The morning of the party, I lock myself in my bathroom, stare into the mirror. I grab an eyebrow pencil and connect the scatter of pimples across the grease of my forehead, cheeks, and chin. I grin as a new constellation appears —with freckles, cheekbones. An upturned nose. It’s me, but only in my dreams. She looks like Wooly Willy, but girly. I shave my legs, toothpaste the hair stubs like metal filings onto my new self’s head. I tuck an ugly, wet towel into her collar and wind tinsel tightly around her neck. A present, finally, for Mother.