Autumn covered the pink blemish on her cheek with concealer. She put on eyeliner and lipstick, then tilted her head and kissed at the mirror.
“Hi,” she whispered in a smokey voice.
Sophie laughed. “I’ll meet you down there,” she said.
Jim, her boyfriend, had been waiting 20 minutes. Just long enough. She took one last glance at the mirror and saw the blemish still peeking through. Her teeth clenched; she always had a clear complexion, and now she was getting a zit on prom night, of all nights.
It was a special night, worthy of something special, Sophie had said earlier as they got ready. “Clarity,” she called it, in a pill shaped like Snoopy the dog.
It felt incredible; popularity through chemistry. She had been excited for prom before the drug, but now, oh my, she couldn’t wait to see her classmates. They were all so wonderful, and she was wonderful, and everything was going to just be … wonderful.
She applied more concealer, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. The zit seemed to have grown. Maybe the concealer is making it worse.
As she wiped the spot clean with alcohol, she noticed another pink spot on her forehead and one on her chin. She grunted in frustration.
The zit on her cheek formed a whitehead, and Autumn placed her fingers on each side of it.
Before she could squeeze it burst on its own, splattering the mirror and deflating with a trailing whine.
She squealed and watched in horror as more pimples emerged. Little fizzes burst and sizzled and pocked her face.
Her stomach cramped, and she doubled over in front of the mirror, letting out a deep fart. She wiped her face with a towel. It was damp with puss and left her face streaked in oily white.
Another bellowing fart. Then she heard a deep voice from the doorway. “Autumn, what’s … Oh my God!” Jim rushed back down the stairs and out the door.
“Wait!” she wailed, then doubled over again in pain. She lay on the ground with her knees to her chest, weeping. A crumpled corsage lay in the doorway.
Another zit popped and sighed.
---
“That's a bad story, Daddy," the little girl said, covers up to her nose.
"Well, don’t do drugs,” the father told his 10-year-old daughter, “Sleep tight.” He bent and kissed her forehead.
“Hi,” she whispered in a smokey voice.
Sophie laughed. “I’ll meet you down there,” she said.
Jim, her boyfriend, had been waiting 20 minutes. Just long enough. She took one last glance at the mirror and saw the blemish still peeking through. Her teeth clenched; she always had a clear complexion, and now she was getting a zit on prom night, of all nights.
It was a special night, worthy of something special, Sophie had said earlier as they got ready. “Clarity,” she called it, in a pill shaped like Snoopy the dog.
It felt incredible; popularity through chemistry. She had been excited for prom before the drug, but now, oh my, she couldn’t wait to see her classmates. They were all so wonderful, and she was wonderful, and everything was going to just be … wonderful.
She applied more concealer, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. The zit seemed to have grown. Maybe the concealer is making it worse.
As she wiped the spot clean with alcohol, she noticed another pink spot on her forehead and one on her chin. She grunted in frustration.
The zit on her cheek formed a whitehead, and Autumn placed her fingers on each side of it.
Before she could squeeze it burst on its own, splattering the mirror and deflating with a trailing whine.
She squealed and watched in horror as more pimples emerged. Little fizzes burst and sizzled and pocked her face.
Her stomach cramped, and she doubled over in front of the mirror, letting out a deep fart. She wiped her face with a towel. It was damp with puss and left her face streaked in oily white.
Another bellowing fart. Then she heard a deep voice from the doorway. “Autumn, what’s … Oh my God!” Jim rushed back down the stairs and out the door.
“Wait!” she wailed, then doubled over again in pain. She lay on the ground with her knees to her chest, weeping. A crumpled corsage lay in the doorway.
Another zit popped and sighed.
---
“That's a bad story, Daddy," the little girl said, covers up to her nose.
"Well, don’t do drugs,” the father told his 10-year-old daughter, “Sleep tight.” He bent and kissed her forehead.
