Lipstick Apology (11 page)

“Anthony . . .” I started.

“Don't worry about it,” Anthony said brusquely.

I tried to write
I'm sorry
, but my pen was running out of ink. Anthony dug into his backpack and handed me a pen. I tried to smile at him, but he turned away.

Carly raced into class late and headed for her seat next to Ethan. I noticed that she was not wearing her glasses. I tried to recall if maybe she broke them today at lunch when we collided, but I didn't remember them falling off her face.

For the rest of the class, I kept trying to show Anthony my written apology, but he remained nose down in his book, twirling his chewed-up pencils in his hand.

WHEN I GO THOME
from school, I headed straight for my room to try and find my old cheerleading outfit. I opened the closet door and looked at the few remaining unpacked boxes. I wished I had labeled them somehow. Fortunately, the first box I picked contained the old uniform rolled up in a ball toward the bottom.

Jolie popped her head in my room. “Want to order pizza?” The question was casual, but I could still hear some post-fight hesitation.

“Pizza sounds good,” I said. I waited for some sort of rehearsed monologue. An,
I'm sorry we fought last night. I was just taken off guard. Of course, I'll help you decipher your mother's apology.
But the speech never came. Jolie simply smiled and asked if I wanted pepperoni.

At five thirty sharp we buzzed Andi and Lindsey up.

Jolie greeted them casually, by name, ushering them in. Andi and Lindsey fawned unapologetically, raving about products and celebrity pictures Jolie had worked on. I guess there had been some insanely big
Vogue
interview last year—one that I'd been totally oblivious to back in my old life. Jolie laughed and hugged them both, waving off their compliments. On the one hand, it was great that Andi and Lindsey thought Jolie was so cool because that made me, by extension, acceptable. But I couldn't help feeling a little resentment, too—Jolie was so eager to help my friends, even if it was as superficial as doing their makeup, and yet she was unwilling to help me dig for answers to my mother's apology.

Andi, Lindsey, and I went into my room to change into the cheerleading uniforms. My old uniform was laid out on my bed. I touched it with a strange mix of affection and nostalgia.

Lindsey came over and sat on the bed, resting her hand on the navy blue skirt. “Does it make you sad?” she asked.

“A little,” I said, feeling the swirl of memories start to overtake me.

“No time for sadness,” Andi called from across the room, slicing her hand through the air, and I noticed her fingernails were painted blue to match her outfit.

Lindsey smiled at me and dug her uniform out of a white plastic bag.

I pulled on the white and navy top and stepped into the skirt. It fit a little more snugly than last winter, grazing the top of my thighs and hugging my waist. I stared at myself in the full-length mirror, wearing my old high school uniform.

“Okay,” Andi said, pulling out a powder blue uniform from her bag. “So I had this major underwear dilemma—I can't wear a thong because the skirt is too short, right? Go with the full coverage, cringe at the VPL, but realize that it's the only option that's not totally slutty. Right?”

“Definitely,” Lindsey shot back without thinking. “It's a no-brainer.”

“Absolutely,” I answered with faked confidence, and prayed that they didn't decide to raid my underwear drawer. I could imagine the gasps when they saw my wide array of granny panties. But I never understood the appeal of thongs; don't they just give you a permanent wedgie?

“Plus,” Lindsey continued, “with the flare of the skirt I don't think you'll have any
v
isible
p
anty
l
ines. Don't worry.”

“Exactly,” I said, nodding. I wondered if Lindsey knew I needed her deciphering. I caught her eye in the mirror and smiled.

Andi wandered over to my closet and stared at my shoes with a perplexed look. “You have like thirty pairs of the same loafer,” she said, clearly disturbed. “Where are the flip-flops? Where are the sandals? The sexy peep-toe pumps?”

Lindsey walked over, intrigued.

I think they were expecting some exotic explanation like I had a secret trapdoor that led to another closet. “Um, I have really ugly toes?” I said tentatively. “So I only wear closed-toe shoes.”

“Let me see,” Andi said.

“No!” I panicked, but Andi was walking toward me.

“Oh, come on! Ashton Kutcher has webbed feet and he's still gorgeous.”

“Ashton Kutcher has webbed feet?” I asked, wobbling backward until I had landed on the side of my bed. While I was momentarily distracted, Andi plucked off my left shoe and wrestled off my sock.

Andi and Lindsey started laughing and teasing me.

“Stop!” I said, laughing.

“My God,” Lindsey said. “It's like a free pass to lie—your toes are always crossed.”

And as I doubled over and laughed, it felt good for us to have our first private joke, even if it
was
at the expense of my hideously freakish feet.

Jolie stuck her head in my room. “Ready for some makeup?”

We walked down the hall to Jolie's room. Andi and Lindsey stood motionless in the doorway, scanning the tables of brushes, palettes of color, and tubes of gloss. Lindsey hopped in the chair first.

Jolie clipped her hair back and studied her face. “You've got great, pillowy lips,” she said. “So sexy.”

Lindsey reflexively touched her lips.

In the mirror I saw Andi trace her own thin lips with her index finger.

Jolie turned toward her table and selected three pots with varying shades of tan powder. “I'm going to use a neutral palette on your eyes but make your lips really pop,” she said.

Jolie used a long, thin brush to outline Lindsey's dark eyes in a mocha-colored liner, then used a larger brush to sweep a sable color across her lids. She filled Lindsey's lips with a matte ruby stain that made them look plump and dramatic. Lindsey swiveled around in the chair and said, “Look!”

“You look great!” Andi and I said in unison.

Andi walked over and playfully bumped Lindsey out of the chair.

Jolie stacked her pots of color back and grabbed some fresh brushes, placing them on the table in front of her. She smiled at Andi in the mirror.

Andi turned her lips in over her teeth and looked almost nervous.

“You have really great eyes,” Jolie said.

“Really?” Andi asked. “You don't think they're too big?”

“Too big?” Jolie repeated. “You can never have eyes that are too big.” She turned to her color collection and selected various jars and pots.

“When I was growing up, my brother used to call me bug eyes,” Andi said.

Jolie turned back toward the mirror. “I bet all your brother's friends think differently.”

Andi smiled.

“Okay,” Jolie said. “Most people are afraid of color. You say blue or green and people get all sketchy on you. But I'm looking at you with your gorgeous hair and translucent skin and I'm thinking you need some sparkle, some drama. I'm going to put navy around your eyes and watch what it does.” Jolie worked a thin brush into the top and bottom lash lines of Andi's eyes. Then she dusted a hint of dark plum powder into the creases of her lids.

Lindsey and I leaned in and saw Andi's cobalt blue eyes come alive. All the little speckles of green and gray buried in the blue irises jumped out at us.

Jolie picked up an eyelash curler. Like magic, the lashes curled toward the sky and her large eyes doubled in size.

Andi softly whispered, “Wow.”

I could tell that Jolie was accustomed to working with fragile egos of celebrities because in a matter of minutes, she ignited a feeling of confidence and beauty in Andi. I had never thought of Andi needing reassurance because she was by far the most popular girl in school. But Lindsey had explained to me that Andi's dreams of being a runway model were halted when she stopped growing at five feet. While she makes good money doing catalog modeling, to Andi, it's second best.

“Oh my God! The Laker Girls have flown east.” Trent bounded through the door.

“We're going to a costume party,” I said to Trent, then turned to the girls and said, “This is Trent,” offering no other explanation because, really, how do you explain Trent?

“Obviously,” he said picking up a pom-pom.

“Hi,” Lindsey said, holding out her hand, but Andi's eyes were transfixed on a shelf mounted high above Jolie's worktable.

Andi pointed in the direction of the shelf. “Is that . . . an EMMY?”

Jolie smiled and nodded.

“What?” I asked.

Trent turned toward Jolie. “Have you never told your niece of all your accolades? Modesty—hmm—really, that surprises me a bit.” Trent looked toward me. “Your auntie won an Emmy last year for her makeup work on
Good Morning with Rick and Riley.
”

Wow, I can't believe I didn't know that.

“AN EMMY???!!” Andi screamed, then turned to Lindsey and repeated, “AN EMMY!”

“Well, you can't get all gussied up and not let me fix your hair,” Trent said. He stuck a finger out at Lindsey. “You, Sporty Spice, come here and sit.”

Lindsey sat down, and Trent dramatically combed his fingers through her long, dark hair.

“Oh, honey. You are too one dimensional. You must come to my salon and let me fix your color.” He paused, staring at her. “You look a lot like Leighton Meester. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“The Gossip Girl?” Lindsey smiled. “I don't think so.”

“Now the question is, do you want to continue being the poster child for headbands and Chanel scarves or do you want to look your own age?”

“What do you mean? I don't know . . .” Lindsey said doubtfully.

“Oh, honey, it's hair. It'll grow back,” Trent said. “A little chop here and there will give you
so
much more oomph.”

“Okay,” Lindsey said hesitantly, and before she could rethink her answer, he took a razor and sliced across a handful of hair.

Andi and I gasped.

“Amateurs,” Trent said, and grabbed a flatiron. He smoothed the iron over the newly chopped hair, and in thirty seconds Lindsey was completely transformed from cool and conservative into edgy-pretty.

“What'd I tell you,” Trent said. “Come on, blondie, you're next.”

Andi sat in the chair, looking at us with a
this is unbelievable
look in her eyes.

“Oh,” Trent said, examining Andi's hair. “Good color—perfection. Your cut's divine, too. You just need some height.” He started teasing and spraying. “Trust me, bed head is sexy.”

And again, he was right.

“And you,” Trent said, turning to me. “I'm a little disappointed in you. Your friends had no idea who I was. Do they think you got your style at Great Clips? I think not. Nobody does long beach hair layers like I do.” He pulled me into the chair and did a quick blowout, scrunching my hair in his hands.

“Hey, Trent,” Andi said. “I
totally
would have nominated
you
for an Emmy too.”

“I know, sweetie,” he said. “I know.”

WE CHIPPED IN AND TOOK A CAB
to Owen's apartment. The cabdriver kept staring at us, dressed in three different cheerleading ensembles, but we offered no explanation.

Owen lived in a fancy, high-rise building with a rotating glass entryway in the west Twenties. Where Jolie's building was sleek and modern, Owen's was ornate and opulent. Andi pressed the PH button in the elevator and we rode all the way to the top floor. The doors opened and deposited us in a plush hallway lined with busy wallpaper. Our feet clomped loudly on the beige marble floors.

Lindsey leaned in toward the dark wooden door. “I don't hear anyone inside.”

“That's weird,” Andi said. “We're not early.” She looked down at her watch. She tried the doorknob, and the door swung open to an extravagant but vacant apartment. There was a round table in the center of the foyer with a towering floral arrangement. Taped to the vase was a note: GO BACK OUT TO THE HALLWAY, TAKE SECOND DOOR ON LEFT.

I had no clue what was going on, but at least it seemed like neither did Andi or Lindsey. We walked back into the hallway and found the second door on the left. It opened to a narrow staircase. Andi turned to us and raised her eyebrows.

Lindsey and I shrugged back. In single file we climbed the creaky staircase. As we rose higher, the air became cooler, and we could hear the thumping of loud music. The door at the top of the staircase opened to a huge rooftop garden, surrounded by the most magnificent views of the city I had ever seen.