The Indian-Rudolf

“Oh. My. God.”

My eyes must’ve been wrong. They were lying to me.

There was only one person I could call.

“Chelsea, you won’t believe this.” I breathed into the phone as soon as the dial tone stopped.

“What is it babe?”

“Pimples,” The word dropped out of my mouth, acidic. “Like, as in plural. Pimplessss.”

I stared into my reflection. Beautiful as photoshopped cover models, until you saw them: two, twins, as big as golfballs, one on the tip of my nose and the other in the center of my forehead. Like an Indian-Rudolf the Rednosed Reindeer.

“Oh no! What have you been eating? Can you fix them? Can I fix them?” I knew she’d understand.

“Nothing but water for the past day. I don’t know what could’ve caused them. You know how important this is to me. If I could fix them, I wouldn’t have called you.” My life was flashing in before my eyes. This was supposed to be the best day of my life.

“I’ll be over in ten.” she said. “I’ll bring the Magic.”

-

For ten minutes, I stared into my reflection. I attempted to glare the evil away—it wasn’t working. Chelsea came in and saved me.

“Let me take a look,” she said, walking in. She brought a suitcase with her, full of what I expected was Magic.

I turned away from the mirror. She put a hand under my chin and lifted my face up to her, eyes scrutinizing. I could still see my reflection in them. I was a monster. Even Chelsea, who was subpar looking at best, was prettier than me in my current state.

“Typical case,” she said, turning to her case. “Nothing I and my 16 years of Little Miss pageants can’t handle.”

“I hope so,” I replied, feeling more than hopeless.

She was a convenient friend, purely because of her skills in the makeup realm. She made hiding imperfections an art form, and she knew it. The case she rummaged around in now was one of many, filled with top-line makeup and skin cleansers from around the world. She hadn’t even used a Maybelline or Sephora product since she was 5. One day, she’d probably become Beyonce’s stylist.

She applied a mixture of white creams to my face, and added drops of chemicals from tiny bottles that made my face burn. In my experience, that meant it was working. After a good fifteen minutes of work, she clasped her case back together and stood up.

“Leave that on for precisely half an hour. No later, no less. You’ll be fine.” she gave me a fake, reassuring smile. “You’re still a shoo-in for Queen.”

“Thanks so much, darling.” I was truly grateful, but I wondered how much she cared; she was, after all, my competition.

“Ciao, beautiful.”

So I set a timer, and I waited.

-

I peeled my second face off, and I screamed.

My own glorious face was now reminiscent of Shrek if his entire diet was Hot Cheetos. Better yet, I had transformed into a Hot Cheeto with the slight leftovers of a Shrek-like face. My once perfection was gone, replaced by red puff.

The pimples were barely noticeable. But not in the way I’d wanted.

“Chelsea, I look like an inflamed organ.” I sniffed into the phone, through tears. “Everything is red and puffy.”

“Oh babe,” she said, trying too hard to sound sympathetic. “Some of the stuff I used must’ve been too much for your skin—you’re probably having an allergic reaction.”

“Can you fix it?” Dread welled in my stomach. “Am I going to have to go to the hospital?”

“No, no,” she was passive. “You’ll be fine… But you might be stuck like that for a day or two. There’s nothing I can do that wouldn’t inflame the skin more.”  

Sobbing, I hung up.

-

That night, at senior prom, Chelsea won Prom Queen. She smiled right at me as they gave her my crown.

She still looked subpar.