The Angel in the Centerfold
By greyeyedgirl
Summary: Isobel Stevens always knew she was pretty. She knew it sounded stereotyped, ridiculous, but she couldn't help thinking being pretty wasn't as easy as it seemed.
A/N: I've only wrote one Izzie fic, chapter 1 of "Life is Never Black and White." I think she is an extremely subtle, complex, beautiful character, though, and I really like writing her. She makes for some really beautiful stories. : )
Disclaimer: Seriously? Seriously?
BTW, this is basically Izzie's life story, and the last chapter will be what her life is like now (the way she is on GA. Basically we'll get some Izzie/Denny or Izzie/Alex, depending on what occurs on tomorrow's episode ("The Band-Aid Covers the Bullet Hole." Oh, lol, and "Angel in the Centerfold" is the name of a song from a long time ago, my mom mentioned it to me. : ) )
chapter one-"Wild Thing"
Isobel stood in the bathroom of her small Washington high school, her hair falling down her back in large, sweaty clumps. Her face was dark and tanned, but it was fake, her foundation blended carefully into every small crease of her face. The black eyeliner accentuated her dark, entrancing eyes, smudged in one small tiny place in the corner from perspiration.The door to the bathroom swung open, and 3 sweaty, red-faced girls strode in, one of them adjusting her black spandex shorts.
"God, that was hell," said one voice, the blonde girl who had fixed her gym shorts. "10 minutes of sprinting?"
Izzie avoided their gaze, whipping the tight hair-tie from her wrist and wrapping her shining dark-white blonde hair back into its ponytail. She stared into the mirror for a few more seconds, watching her subtle movements in the reflection. She was always a little thrown by how different she looked with her make-up on, still pretty, yes, very pretty, but very different from the face she looked into when she first got up in the morning. Isobel had carefully examined the girls at her high school, and came to a conclusion-the teenagers didn't seem to care if they looked prettier or not with layers and layers of color applied, their goal seemed more to be to prove that they were wearing make-up, that they could, that they had not simply rolled out of bed in the morning and made their way to school.
Izzie looked into her reflection and saw the truth. The make-up was a mask, the desperation of a change in looks a disguise, one girls were desperate to hide behind. She knew herself was doing it, knew she didn't need make-up to be pretty, knew she was quite as stunning with a dash of blush and lipstick as she was with foundation, mascara, and lip liner. The problem was, she didn't care.
"We should get back." The blonde girl seemed to be continuing in her speech, Izzie found she had tuned out. The two girls that had followed her in nodded, one rolling her eyes, the other snapping her gun boredly. "Why?" Said one, "Maxwell won't notice we're gone."
"Yes, she will," Cynthia Baker said, still staring at her face in the mirror. "Come on," she said, leading the girls back to gym class.
Izzie remained in the bathroom, leaning against the bathroom wall, feeling her heart rate return to normal. She'd seen the way the girls ignored her, seen the snobby glance one had shot her as she played with her hair. Izzie hated these girls, ones who judged without knowing, came to illogical conclusions without any basic evidentiary support.
She should get back too, she knew. Mrs. Maxwell didn't pay attention to which girls left after they were done with their warm-up run, but eventually someone would mention something, or she'd look down at her clipboard and realize who was missing. She sighed one last time, tightening her ponytail, wiping the smeared eyeliner off of her face.
"That's stupid, that's not even funny, that's-"
"That's dirty!"
The group of girls broke into giggles, their faces turning pink and reflecting off the sparkling white lunch table, stained with a dark red sauce and the wrappers from someone's straw.
"The bell's gonna ring."
Izzie looked up, relieved. "We should get going," she said, flashing a smile to one of the girls at the table. They all stood up, a couple of them still giggling, repeating private jokes in silly voices. Shoving their way past the taller students, they separated at each individual locker, Izzie trailing towards number 119. She twirled the locker com boredly. 22. 8. 22.
Izzie sighed, grabbing her copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird," easily reaching to the top shelf for a pencil. Her locker shut was a slam, and Izzie made her way to English, swerving to avoid the two people making out against the locker next to hers.
She'd seen him already that day, caught a glimpse of him coming in. The sight of him again threw her, though, her heart raced as she tried not to stare, sitting down in her seat. He was wearing that white shirt again, the one that was tight...His tanned skin contrasted against it, the mix of brown and olive making her breath tighten. His dark hair was cut short, and his greenish grey eyes seemed to catch hers for just a glimpse of a second. He was looking at her! Was he looking at her?
He was most definitely not looking at her.
Izzie looked up at the board, copying down the bellwork with a glittery pink pen.
David Michaels, David Michaels, David Michaels.
David, David, David.
She had to stop doing this. This was weird.
She spit on the paper, tearing it carefully, before sticking them in her trash can. Her mind drifted back to the boy she'd known since kindergarten, his smile at her comment in math class making her head spin, a slightly goofy smile playing at her face. This time the words existed only in her mind...
David J. Michaels. David J. Michaels loves Isobel M. Stevens.
Oooooh.
She really had to stop this.
Izzie was knocked out of her reverie by the opening of her door, her mother had popped into her room. Her dark blonde hair lay sweaty against her shoulders, the ponytail drooping pathetically. "Did you clothes set out for tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Good. I gotta go, I'm running a little late, I overslept-"
"You better go, then."
Miss Stevens nodded quietly, looking slightly hurt. Izzie tried to smile to soften the blow. It came off like a grimace. Her mom shut the door to her room, and Izzie leaned backwards onto her bed, staring up at the dirty, dented ceiling of the trailer. She was dirty, she was pathetic, she was sick.
She sat up wearily, pulling open the drawer to her dresser. Craaaaaaap. What was she going to wear tomorrow?
Her Levi jeans looked good on her. Would David like her new Levi jeans?
David doesn't like you. Get over yourself, Izzie. How many more years is it going to take before you let go of this stupid crush?
Her pink sweater made her look fat. She felt the tears grow at this thought, her head seemed to pound from somewhere deep down. She grabbed the toothbrush from where she'd hidden it in the bookcase.
She checked to make sure her mom was gone, locked the door just in case. The trailer seemed even bigger, yet it was cramped, claustrophobic. She locked the door to the bathroom, too.
She climbed up onto the sink in front of the mirror, and stared at herself for what seemed like forever. Why did she have all that gunk on her face? What was she trying to hide? What did she care what any of them thought of her?
She slid down, taking the make-up remover from the small cupboard attached to the sink. She scrubbed and scrubbed, but had the distinct feeling she was making herself dirtier.
It was time. It was getting late, she still had her homework to do, and she wanted to watch whatever ancient MASH rerun they were playing. Izzie exhaled loudly, sitting on her knees in front of the toilet. She started with spitting on her fingers, lubricating them, stuck them down the back of her throat...
Purge.