Beauty (9 page)

“I know what shirt you should make, Kemper,” Josh said as he turned onto my street. “
Say No to Precalc
. I bet you could even sell them. Who doesn’t want to say no to precalc?”

“So true,” Kemper replied. This time, I was
sure
that was a giggle she let out. I shot her a knowing look. Kemper McGee was many things, but a giggler was not one of them. Her cheeks reddened as she met my eyes. She quickly looked away.

“Okay,” I said after Josh dropped us both off at my house. “
What
is going on between you and Josh?”

“What do you mean?” Kemper asked. She kept her eyes on her bike as we lugged them both into the garage.

“Uh, the blushing, Kemp? And the giggle? I’m pretty sure the last time I heard you giggle was in third grade. And that was because Steven Litman had accidentally eaten a worm at recess.”

“Whatever,” Kemper said nonchalantly. “It was a funny comment.” But from the way her cheeks reddened again as she said it, I could tell I was right; there was more to the story.

“Okaaaay,” I said, not wanting to push it. “Whatever you say.”

Spaghetti bounded over to us as we walked inside, jumping up on me so he could lick my face. “Hey, boy.” I laughed. He landed back down on the ground, nudging my side like he always did when I came home, begging for a treat. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” I ruffled the fur on his head. “You can have a bone.” Spaghetti let out an excited bark, leading me to the jar of bones my mom kept in our entryway.

“Hey, Beast,” Seth called out from the living room as I tossed Spaghetti two bones. There were several chortles, followed by a loud bang. Seth and his friends were obsessed with this video game,
Mars Attacks!
They were always playing it after school, hogging up the TV. “There’s a note from Mom on the kitchen table. You have to make me dinner!”

Leaving Spaghetti to his bones, Kemper and I headed into the kitchen. I grabbed the note off the table. Apparently my mom had an open house tonight, which meant she’d be working late. And my dad was on trial, which meant he was always working late.
There’s a lasagna in the freezer
, my mom had written.
Mol, can you heat it up for you and Seth?

“No parents,” I told Kemper. I tossed the note into the trash with a little grumble. Why did I always have to make dinner? Why couldn’t it be Seth’s job for once?

“Freedom,” Kemper joked. She opened up the snack cabinet, rifling through it. She grabbed the pack of Oreos my dad insisted on keeping in the house. If it were up to my mom, we’d all subsist solely on fruit, tofu, and sprouts. “Oreos instead of fruit?” Kemper said, wiggling her eyebrows. “Do we dare?”

“Oh, we dare.” I plopped down at the table and took two Oreos out of the pack, handing one to her.

Kemper twisted her Oreo open. “We’re wild,” Kemper said, licking the cream off her Oreo.

“Rebels,” I agreed.

“Out of control.”

I took another Oreo out of the pack and, sandwiching them together, took a big, chocolaty-creamy bite. Several crumbs tumbled down my chin. Kemper shook her head. “It’s crazy, Mol. Even doing
that
you look beautiful.” She popped the other half of her Oreo into her mouth and we both chewed in silence. “You’ve got to tell me,” she said after a minute. “Now that Hayley’s not here. What really happened to you?”

I swallowed down the rest of my Oreo sandwich. “I really don’t know, Kemp. I just woke up like this. It’s like it was … magic or something.”

I grabbed another Oreo, waiting for her to laugh at me. Kemper was not exactly the type to believe in magic. Sit-ins and tree-chaining, yes. Magic, not so much. But she just leaned forward, studying my face. “How does it feel?” she asked quietly.

“Amazing,” I admitted.

Kemper chewed on her bottom lip. “Yeah. I bet.” She reached out, letting her hand linger in front of my face. “May I?” she asked. I nodded. Slowly, Kemper traced her finger from my chin to my cheek to my forehead. “I can’t put my finger on it, but I swear there’s something really different about you. Not just your skin and hair and stuff, but … something more.” She jumped up. “I have an idea,” she said, jogging out of the room.

A minute later she returned with my laptop. She dropped it down in front of me, pulling her chair over. I looked at her questioningly. “What … ?” I began.

She held up a hand for silence. “If there’s a scientific explanation for everything, then that must include beauty, right? Which means we just have to look for it.” Opening up Google, she leaned in close, typing a question into the search bar:
What makes a person beautiful?

A whole array of links came up:
Cosmo
articles and celebrity photos and several beauty blogs. (
Makeup tips! Best deep conditioners!
) “What do you think you’re going to find, Kemp?” I said doubtfully. “I mean, we
know
what makes a person beautiful. Genetics. That doesn’t explain why
I
am suddenly beautiful.”

“Shh,” she chided as she scanned through link after link. “Has my research ever failed me before?” About ten pages of links in, she let out an excited gasp. “Look at this.” I leaned over her shoulder to get a better look.
A
Formula for Beauty
, the link read. She clicked on it, and an article from an online magazine called
Science for Our Culture
popped up on the screen. Eagerly, she began to read it out loud.

Always thought beauty was in the eye of the beholder? Well, you thought wrong. It turns out, when it comes down to it, beauty is all about numbers. Yes, that’s right. Numbers. It is simply a precise calculation of measurements that makes Angelina Jolie the most beautiful woman in the world.

This equation is called the Golden Ratio. During the European Renaissance, many renowned artists and architects used it to create their masterpieces. Today, scientists have begun to consider how this same mathematical formula can explain why some people are found to be beautiful … and others are not.

The Golden Ratio is all about symmetry and proportion. For a face to be considered purely beautiful under the Golden Ratio, there are three calculations to consider:

The face must be 1.5 times as long as it is wide.

There must be an equal distance from the hairline to the spot between the eyes; from between the eyes to the bottom of the nose; and from the bottom of the nose to the bottom of the chin.

The length of an ear must be equal to the length of the nose, and the width of an eye must be equal to the distance between the eyes.

If these calculations all measure up, the face would score a ten on a one-to-ten scale of beauty. Of course, few faces in the world would measure up so perfectly—maybe even none. On this scale, most humans would score between a four and a six. With that said, there are certainly sevens, eights, and nines out there. And who knows? Maybe even a ten.

What we do know is that the Golden Ratio works for everyone: every race, every culture, from ancient times to now. Measure the proportions on the faces of beautiful people—from Marilyn Monroe to Michelangelo’s David to Halle Berry—and you’ll find eerily similar proportions. Which means, yes: the difference between Megan Fox and you is basically a matter of millimeters.

She kept reading the rest of the article—a more mathematical explanation of how the Golden Ratio is based on Fibonacci numbers and more examples in history where it’s been used—but I was only half paying attention. Because if this article was right, it could explain why my face had changed so little—yet so much. Maybe it hadn’t just gotten more dewy and sparkly; maybe it had actually become
mathematically
more beautiful.

I stood up, walking over to the mirror hanging next to the pantry closet. I stood so close to it that my nose was almost grazing the glass, but even that close up, my face looked perfect. My skin was poreless, my eyes sparkled, and my lips shined like they were freshly glossed. But Kemper was right: it did seem like more than that. I felt like I was looking at one of those magic eye drawings. The longer I stared in the mirror, the clearer the changes became. Yes, my cheekbones glowed pink, but they actually looked the slightest bit
different
too. The same with my lips and my chin and my eyes—which after a lifetime of being too far apart looked a little bit closer together. My heart beat faster in my chest. It gave me an idea.

“Be right back,” I told Kemper. Going into my mom’s room, I grabbed the photo of my face that she’d insisted on having blown-up to keep on her nightstand. Then I snatched a measuring tape off her desk and brought them both back to the table. Kemper looked from me to the photo to the measuring tape.

“An experiment,” she grinned. “I like it.” Snatching the measuring tape out of my hand, she bent over the photo, carefully measuring the distance between my chin and left cheekbone and then my chin and right cheekbone. “Now look at me,” she ordered, straightening back up. Stepping close, she measured the same distances on my face. “I can’t believe it,” she breathed. Her eyes were wide as they met mine. “In the picture, your left cheekbone is a third of a centimeter farther from your nose than your right one. But now”—she paused, letting her words gather momentum—“they’re exactly the same distance away. Molly, I think your cheekbones actually
moved
.”

I blew out a breath. I felt dizzy all of a sudden, and I reached for the table to steady myself. Wordlessly, Kemper went back to measuring, comparing distances on my face to the ones in the photo. “It’s not just your cheekbones,” Kemper murmured, her voice filled with awe. “It’s everything. Your proportions are all different now.”

“My eyes?” I asked.

“Closer together now,” she confirmed. She shook her head. “Mol, this is crazy.”

“My features didn’t just improve,” I whispered. “They actually
rearranged
themselves.”

Breathing hard, I went back over to the mirror. The changes were subtle—so subtle that I doubted most people would even notice them—but now that I knew, I couldn’t stop staring at them.

“Well,” Kemper said, coming over to stand next to me. “I doubt Seth’s gonna call you the Beast anymore.”

I looked over at her and we both burst out laughing. “I’m not so sure about
that
,” I said.

Kemper smiled mischievously at me. “How about one more experiment then?” Before I could respond, she cupped her hands around her mouth like a megaphone. “Oh, Seth!” she called out. “We have cookies! Chocolate Chip and M&M!”

Seth came sprinting into the kitchen. “Where?” he demanded. “I’m starving.” His eyes trailed from the table to the open cabinet to the kitchen counter. But when they landed on me, his jaw dropped wide open. “
Molly?
” he asked incredulously. “No.” He shook his head. “No way. There’s gotta be some mistake. I’m looking for my sister, the president of the butt-ugly club. Have you seen her anywhere?”

I laughed lightly, tossing my newly shiny hair over my shoulder. “Try looking in the mirror,” I said sweetly.

Seth’s friends came barreling in after him, chanting, “Coo-ookies! Coo-ookies!” But when they saw me, they stopped dead in their tracks.

“Whoa,” Matty murmured, his face going red. Mike cleared his throat nervously, and Dylan, the quiet one of the group, swallowed so loudly the noise seemed to echo through the kitchen.

“Hey, Molly,” Matty said. He curled his lip in what he must have thought was a seductive gesture. “How ya doing?”

“Hi, Matty.” I fluttered my eyelashes at him a few times, something I’d never attempted before in my life.

“Hey,” he repeated dreamily. He leaned closer to me. He looked captivated—like if I told him to jump, he’d do it in a heartbeat. I couldn’t believe that just yesterday he’d been calling me Frankenstein. And of course, a beast. A burst of anger raced through me. I glanced around the room. The rest of Seth’s friends were watching me, looking just as awestruck.

“You know,” I said slowly, an idea taking shape in my head. “I’m kind of thirsty… .”

The three of them tripped over each other trying to get to the fridge first. “Do you want a Coke?” Dylan asked breathlessly.

“Or lemonade?” Mike jumped in.

“Or I could make you a milkshake!” Matty offered.

“A milkshake sounds great,” I said. I made myself comfortable at the table, gesturing for Kemper to join me. “But can you make that two?”

“Sure.” Matty eagerly began pulling ingredients out of the fridge.

“And actually …” I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms behind my head. I was starting to enjoy this. “I’m a little hungry too.”

“I know how to make mac and cheese,” Mike said instantly.

“My mom says I make the best omelets in the world,” Dylan threw in.

“I was actually thinking more like the lasagna my mom left in the freezer,” I said breezily. “Would one of you mind heating it up?”

“I’ll do it!” Dylan exclaimed.

“No, I’ll do it,” Mike rebutted. He shoved Dylan out of the way and opened the freezer. But before he could grab the lasagna, Dylan shoved him back.

“Oh my God.” Seth made a disgusted noise. “What is
wrong
with you guys?”

They ignored him and kept shoving each other. “Do something,” Kemper hissed, nudging me with her foot.

“Hold on, guys,” I said. They both froze in place, and Seth grumbled something under his breath. “Could you make it for me together?”

Mike and Dylan both nodded willingly, their eyes wide. They looked like lost little puppies, waiting for their next command. “Go ahead,” I said, waving my hand at them.

“This rocks,” Kemper said as Matty placed two frothy, cold milkshakes in front of us.