Lola is Just Like Me

Chapter 03

The scar had its wide roots set into my hairline then made a slant for my left cheek bone, where it tapered down to a sharp point. It cursed at me through its deep, sickly brown, served as a warning to keep others away from me. My reflection glared back at me in the glass of my vanity table. Fifteen years of seclusion were definitely evident on my face. I made no short work of growing into my limbs; I was still lanky and disproportionate. My blond hair was washed-out and streaked with auburn, a dull testimony of the rest of myself. What you see is what you get.

“You’re too hard on yourself.” Lovely Lola pulled my hair back from my face with those long fingers. Her blood-red nails shone through the dirty blond like wild strawberries, no more tame than she was after all the years. It came as no surprise to me that she had grown into her features perfectly. At least, I thought she did. She was beautiful, extra pounds and all.

“Not really,” I said, closing the drawer of my vanity table. “I just know the facts.”

“And those are?” Lola put her hands on my shoulders, giving my image a questioning grin. The only marks she had on her skin were her two “beauty marks,” and those did nothing to detract from her appearance. I felt as though she couldn’t understand my situation, but I didn’t let myself get short with her.

“Nobody likes a scar-faced girl. It makes them… curious. No, more afraid than curious.”

“I happen to enjoy a scar-faced girl.”

“You’re the only person I know,” I said, laughing a bit. “And you’re not exactly normal, Lola. No offense.”

“None taken. The only people that are uneasy because of your scar are the ignorant ones.”

“I think it’s pretty natural. It looks disgusting.” The scar started squirm as I spoke, begging to be hidden. I covered most of it with my hand.

“Oh, come on. Everyone’s lives have ways of scaring them. It’s just that everybody can see yours.” Her words struck me and made me feel a little selfish.

“Anyway,” I said, “as long as you’re not afraid of me, I’ll be just fine.” The air settled into a silence only softly nudged by a dove’s song. Lola smiled and brushed my hair back again. The colorful threads woven around her wrist shone in the light as her hand turned. The bracelet she never took off. I used to ask her about it quite often, but it would disturb her; all I could get her to say was that it was “very important” to her.

A car door’s hollow slam broke my reverie, and my eyes snapped to our bedroom door. Lola backed away from me and sighed. Soon, the front door was opening, and I could hear Marie’s voice.

“Dad?” I asked, looking to Lola.

“No, Tylar,” she half-fussed at me, “it’s too early for him. I think it’s Derek.” Lola moved to the door and listened for a moment. “Well, you coming?” She opened the door, and I joined her in the hallway. The hall lights were out, but the yellow glow from the kitchen spilled partway into the recess. Sure enough, Derek slinked himself into the kitchen and set a brown paper sack on the table. Marie followed, dressed head to toe in the most expensive cheap clothes she owned, her face painted a mile thick. Lola’s contempt for my step-mother crept up my spine and like a leech unwove my peace of mind. Lola fumed behind me, muttering something about alcoholics and plastic jewelry.

“The girl home?” Derek asked, pulling two brown bottles from the soggy bag. A stupid grin pulled over his rot-white teeth, glowing with anticipation. He snapped the caps off the bottles. Marie’s snakelike form slid onto one of our cheap chairs with her familiar try-hard attitude.

“Yeah, but she’s busy, as usual.” A heavily-ringed hand—with the wedding band missing, of course—wrapped around one of the cheap bottles of alcohol. She drank it straight from the bottle like a veteran.