SUMMARY: No summary available at this time
I'm not like this.
I'm not the sort of girl who stares at her reflection like a moonstruck calf, fussing and sighing about how she looks. I leave that to the other girls in the mansion, because I've got more important things to do with my time than worry about whether my Strawberry Milkshake nail varnish matches my dress. Everything goes with black, anyhow. So, most mornings, I slap on my make-up - smudging just adds to the effect - and grab whatever clothes in my dresser aren't too wrinkled. No muss, no fuss.
But, shit, it's amazing what care and a bit of Kitty's make-up can do. If I were myself, I guess I'd smile knowingly and take it as proof of my theory that beauty's not even skin-deep. If anything, it's like a painted mask that people put on every morning with their clothes. It's lipstick, eyeshadow, rouge, mascara. It's the ultimate performance piece. It's a show that people put on every day of their lives. I mean, you don't have to look further the gossip rags' pictures of - I don't know - Julia Roberts taking out the trash in her bathrobe at five in the morning to know that's true!
Still, I wish that face in the mirror was really mine. I wish I was her, because she's beautiful. She has the clearest, greenest eyes I've ever seen. They're like the sunlight off leaves, like that summer brightness. Her skin is unfashionably pale, but there's a touch of rose in her cheeks as if she is keeping some secret all to herself. And she has a sunny smile, because she knows she has everything in the world about which to be happy. She's Miss American Pie, she's the girl next door, and she's beautiful.
Eeew. I've looked like this for two seconds and I'm already thinking like a character in a bad, teen romance. This is definitely a dangerous look for me. Next thing, I'll be mooning about my secret crush or something equally pathetic, about how cute he looked this morning in that red sweater and those stone chinos, about how he smiled at me, about how that one lock of chestnut hair kept falling across his forehead. . . . Oh, bugger. Too late, Rogue. You're already there.
Still, if I'm honest with myself, I got to admit to being curious about whether Scott would like me if was Miss American Pie. After all, Jean's perky, cheerleader looks are all that she has got going for her. She doesn't have a personality worth spit, unless you count wholesome as a character trait. Even then, she's completely vanilla. She smiles. She agrees with everything that everybody says. She bends in the face of conflict, claiming to be the voice of reason. She always does what the Prof tells her. She's just a thoroughly nice person. Like the saying goes, she lacks the spice of evil that makes people interesting or even bearable. That, and she shops at the GAP! Excuse me while I have a quiet puke! Ipso dipso, Scott can only like her because of her All American, Stars and Stripes, By Golly By Gosh and By Gum charm.
At any rate, he never looks at me like he does at her. With her, you can just see him melting from the moment he catches sight of her. You expect to walk through a puddle o' Scott a few minutes after she enters the room. With me, it's completely different. You can see a . . . flicker pass across his eyes. That's the only way I can describe it. It's just a flicker of distaste, of downright disgust, before he can get a hold of himself and smile at me. When he looks at me with that flicker, I see myself through his eyes. I feel every layer of pale foundation, every line of black mascara, every smudge of eyeshadow. I feel ugly. God, how I feel ugly at times!
Do you know what sucks worst of all, though? I could be Miss American Pie. I could walk out of this room with my summer eyes, my rose cheeks, my sunny smile. I could make him look at me with new eyes, look at me without the flicker. I could make him love me.
But I won't.