At first she was sure it was just a bit of dried strawberry juice, or a fleck of her mother's red nail polish that had flaked off when she'd patted her daughter to sleep the night before. But as she scrubbed, Snow felt a bump, something festering under the surface, like a tapeworm curled up and living in her left cheek. Doc the Dwarf was no dermatologist and besides Snow doesn't get to meet him in this version because the mint leaves the tall doctor puts over her face only make matters worse. Snow and the Queen hope against hope for chicken pox, measles, something that would be gone quickly and not plague Snow's whole adolescence. If only freckles were red, she cried, if only concealer really worked. Soon came the pus, the yellow dots, multiplying like pins in a pin cushion. Soon came the greasy hair. The Queen gave her daughter a razor for her legs and a stick of underarm deodorant. Snow doodled through her teenage years—"Snow + ?" in Magic Markered hearts all over her notebooks. She was an average student, a daydreamer who might have been a scholar if she'd only applied herself. She liked sappy music and romance novels. She liked pies and cake instead of fruit. The Queen remained the fairest in the land. It was hard on Snow, having such a glamorous mom. She rebelled by wearing torn shawls and baggy gowns. Her mother would sometimes say, "Snow darling, why don't you pull back your hair? Show those pretty eyes?" or "Come on, I'll take you shopping." Snow preferred staying in her safe room, looking out of her window at the deer leaping across the lawn. Or she'd practice her dance moves with invisible princes. And the Queen, busy being Queen, didn't like to push it.