I still have the ghost of that night under my fingernails... I'm sitting in my apartment where the radiator hisses like a dying cat and all I can think about is a picture that doesn't even exist anymore. I'm twenty-four now and I spend my days counting out change for people who don't look me in the eye, but ten years ago, I was sitting in a booth at that Italian place with the red-checked tablecloths that smelled like old garlic and desperation. It was my seventeenth birthday. My mother had scraped together enough for three large pizzas and a round of sodas for the girls, and I felt like a queen for about twenty minutes, until the phone cameras came out. The light in that place was yellow and thick, like it had been filtered through a grease trap. It caught every pore, every uneven edge of my skin. Sarah held the phone up, her arm extended like she was offering a sacrifice to the gods of social standing. "SMILE!" she yelled over the sound of the dishwasher humming in the back and the clatter of cheap silverware. I felt the flash hit my eyes, sharp and white—a needle of light that seemed to pin me against the cracked vinyl seat. When she showed it to us, I didn't see my friends laughing or the steam rising from the pepperoni... I only saw the bridge of my nose. It looked like a jagged ridge of bone that belonged on a mountainside, not a girl's face. It was my father’s nose—the man who left us with nothing but a stack of past-due notices and a name that nobody in this town respects. It stood out in that fluorescent glare like a warning sign. While the other girls looked like soft, blurred edges of moonlight, I looked like I’d been hacked out of granite with a dull chisel. It was too much. It was too LOUD. I felt the heat crawl up my neck, a slow burn that tasted like copper and shame. I reached over and grabbed the phone before she could post it. My heart was thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird. I didn't even think... I just swiped and hit the little trash can icon. I deleted the only evidence that we were all happy together that night. Sarah's face went flat—a cold, blank slate. "Why did you do that? That was the only good one," she said, and her voice was a razor. I couldn't tell her that I felt like a gargoyle sitting next to three angels... I just shrugged and felt the grease of the pizza settling in my stomach like a stone. That was the beginning of the end of them. They didn't understand why I couldn't just BE there. They didn't have to worry about looking like the 'before' picture in a plastic surgery ad. They had the kind of faces that doors open for. I have the kind of face that gets followed around a grocery store by security. And I HATE that I cared so much back then, but I hate even more that I still see that same jagged line every time I catch my reflection in the dark glass of the subway window on my way home from a twelve-hour shift. Now I’m sitting here at 2am, staring at a pile of bills that look like they’re mocking me. My back hurts from standing behind a counter, and I’m looking at the black screen of my phone, trying to remember the faces of the girls in that photo. I can't. I can only remember the way the light hit that bone and how I felt the need to scrub myself out of existence. I destroyed a memory because I couldn't handle the truth of what I am... a girl who comes from hard lines and sharp edges, someone who doesn't fit into the soft focus of a happy life. People talk about being "confident" like it's something you can just put on like a coat, but they don't know what it's like to have your history written across your face in a way you can't erase. My nose is a map of where I came from... poor, stubborn, and always looking for a fight. I spent my whole youth trying to soften myself, trying to be the blur in the background, but the camera doesn't lie. It just shows you the parts of yourself you’re trying to kill. I wonder if Sarah remembers. Probably not. She’s probably living in a house with crown molding and recessed lighting that makes everything look expensive. She doesn't have to worry about how she looks in a group photo because the world was made for her face. I’m just the girl who ruined the birthday picture... the girl who let a shadow on a screen dictate the end of a friendship. I’m so angry I could scream, but the walls here are thin and the neighbors would complain. It’s not even about the photo anymore. It’s about the fact that ten years later, I’m still that same person... staring at the screen, wishing I could hit delete on my whole life. The radiator is still hissing. My feet are throbbing. And I still have this damn nose... looking back at me in the dark, reminding me that no matter how hard I work, I’ll always be exactly who I was in that greasy booth. I can't hide it. I can't fix it. It's just there... permanent and heavy.