I So Don't Do Makeup (10 page)

The Janes shuffle closer and closer, hemming me in. They're fluttering wet wipes in my direction.

“Try a day with us,” Jane #1 says. “We can have you makeup-free in seconds.”

Now I'm a little nervous. These girls are not normal. It's like they ate bad meat or something, and it turned them pushy and rabid. I'm waiting for them to start drooling.

Sweat beads on my upper lip. I straighten my shoulders and plaster on my tough, confident face. You have to look in control with bullyish people. Or, apparently, they'll wipe off all your beautifully applied makeup.

The first bell rings.

“There's a direct link between being on time for class in middle school and college scholarships,” I say.

The hands stop waving their wet wipes.

“Let me save you from yourself,” Jane #2 says.

Whatever, strange girl. I have no idea what she's blathering on about.

Speedy like a roadrunner, she unzips my backpack and snatches my brand-new polka-dot makeup bag. I stocked it this morning with the idea of carrying it back and forth to school so that I'm always prepared for between-class freshen-ups.

My arm shoots out to seize it, but she spins and is gone. She's fast for an ugly girl.

“Hey, Jane! Stealing's against school rules. I'll report you.”

The rest of the Janes scurry off like cockroaches. Brianna's swept along in the middle of them.

Kim's at the back of the pack, herding the Janes down the sidewalk.

Kim, who came to my slumber party.

Kim, who refused a makeover.

Kim, who had ample opportunity to mess with the night cream.

That's a lot of Kim.

O
ne class left to go and then I'm jetting to the mall to pass out Naked Makeup lotion!

I trudge into French. Madame Blanchard is at the front of the room, back to us, scribbling nonsense on the whiteboard. Her bottom wiggles and jiggles like aloe vera gel.

Dealing with Madame Blanchard is like calling someone's cell only to be sent to voice mail. Over and over. As in, you never get through. Überly frustrating.

For example, what is the deal with not letting us choose our own partners for projects? Why stick me with Kim? Do French people not understand the concept of friends?

And what about geography? Madame Blanchard forces us to speak French, and only French,
la seconde
we step into the classroom. I have pointed out, in vain, that this is Saguaro Middle School, where the official language is English. I can't get through to her, though, because I'm trying to say it in French.

And now I have to explain—in French—why I can no longer work with Kim as my partner. This morning, the Janes drew a line as wide as the Grand Canyon across the sidewalk, and I'm on one side while they're on the other. There is no meeting in the middle for foreign-language projects.

I take a deep Frenchish breath and approach the polyester mass by the whiteboard.
“Bonjour
, Madame Blanchard.” I paste on an international smile.

“
Bonjour
, Sherry.”

I figure French women invented makeup, which explains why so many of them (obviously not Madame Blanchard) personify beauty and sophistication. So, probably makeup terms are all French words. “Kim
est
Jane.”

“Pardon?”
Madame frowns.

How can she not get a simple sentence like “Kim is Jane”? This is exactly why we should not be speaking French in French class.

I start over and say with exaggerated lip movements, “Kim
est
Jane. Kim
est grosse
. Yuck. Yuck.” I make a grossed-out face.
“Non, non
, Kim
n'a pas de
mascara.” I mime brushing on mascara and waggle my finger to show
none. “Non, non
, Kim
n'a pas de
lipstick.” I mime swiping on lipstick and waggle my finger again.
“Non, non, Kim n'a pas de
blush.” I mime patting on blush while shaking my head.
“Oui, oui
, Kim
est
Jane.”

Madame Blanchard regards me, hands on wide hips and thick penciled-in eyebrows raised.

I jab my chest with my thumb. “Sherry
est
Sherry. Kim
est
Jane.
Non projet.”
I lift my arms, crossing, then uncrossing them to show, without a shadow of a doubt, that Sherry and Kim do not mix.

Smiling, I step back. I've done an excellent job of getting my point across. In French.

A flush of anger begins at Madame Blanchard's double chin, then spreads over her doughy face. She blasts forth a long string of sounds, heavy in the vowel department, which I can only assume is French at freeway speed. Her voice gets louder and louder. Finally, with a sausage finger, she indicates my desk and turns her back on me.

I did not understand one single word of her tirade, but still the message came through loud and clear. I'm stuck with Kim. There is no democracy in France. Madame Blanchard hates me.

I slump into my seat.

“Thanks a lot,” Kim mutters under her breath. “She docked us an entire grade because you insulted her.”

“What? How?” I sputter. “I wasn't insulting her. I was insulting you.”

“You called her fat.”

“What? How?” I sputter some more.

“Grosse
means ‘fat' for a woman in French. And Madame Blanchard's first name is Kim.”

“How do you know her first name?”

“She told us.”

I bet she told us in French. Ooh la la. I bury my head in my hands.

I think time in France moves slower than it does in our country. And these same minutes crawl along, unhurried and annoying, in French classes around the world too.

But, finally, the last accent mark is drawn, the last verb is conjugated and the last page of homework is assigned.

I power outta there, off school property and over to the mall. I cannot wait to be transformed by Amber. I cannot wait to cruise the mall, bestowing Naked Makeup samples on lucky shoppers. I cannot wait to be seventeen. If only for a couple of hours.

The minute I arrive at the kiosk, Amber's down to business. “Have a seat and I'll do your face and hair.” She sticks my backpack in a drawer. “Leave that here so you don't look so middle school.”

That Amber, she thinks of everything.

I end up giving her my huge purse too. No point lugging it and the lotion samples around.

I perch on the little stool by the cash register. “Where's Lacey?”

“Working at Discount Mart. Her shift's over in about an hour.” Amber tugs my hair back into a ponytail. “We want you over by the main entrance, off Van Buren, with the basket of samples.” She's like a juggling act with brushes and creams and powder. She's talking at me, not to me, concentrating on my forehead. “That's the busiest entrance. I got a bunch of bottles ready.” She gestures with her elbow, not skipping a beat at patting cream into my cheeks. “They turned out cute, dontcha think?”

I turn to look and she grabs my chin like it's a handle and pulls my face back to her. A couple more swipes with a sponge and she swivels my head. “See?”

Miniature white plastic bottles lie nestled on butterfly fabric that spills over the edges of a wicker basket. Wrapped around each bottle is either a lavender or pink ribbon with curled ends. And each bottle has a tiny label:
Silky Soft Hand Lotion by Naked Makeup
.

My heart soars. I love those little bottles. I can't wait to hand them out. It's my first mall job. Minus the paycheck. “They are adorable, Amber.”

“Of course they are.” Amber presses powder on my
nose. “And, before you ask, I checked the samples yesterday afternoon. No problems.” She chooses a small brush and a couple of shades of green shadow. “Close your eyes.” She dusts my eyelids.

I figure with each stroke of her brush, Amber's adding a month to my age. I'm probably up to fifteen years old by now!

“Open your eyes. Look up. Don't blink.” She sweeps on mascara. “You know how to act, right? Polite. Professional. Stand straight. Smile. No chatting with your little friends. Only approach women. Yes, some men do buy lotion, even makeup. But most of our clients are women and we have a limited number of samples.” Amber is all adult and business-ish. I've never heard her talk so fast. “Make sure they know where the kiosk is. And that the products are botanical.”

Amber's one of those people with a knock-you-over personality. When I'm with her I always feel like I'm at the bowling alley. I'm a pin and she's a fourteen-pound ball.

With her thumb, she smudges something at the outside corners of my eyes. “And don't do your giggly thing.”

“What giggly thing?”

She rolls her eyes, her eyelashes practically grazing her forehead. “Look, Sherry, we're counting on you. This morning Lacey had another returned gloss. The
woman said she was going to blab to everyone at her office about it. We need some good publicity today. And that's where you come in.”

My stomach knots up at the pressure.

She undoes the ponytail and fluffs my hair. “Perfect.” She hands me a mirror. “You're done.”

Wow. I look amazing. Seriously amazing. And at least seventeen. Maybe even seventeen and a half. “Wow. Thanks.”

She just nods and tosses me a lab coat. She's too cool to say you're welcome. “Your skin's looking good. Junie'll take longer.” Amber's scooping up all the tools and storing them in a drawer. Very organized.

I gently glide my arm through a sleeve of the lab coat, pull it on, then slide in my other arm. Instantly, I feel older and more mature and professional. It's like magic.

Amber hands me the basket. “Remember, we're counting on you.”

I was recently a bridesmaid in my dad and The Ruler's wedding, and I've still got the whole gliding wedding walk down pat. So I'm coasting along, my wedge sandals barely tapping the shiny linoleum floor.

I'm trying my best to look professional, but it's impossible not to slouch because the basket is way heavy, like it's filled with bricks, not cute little Silky Soft Hand Lotion samples. The handle's seriously
chafing my arm, most likely cutting off important blood supply. I hug the basket closer to my body, where it bangs awkwardly against my left hip. Not helpful. Now I'm walking bowlegged with locked knees. I'm like a cross between a penguin and Little Red Riding Hood. This is certainly not the look Amber was aiming for.

Far off in the distance, like an oasis, I spot the main entrance doors. Who knew our mall was the size of a mini city? Traveling from Naked Makeup to the front entrance is an Olympic workout. I'm actually sweating and my back, arm and leg muscles are tightening up.

I pick up the pace. If I can just get near the entrance and a nice comfy bench. Surely, giving out the samples from a seated position will be professional enough. My neck has a crick. My arm is numb.

I decide to sprint the last mile. Breathing heavily, bent over like a pretzel, I focus on the bench. Bathed in sunlight, it's my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Wedge heels are not worn by runners for a good reason. Wedge heels are to ankles like scorpions are to crickets. Deadly.

My feet race down the wedges and right off the sandals. My left foot turns back to look for its footwear while my right foot continues on in the marathon. My
right side has always been a little more competitive. Which explains why I'm right-handed.

My poor left ankle is all turned in and weak. I fall heavily. The basket thuds to the floor, toppling over. Many adorable bottles of Silky Soft Hand Lotion are released into freedom, rolling every which way. Their purple and pink curlicue ribbons twist like little piglet tails.

I lie on the floor, grasping my ankle and groaning. Hopefully in a professional manner. I am definitely not doing my giggly thing.

A circle of concerned shoppers forms around me. A mother turns the basket right side up. She instructs her children to chase down the rolling bottles and return them to the basket. A mall security guy peers down at me. “I have nine-one-one on speed dial.”

“Sherry, are you okay?” Junie offers me her arm. She's like a guardian angel who shows up right when I need her.

I pull myself to a wobbly stand. “I don't need nine-one-one.” Leaning on my BFF and balancing on my uninjured foot, I say, “Junie, could you pick up the basket?” I look around at everyone. “I'm fine. Seriously. Thanks for grabbing all the bottles, kids.”

I pick out bottles from the basket. “Samples, anyone? Free Silky Soft Hand Lotion, a botanical product
from Naked Makeup.” I point a shaky finger. “The kiosk is by the food court.”

I am so not following instructions. I'm offering samples that have rolled all over the mall floor and were retrieved by the sticky fingers of small children. I'm giving away lotion to anyone who gets close to the basket—men, women, kids. And the way I'm hanging on to Junie isn't even close to professional.

People start reaching into the basket and plucking out bottles all on their own.

A girl about my age with purple streaks and huge dangly earrings says, “What scent is it?”

I stop. I never thought to ask. “Good question.”

Junie already has a bottle open and up to her nose. “Jasmine, I think.”

I stick my palm up by her. She tips the bottle and white lotion cascades out. A light flowery scent fills the air.

I rub my hands together.

“Ahhhhh!”

A
ck! Eek! Ike!

Something's in the Silky Soft Hand Lotion!

Something not silky. Something not soft. Something very thin, prickly and pointy. Many of these somethings.

We're back at the kiosk. Amber and Lacey are examining my hands. A deep wrinkle of worry creases Lacey's forehead.

“How many of the bottles did you get back?” Lacey asks me.