“Not bad, eh?” said Mr. Colella, once I had all the packing pulled away. He pulled at the ends of his gray mustache, always a sign that he was pleased with an item.

“What do you think you’ll get for it?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It’s in good condition; it’s a little unusual. Given its age, it could go for maybe three thousand. Maybe a little more, if I find the right buyer.”

My heart sank. For a moment I had considered trying to buy the mirror myself.

Either Mr. Colella didn’t see my disappointment or he chose to ignore it. “Here,” he said, handing me one of his seemingly endless supply of rags. “Polish.”

“Probably wouldn’t have fit in my room anyway,” I muttered as I went to fetch a stepladder so I could reach the top.

Half an hour later I stood back to admire my work but got caught up examining my reflection instead. You could have talked to me all you wanted about inner beauty; I preferred having it outside, where it counted. Not so handsome it scared people off, but definitely good-looking. A little too much like my father, though. Sometimes it startled me when I glanced in a mirror and found myself staring at someone who looked just like the guy in the old army photo on our mantelpiece.

Suddenly I noticed a small streak of blood on the mirror. Glancing down at my finger, I saw that the cut had reopened while I was working. I rubbed the rag over the blood, but the mirror wouldn’t come clean. I spit on a different finger and tried to rub the blood away. No luck.

I was starting to get angry when the tinkle of the bell above the door announced a customer.

When I came back an hour later, the stain was gone.

Guess Mr. Colella took care of it, I thought, hoping he wouldn’t be angry with me for doing an incomplete job. It wouldn’t be fair, of course. But like my late father, Mr. Colella tended to yell at me for things that weren’t my fault.

I could hardly complain, given my own temper. The thought caused me to scowl at my reflection. Big brown eyes and a try-to-catch-me smile might make it easy to get girls; my sudden bursts of anger sure made it hard to keep them. I rolled my eyes as I remembered yesterday’s argument with Gina, which had ended with her slapping me and shouting, “I don’t care how cute you are, Jonathan Rawson, I won’t be treated this way!”

I put my fingers to my cheek, remembering the slap. Last night I had figured it was time to move on. But Gina was special. Maybe I should apologize for a change.

Looking in the mirror to practice my rueful expression, I noticed the beginnings of a pimple beside my nose. I prodded the spot with my fingertips but couldn’t feel any bump. Maybe if I was careful it would go away without blossoming into a full-fledged zit.