I Was Changing Again

 

     It started at my left elbow right above the mole that looked like Bert from Sesame Street. The scabs fell off in green flakes, and the area they had left behind became green skin. But not just any green skin; this green skin began to harden in the first few days. It had a reptilian texture.

      I had to admit, I was worried. This was worse than last week. Oh boy, last week – last Monday I went shopping with my aunt for a pair of glittering gold heels to match the dress I was going to wear for the shower for her son and his fiancée, when the first change happened. The shoes went on perfectly. I do not often say this about heels, but they were nice, comfortable, and almost as supportive as flip-flops. For them I could be persuaded to bend my feminist-leanings for a day. There was this delicate band that went around my ankle that was powdered with glittery stuff. The problem was that the glitter was falling off all over the store. If there is one thing my Aunt Janine hates, it is a messy house.

      I was disappointed. I really liked these shoes, they were a good color and great priced and everything I liked in shoes that were not my running shoes.

      The thing was, the glitter on the floor was silver, like the thin kind people dust on birthday cards for little girls, not the deep gold sparkles of the shoes.  I looked down at the shoes. Holy glitter, they were covered in a good inch of silver snow. The glitter was falling down, and I saw it. It fell from my head as I shook it side to side in wonderment.

      That was not the worst part. "Rose, where are you?" Aunt Janine said. She was still in the shoe section of Sears.  I had made it halfway through the baby clothes section before I stopped walking and stared at my feet, at the glitter there.

      "I'm over here," I said, grabbing a tutu-dress from the nearest rack, and trying to figure out how exactly to make this glitter stuff look as if it was not my fault.

      I saw her alligator bag round the kids' shoes. There were plenty of small children around - I hoped the purse would not hurt any of them. It was massive. I continued hoping that even as I saw the top of her head come towards me, skimming just over the racks of clothes. My hands went into a flurry as they tightened around the tutu and swept the shoes clean.

      What about my head, the glitter on my face? There was no time, she would be here any second and I would be eaten by her alligator bag.

      The tutu went on my head just as she entered the cross-aisle clearing. "There you are, young lady!" She stopped short of the carpet change. That narrow strip of cheap metal rivets marking the boundary of the two carpet textures stood between us. She almost looked average-height, until she looked up at the small pink dress sitting on me. "What's that on your head?"

      "It fell," I lied. It was not even a terribly good lie, in fact, it was a terrible lie. No hangers were anywhere above my head. I sincerely hoped she did not notice that.

"I like these shoes," I said, flashing them with quick feet.

      She looked down, thankfully. A trickle of silver dust fell off my temple.

"I like those, too," she said. "Let's get them up to the cash register."

      "Okay," I said, following her to the escalator.

      "Rose," she said. She turned around and wrinkled her nose. "Get rid of that skirt, it's getting glitter all over you."

      "Going," I said, ducking back into the children's section. I stuffed the tu-tu inside a free-standing rack, the kind with the hole in the middle that I used to climb into when I was much younger and pretend I was in jail and the clothes were my bars. I did the best that I could with clearing the glitter off of my clothes and hair. The shiny part of the clothing rack served as a warped mirror. It did not look as though any more glitter was going to shake off me, so I went back to Aunt Janine.   

      She was so nice, she even insisted on paying for my shoes when I brought out the cash Dad had given me when he said, “Don’t spend it all in one place.” I figured I had no more glitter on me, and that this event was a fluke, like brushing up against the wrong thing in the store or something.

      Sweet! Free shoes. Besides, well, having to go to their wedding shower.

      From the time I got home until the second change, I was constantly brushing silver glitter from my hair. Thankfully, it is a light mousy brown and not a dark brown, or else even Dad would have noticed. It got to the point where I kept a comb, a washcloth, and a mason jar with me at all times.

      The morning of the shower, the glitter stopped. I knew because there was no glitter on my pillow when I rolled out of bed. Double-checking it showed nothing. The only glitter was in the mason jars on my nightstand. The jar count was up to four.

      Smiling, I slid in my socks over the wood floors in the hallway, down to the bathroom. After the usual, I went to wash my hands. The medicine cabinet was open. I shut it, and screamed.

      Huge pimples on my face. That is what they appeared to be on the whole right side of my face, forming a cresent moon from my temple to the point of my jaw. Taking a couple of shaky breaths, listening for any sound or movement within the house which would show my parents to be awake, I took my fingers and ran them over the bumps. They - the bumps, not my fingers, that would have been awful - burst into flame. I tried it again, with the same result. My fingers pulled away, miraculously unharmed.

      After a while I turned on the faucet, and washed my hands until I realized I had already done that. I splashed water on my face. The fire flared up. I decided to skip the soap. Without thinking, I reached for the towel and wiped my face. The flames ignited the towel, causing me to shriek as if it had burned me and to blast the cold water all the way. That towel was doomed.

      "Honey, are you alright?" My mom stood at the door. I turned to face her. "Oh, my, your face. Let's get some cream on it - "

      "No," I said. "I'll deal with it myself."

      "Well, okay, it's just that with the shower and all, and that." She indicated the side of my face.

      "I know," I sighed. "I've probably had too much candy recently. You know how it is with teenagers and breakouts."

      "Yes, but this looks...well, it looks bad." She touched her own face.

      "I'll try and see what I can cover up with makeup, okay, Mom?" I gave her a smile.

      As she left, I turned back to the task at hand. Make-up was absolutely out of the question, judging by what the pustules had done to the towel. A small houseplant usually decorated the windowsill of every room in our house. The bathroom was no exception. I took a handful of dirt from the potted plant in the bathroom and put it under water before slathering the mixture on my face. It worked; the bumps were smoothed out, even if the skin was discolored. It followed close enough to the hairline so as not to be easily noticed.

      Getting into my clothes for the shower was a nightmare, as I quickly realized this was going to be more difficult than I had thought. After half an hour of slow maneuvering, I managed to slide the gold blouse over my head without burning any holes in it. Breakfast was almost cold by the time that I got to eat.

      The shower went pretty wonderfully. I caught Aunt Janine peering at me over the kitchen island as she prepared the food and I plated it. I turned my face away plenty of times, careful to show my left side. There were no incidents, but almost one, when my mother tried to wipe a piece of frosting that had gotten stuck to my chin. That could have been messy.

      Flash forward to today. They must all think that since I got on the varsity team this year, both of which Aunt Janine and my mother had done in their day, that I am thinking that I am older than I really am. I do not mean to be so secretive, but with the wedding today and all, I have to be careful. The pustules still release fire every so often. And then there is this matter of my elbows. If I rub lotion on them, they might smooth out. The green skin is rough, wow, and strong, almost like miniature plate armor. I wonder if it can block bullets. I wonder if it can block the wrath of brides, or their mothers. Seriously, though, the only way of masking this is elbow-length gloves. As the only bridesmaid, I think I can get away with the sudden costume change.

      I have a problem. The only elbow-length gloves I own are white. Bridemaids and white? No, absolutely not, the bride will kill me. She already hates my guts as it is. I cannot prove this, exactly, but I just know. Sometimes girls just look at each other and they know. It is like, feminine intuition, or something.

      The dress I am supposed to wear is blue. Besides surviving the volcanoes on my face, it also got past the rough patches on my skin without being torn. My fingers have not been so lucky.

      I am kind of wondering if bandages are appropriate for weddings, not just the nice, beige kind, but the large kinds with tigers and rainbows and cartoon characters on them. My cousin might think it is funny, but the bride will not. They are the only kind in the medicine cabinet. It is decided; I am wearing Tiger and Pooh.