can of Crush and telling the fairy girls all about it.  (And after being called a “fatso” in gym class both yesterday and today, it will be Diet Crush.)

I understand only bits after he calls me a “pretty girl.”  My mouth hangs open and nothing but air spills out.  But amazing chats at me while I stare mesmerized by his whole cool, slick self.  I might as well be the parakeet at the pet store. 

Pretty girl, pretty girl. 

My responses become some kind of ancient and programmed code.  I flash him a coy smile showing none of my poor, slightly crooked front teeth that I have been told look impish and that my dad used to say I should never get fixed.  Bullies have teased me about these teeth for as long as I can remember, one going as far as asking me when I was going to get tracks to fix my ugly mouth.

“People pay thousands to get messed up gorgeous like you,” my dad said.  Thinking of my dad makes my lips turn up, but I still don’t reveal my teeth (even for the bird seed).

“Do you mind?”  I ask.  My eyes drift down to where the cool guy’s fingers play in my hair.  Does he detect anything unusual about its texture?

“Even that space between your front teeth is cute.”

He avoids all of my questions except for one.  He tells me his name is Julio.   He says it as he twirls one of my long, fake pink locks.  I move away but only slightly.  And then things move too fast.  I drift outside of my body like a bystander.