CHAPTER ONE

Popping a zit is kind of like picking a scab. It’s gross and you know you shouldn’t be doing it,

but you do it anyway.

Especially if it’s one of those zits filled with liquid that you know is going to bust open and

fizz out like a soda you left too long in the freezer. I currently have a face full of those little

suckers.

“Penny, how many times have I told you that you shouldn’t be doing that?” asks my mom

from outside the bathroom.

“I’m tired of looking at them, so they have to go. I’m becoming too attached to them. I’m

starting to give them names.”

“You know if you pop them, they’ll leave scars.”

“That’s a future Penny problem. Present Penny is trying to get rid of Rudolph right now.”

“Rudolph?” she asks dumbfounded.

“The one on my nose.”

I put on a pair of latex gloves and go up way too close for comfort to the mirror on the

medicine cabinet. I use my two middle fingers and go on either side of Rudolph, and give him a

gentle squeeze. The insides of my zits are usually as hard as rocks, and he’s no exception. I do a

more forceful squeeze which makes me want to curse, which I would if mom wasn’t standing

behind me. Still nothing.

“It’s not coming out for a reason, leave it alone.” She sighs in frustration as I ignore her and

keep going.
 I squeeze Rudolph a third time, this time with as much force as I can handle, and I let out a

dying cat-like screech. I clearly have a very high tolerance for pain. After squeezing in for about

ten seconds, Rudolph bursts onto the mirror in a little thick glob of white gunk.

“Gross,” I say disgusted, “At least he’s gone. I was tired of looking at him.”

“You’re so hardheaded,” mom says, “I already see the scar coming.”

“Well better a scar than a stoplight on my nose. I won’t do any more. I don’t have the stomach

for it today. Plus, I’m waiting to hear back from Worlds, remember? The letter should be coming

today. I’m going to wait for the mailman outside.”

“You know the mailman always comes late. But I’m sure you’ll get in, honey. Your essay was

amazing and you almost got a perfect score on your SATs.”

“You’ve been saying that two years in a row. This is the third year I’ve applied so everything

has to be perfect. And keyword, almost. I only got a 1580. That’s why I took the ACTs and got a

perfect score on that instead.”

“You’re gonna get gray hair by the time you’re twenty.”

“If I get into Columbia it’ll be worth it,” I say as begin to start my morning skin routine.

Ah, Columbia. Just hearing the name makes me smile like The Joker. Most doctor wannabes

choose Yale or Harvard, but not me. Columbia is my dream-school. The same school as the

legendary scientist Neil deGrasse Tyson. Except I won’t be an astrophysicist like him. I’ll be a

dermatologist.

I want to actually do something for the kids like me with acne. It seems all these

dermatologists only see dollar signs with us. The process usually goes like this: a new acne wash,

cleanser, or brand comes along. It blows up. It’s marketed as “America's #1 Acne Brand”, or “get

healthy and beautiful skin for life,” or some other false promise that makes these kids like me
hopeful that something will actually work for us. We get summer jobs or beg our already broke

parents to buy it for us, that this time it will actually work. It works for a week, then the skin gets

worse, and you get depressed. Then, the cycle continues. Bullshit. I want kids with acne to gain

some confidence, and maybe the world will be a little brighter for them.

As for my current routine, for the past two weeks I’ve been trying to see if the natural thing

will work for me. For my face wash, I’ve concocted a mixture of dissolved African black soap,

good for acne prone skin, mixed with some rose-hip seed oil, good for getting rid of scarring, and

vitamin E oil, which is an antioxidant that calms your skin from inflammation or irritation. For

my toner, I dilute two parts of apple cider vinegar with water. It smells like feet, but I’d use cat

piss on my skin if it would clear it up. For my moisturizer, I use a combination of jojoba and tea

tree oils. You’d think putting oils on super slick oily skin would be counter-productive, but

studies say that oil dissolves oil, so using it should cancel it out and trick the skin into producing

less oil. We’ll see how this goes this time.

I walk out onto the porch I see my best friend/next door neighbor Liliana waiting for me in

one of the two butt-numbing milk crates we use for chairs.

“No sign of him yet,” Lil says updating me, “What smells like feet?”

Told ya. “That’s a toner I’ve been using. And I figured.”

“Making potions again, huh? Why don’t you just try Curology or the other customized

plans?”

“One: I’ve tried it and it sucked, and two: too much money. I want to make my own stuff that

I know will actually work instead of taking a chance on a corporation that’s only trying to make

money.”
 “You know that doesn’t take away from your looks, right? You’re still pretty either way.”

“You’re supposed to say that. It’s basically your job. How long have you been sitting here,

anyway?”

“Too long. You know they don’t care enough to give people in the hood their mail on time.”

I say sitting on the other crate, “I’m still going to wait outside until he comes, I need to know

the answer today. I can’t wait anymore.”

“Technically, you can,” she laughs, “You just don’t want to.”

“My mind cannot wait. I need answers immediately.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she says, “Stop trippin’. It’ll get here when it gets here.”

I brush her off and start to fidget in my seat, tapping my feet repeatedly, second my second,

minute by minute. Lil can tell what’s happening so she tells me: “Go on and chew that gum.” I

get a piece of gum out of my jean pocket to simmer down. I hate gum, what is it even really

made out of? The main ingredients are random additives most people can’t pronounce, but it sure

does calm my nerves.

While Lil and I are waiting, I think of that gnarly zit I just popped. That thought leads to

another thought that I always get after looking at myself that close in the mirror. It’s more of a

flashback, or a reoccurring theme that happens ninety percent of the time I leave the house, or

have any interaction with anyone that isn’t Lil or mom. It goes something like this:

“No, I didn’t know I had a monstrous zit on my forehead. I thought I was just growing a unicorn

horn there.”

This is usually the sardonic retort I give people who say “Did you know you have a zit on

your (enter section of face here).” The few times I do go out of my house, which mind you, is

quite rare, this is a remark that I hear at least three or four times a pop. As you’d assume, it has
grown quite tiresome for me. Tiresome to the point that I avoid going out of the house unless

absolutely necessary.

The most hurtful thing, though, is that this observation is coming from strangers. Not

from people I know, because they know how sensitive I am about my cystic acne, but random

strangers. As if they had no home-training and don’t realize how exceptionally rude it is to point

out something that is obviously very apparent. If I passed chemistry and trig in my freshman

year, I’m pretty sure I’d notice a monumental pustule on my forehead.

Well, as you can probably tell, I have cystic acne. Which basically means pizza face. Not like a

few pimples on my forehead or jawline, but deep, inflamed, pus-filled pustules that are sensitive

to the touch. Cute, right? Imagine living with it.

But my life isn’t all garbage. I have my mom who is super helpful and supportive, always

telling me how beautiful I am. Ya know, typical mother lies. Someone who hasn’t had any

blemishes or flaws in my sixteen years of existence. By the time she was my age, she had one or

two serious boyfriends already. She always told me how guys would just flock to her and how

the other women were jealous and didn’t like her. I don’t understand why, though because she’s

the sweetest most compassionate person you’ll ever meet. And the prettiest. She’s tall with legs

like Rihanna, thin but shapely, and has skin so youthful we could pass for sisters. Easy for her to

say. I also have my best friend/next-door neighbor, Liliana who tells me “it’s not that bad,

Penny.” Easy for her to say as well. Her skin is literally flawless, smooth like a fresh batch of

cashew butter. She’s the hood’s ideal type of girl. She’s a curvy Latina with a beautiful accent,

bouncy curly hair, and a septum nose ring. And she’s super stylish; she makes almost all her own

clothes with her grandma’s sewing kit. Unlucky for the guys though, they aren’t her type. She’s

got a girlfriend that lives in the hills that she met at a party a few months ago. I’ve met her a few
times. They’re cute together I guess, but I actually hate having her around. I’m trying to be

happy for Lil, but seeing her all booed up makes me feel even more lonely and single than I

already am. Lil and Mom sitting with me while I’m waiting for what will probably be the most

important letter of my life.

“I’m almost positive you’re going to make it in, Penny,” mom says, “there’s no reason for them

to say no.”

“There’s a million reasons.”

“You’re overreacting,” Liliana says, “as always.”

“Then why is the letter late? It was supposed to be here by 3.”

“Penny,” mom says, “it’s 3:05.”

I guess I’m a little impatient. But this is super important, okay? I’ve applied to the

Biotechnology Talent Search section of the Society of Science for the last two years. This is my

third year trying. I’ve never tried anything I needed to do more than twice. My guess for not

winning is that I don’t do robotics like the kids there usually do. The kids that win usually create

robots that can do something inconvenient for us like throwing away trash, cleaning the floors, or

even washing a few dishes, which I admit was pretty fucking cool. I hate washing dishes, so I’d

love that. I usually come up with new theories on why whey and casein, the protein found in

milk, cause acne. That’s what I pitched the last two years. I admit, it wasn’t my best work, but

that would definitely be more beneficial for kids than a robot doing something a human is too

lazy to do. Well, maybe not, but confidence lasts longer than clean dishes. There also is barely

any representation for kids with mental disabilities at the Biotechnology Talent Search, so if I

could represent for them, that would do a lot for the community. Oh, and one more thing.
 This would be the first interactions with kids my age besides Lil. Yup, I’m

homeschooled. I haven’t been to a regular school since second grade.

My mind races quite a lot. Maybe a little too much, because I look up and see the sky

turning an orangey-pink color. I guess I zoned out long enough for the sun to decide to set. Our

one hundred-fifty pound German Shepherd, Cocoa, wakes me from my daydream with a fat glob

of slobber on my cheek.

“Aww, I’m ok girl,” I say rubbing her belly as she jumps around in my lap making me laugh like

an idiot. “Just a little stressed. Don’t worry about me.” Cocoa isn’t your typical German

Shepherd. She’s not the smartest, but she’s pretty sharp when it counts, like when she’s hinting

at wanting to go for a walk around the neighborhood or when she wants to play in this little ass

apartment. She’s huge but she’s literally just a big ball of fluff. She loves everyone that crosses

her path and barely barks. I only heard her bark once when some shit went down over here. I’ll

get into that later. I love that she can always sense when I’m tense. I know random teenagers

always say this on the internet, but I genuinely think dogs are better than humans. Dogs don’t

care if you have acne. They don’t ask you when’s the last time you washed your face, or why

you have terrible skin when your family’s skin is perfect.

“Are you sure it said today?” Mom asks.

“Yes, today is the 2nd. February 2nd. It is definitely today.”

“Maybe the mail is late,” Liliana suggests. “You know the mailman is on his own time.”

“Very true,” I say, “Though that doesn’t make the waiting any less agonizing.”

“Why don’t we just wait until tomorrow?” Mom asks, “Lil is right. If the mailman hasn’t come

by now, he’s not coming today. Let's just go inside. I’ll make you something good.

“Black bean burgers?”

“Well, I guess that might take my mind off of it for a minute.”

So we go inside to make some of mom’s famous black bean burgers with sweet potato

fries. Or rather, I watch her make it, then I devour it. I used to hate sweet potato fries but they’ve

grown on me. Also on Cocoa who keeps begging for some under the table, knowing I will give

in every time. Mom brings up something we’ve talked about hella times already.

“You know Penny, you should take up a hobby that doesn’t have to do with science. If

not, you’ll drive yourself insane.”

“Yeah, I know mom. I have my excessive reading to keep my mind occupied.”

“Why don’t you try sewing like Liliana?”

“Too domestic,” I say, “And I’m not good with my hands like her.”

“You’re good at everything you try Penny. It’s the only thing I hate about you. I wish I

was good at important things like science.”

“Not really, but thanks, Lil. Art is important. People need clothes, right? That jacket you

made is really cute by the way.” It is. It’s a jean jacket with purple hems and crocheted pockets.

“I know, right? If I get really good maybe I can be the next Donatella.”

“I’ll be your biggest supporter,” I tell her, “I’ll buy all your clothes if they’re below ten

dollars.”

“Wow, good looking out, girl.” Mom gives us a playful look and rolls her eyes.

This dinner does help for the time being to get my mind off of the letter. Until around 10

pm when I’m sitting on the toilet where I do my nightly dissecting of the day.

Guess who has brand new assne and isn’t getting any sleep tonight?

This girl.