“Hey, Tahlia!”
　　I had just taken a bite of my hot dog when I heard a familiar voice yelling at me from across the crowded school courtyard. I looked up and saw a group of popular girls. They were all laughing.
　　“How’s the model?” the same voice called. More laughter.
　　“Yeah, Tahlia,” another girl shouted. “What kind of modeling are you going to do? An ad for a Frankenstein movie?”
　　How could they humiliate me like this, in front of the entire high school?
　　As I blinked back the tears, my best friend Jackie stood up and yelled back. “Like you guys are any better! I don’t see any of you on the cover of Vogue!”
　　My friend Jesse turned his back to the mean girls.“Don’t listen to them,” he told me. “They’re just jealous of you.”
　　My stomach twisted into a tight knot. As I got up from the picnic table and headed inside to the cafeteria, I glanced at the thick, dark scars outlining my right hand.
　　When I was only 9 months old, my mother had been brewing tea in an electric pot. She placed me in my walker and stepped just outside the kitchen to talk to my father. In those few seconds, I rolled over to the counter, yanked on the cord, and dumped boiling tea all over my hands, stomach, and legs. My parents rushed me to the hospital, praying it wasn’t too serious. But I had second- and third-degree burns over 26 percent of my body. Ten percent can be deadly. I had to have several painful skin graft operations, where surgeons took healthy skin from my butt and thighs and put it over my burned areas. For an entire month, my mom sat by my bedside, praying I’d survive.
　　I did survive. But anytime I had a growth spurt, I’d outgrow the grafted skin and have to have surgery again. Over the next 13 years, I had 13 surgeries. I was in so much pain! But I learned to handle it. I’d take an aspirin, rest, or find something else to do that would take my mind off it. What hurt me most were the cruel things people said about how I looked.
　Like that day at lunch. The girls were being super-mean to me because they’d heard I was considering doing some modeling. My friend, who is a psychologist at the burn center, had suggested it. “Tahlia, you are so beautiful,” Dr. Rimmer had told me. “Don’t let your scars limit you!” Her idea really got me thinking. It would be such a rush to walk down the runway in glamorous clothes, or pose for beautiful photos in a magazine. Why should I be afraid to let people see my scars? I could still be considered beautiful.
　　But after that scene at school, I was sure I’d made a huge mistake. When I got home, I ran to my room and covered my mirror with a blanket. I didn’t want to risk catching even a glimpse of my scarred-up self. Then I fell on my bed and sobbed. Dr. Rimmer isn’t a modeling agent. What does she know? What was I thinking?
　　As I lay there, a rush of images flooded over me. Like the time when I was 10 and wore a bikini to the public pool. As I came out of the dressing room a girl stared at my scars, and said, “Ewwww! You should cover yourself up!” And the time I tried out for volleyball in the seventh grade—wearing jeans and a turtleneck.

         The next day, I forced myself to go to school. But I hung out in the cafeteria at lunch instead of going outside, to avoid any confrontation with those girls. My two best friends, Jackie and Jesse, sat with me and tried to give me a pep talk. “You really are pretty, you know,” Jackie told me. “Don’t worry what other people say.”
　　Jesse, though, felt like enough was enough. “You can’t hide forever, Tahlia,” he told me. “You’ve got to face your fears. So what if you have a few scars? Just go outside and show them that you’re just as good as they are.”
　　Although I knew he was right, I couldn’t imagine standing up for myself like that. I’d spent so many years covering up and distancing myself from people.
　　That night as I sat on my bed, I glanced at the blanket over my mirror. Jesse’s words replayed in my mind. “You can’t hide forever.” I’m even hiding from myself, I thought. How dumb is that? Covering my mirror— that wasn’t going to take my scars away. And neither was hiding under layers of clothes.

I stood up, walked over to the mirror, and tossed the blanket aside. Looking back at me was a tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed girl. A girl who had a few scars. But I had to admit, she looked just fine.
　　The next day I wore a comfy T-shirt to school. And at lunch, after I grabbed my burger and fries, I headed over to Jesse and Jackie. “Okay, let’s do it,” I said. “Outside.”
　　They both smiled and followed me into the courtyard. I walked right past the mean girls. They stared at me, but they didn’t say anything. I guess they were shocked that I even dared to walk into their territory.
　　Jackie, Jesse, and I sat at our favorite picnic table, just like always. But this time was different. I felt free. I felt happy.
　　Sometimes people still look at me strange. They whisper and stare, but I don’t let it get to me. I wear what I’m comfortable in—and that means shorts and T-shirts to play volleyball, and yes, a bikini at the beach. I am now putting together a modeling portfolio, and at least one agency is considering me for jobs. Maybe I’ll never end up on the runway or in the pages of Vogue, because modeling is a tough business.
　　But I do know one thing: I’m done.
　

美丽,在我自己的皮肤中

　　“嘿，塔莉娅！”
　　我刚刚咬了一口热狗，就听到一个熟悉的声音从拥挤的校园那边冲我喊。我抬起头，看到一群招人喜爱的女孩。她们都在大笑。
　　“做模特怎么样啊？”同样的声音叫道。更多的笑声。
　　“是的，塔莉娅，”另一个女孩大声说。“你准备做哪种模特表演呢？是一部弗兰肯斯坦电影的广告模特吗？”
　　在全校师生面前，她们怎么能这样羞辱我呢？
　　就在我抑制泪水时，我最好的朋友杰基站出来冲她们吼道，“你们长得好多少？我也没看到你们任何一个人登上《时尚》的封面！”
　　我的朋友杰西转身背对着那些卑鄙的女孩。“别听他们的，”他对我说，“她们只是忌妒你。”
　　我的胃揪成紧紧的一团。我从野餐桌旁起身，走进自助餐厅时，扫了一眼遍布在我右手上的厚厚的暗色伤疤。
　　我仅有9个月大的时候，我母亲曾用一个电壶泡茶。她把我放在学步车里，只是刚刚离开厨房去和父亲说话，就在那几秒钟里，我朝台子翻了个身，猛地一拉电线，沸腾的茶水全倾倒在我的手上、腹部以及腿上。父母迅速把我送到医院，祈望病情别太严重。可是我的身体有26％的部分是二度及三度烫伤，10％的部分是致命伤。我不得不做了一些令人痛苦的皮肤移植手术，外科医师从我的臀部和大腿上取下健康的皮肤，并移植到烫伤的部位。整整一个月，我妈妈坐在我的床边，祈望我能渡过难关。
　　我确实转危为安。可是，当我的身体发育时，原先移植的皮肤就跟不上身体的成长了，我就不得不再做手术。在以后的13多年中，我做了13次外科手术。我疼痛万分！可是我学着对付它。我会服一片阿司匹林，放松，或找些使我暂时忘记痛苦的别的事做。最让我伤心的是别人议论我的外貌时说的残酷的话。
　　像午餐那天发生的事。那些女孩对我极其刻薄，是因为他们听说我正考虑做模特表演。我的朋友，是烫伤中心的心理学研究者，出的这个主意。“塔莉娅，你这样漂亮，”里默医生对我说。“不要让你的伤疤限制了你！”她的主意的确让我思考了一番。穿着富有魅力的服装走T形台或为了杂志中美丽的照片摆好姿势将是多么让人振奋的事啊。我为什么害怕让大家看到我的疤痕呢？我长得还算是漂亮。

　可是，在学校发生了那件事以后，我确信自己犯了一个极大的错误。我回到家，跑到我的房间，用一条毛毯盖住镜子。我甚至连瞥一眼自己疤痕累累的身体都不敢。然后，我倒在床上，啜泣着。里默医生并不是一名模特表演代理人。她知道什么呢？我正在想些什么呢？
　　我躺在那里，脑海里突然浮现出许多画面。像我10岁那时，穿着一件比基尼泳衣到公共游泳池。我从更衣室出来时，一个女孩盯着我的伤疤，并且说，“哇！你最好把身体盖住！”在七年级，我参加排球运动选拔赛时——穿着牛仔裤与高领套头衫。
　　第二天，我强迫自己去上学。但是午餐时，我泡在自助餐厅里而不是在外面，以避免与那些女孩发生冲突。我的两个最要好的朋友——杰基与杰西，与我坐在一起并试图说些激励的话。“你知道，你长得确实漂亮，”杰基对我说。“不必担心别人说些什么。”
　　不过，杰西想要事情适可而止。“你不能永远藏着，塔莉娅，”他对我说，“你要面对你的恐惧。即使你有一些伤疤那又怎么样呢？只要走出去让她们看看你与她们一样。”
　　尽管，我知道他说得没错，可是我无法想象用那种方式来维护自己。这么多年来，我都是把自己遮得严严实实，并与他人保持距离。
　　那天晚上，我坐在床上时，看了看盖在镜子上的毛毯。杰西的话在我的脑海中重现。“你不能永远藏着。”我想，我甚至躲避着自己。那样做多么愚蠢啊？遮盖镜子并不会消除我的疤痕。用层层的衣服遮着也不会令疤痕消失。
　　我站起来，走近镜子，并把毛毯扔在一边。镜子里的我是一个身材高挑、黑发的、蓝眼睛的女孩。一个有些疤痕的女孩。可是，我必须承认，她看上去还不错。
　　第二天，我穿了一件舒适的T恤衫去学校。午餐时，我拿了鱼松饼与炸薯条后，我向杰西与杰基走去。“好了，咱们行动吧！”我说，“到外面去。”
　　他们都微笑着并跟随我走进校园。我恰好经过那些卑鄙的女孩。她们盯着我看，可是并没有说什么。我估计她们对我甚至敢走进她们的地盘感到震惊。
　　杰基、杰西与我坐在我们喜爱的野餐桌旁，就像往常一样。但这次是不同的。我觉得自由自在。我感到快乐。
　　有时大家仍旧异样地看着我。他们私语着、盯着看，可是我不会为这种事而苦恼。我穿着我喜欢的舒适衣服，譬如短裤及T恤衫去打排球，而且对了，在海滩上穿着比基尼泳衣。现在，我正收集模特表演的一整套照片，并且至少有一家代理机构正在考虑给我工作。也许我最终也不会走上T形台或者出现在《时尚》的页面里，因为模特表演是一件艰苦的事情。
　　可是我确实知道了一件事：我不再躲藏。