from Lizz Winstead's Lizz Free or Die: Essays:
I pulled a small mirror from my purse. It was worse than I could have imagined. Every zit I had tried to cover up was a neon spot on my face. I looked like a teen runaway pinball machine. How was I to know Clearasil was a glowing agent, and that the second I neared the dance floor, trying to impress guys from other schools, I turned into a Lite-Brite board?
Then I really freaked out.
How many times had this also happened to me at Spencer Gifts?
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