Making Pretty

For two wonders of my world, Anica & Victoria. You are always, always on my List of Things to Be Grateful For
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I should not be going to a bar.

Karissa and I have matching Elmo T-shirts, but hers is cut to show a lot of skin and mine is layered over a ripped long-sleeved black shirt and under a polka-dot cardigan I stole from my dad's third wife, Natasha.

“Act cool, Montana,” Karissa says. “Act twenty-one.”

I take my hair down from its ponytail and cock my head to the side and try to look bored.

“Does this look twenty-one?” I ask. We're across the street from Karissa's favorite bar, Dirty Versailles. It's on the Lower East Side of Manhattan and allegedly lives up to its name. Dive meets fancy French palace. It is the opposite of surprising that Karissa likes it.

“You'll need this,” she says, handing me a lit cigarette. She lights a new one for herself. “You smoke, right?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I say. I like to call Karissa “ma'am” because she's twenty-three and she hates it.

I take a drag on the cig. My best friend, Roxanne, started smoking at college this year so I started too, wanting to be up to speed when she got home for the summer. I don't like the taste but I like how much my older sister, Arizona, hates it and how much my dad would hate it if he were home enough to know.

I like how it compresses the time and space between Roxanne and me. With each dirty drag I can almost pretend I spent the year upstate at Bard splitting cigarettes with Roxanne and her Argentinian roommate, or in Maine with Arizona, making out with boys in white baseball caps.

Karissa moves us across the street so that we're smoking right in front of the bar, where the bouncer can see us.

“Look edgy,” she says. “Look sexy. Look like you don't give a crap and could go anywhere but have chosen to grace this bar with your presence.”

I'm not convinced I can pull that off, but I don't want this night with Karissa to end. She has on silver leggings and cowboy boots that she spray-painted neon blue, and her hair is so long and wild she could be a mermaid or a lioness. I'm a little bit in love with her, in the way I used to be in love with my cool teenage babysitters when I was like ten years old.

I blow my smoke up instead of out. I thank myself for wearing skinny jeans instead of the ugly shorts Roxanne and Arizona hate. It's impossible not to wonder if I should have done some sort of makeup situation.

Karissa stamps out her cig, so I do the same.

“Pretty K!” the bouncer says when she touches his arm and smiles.

“Hey, buddy,” she says. He's a little bit in love with her too. Everyone is. The boys and men in our acting class. Strangers walking from an Italian dinner to a crappy sports bar. The short dude in the sketchy bodega who sold her the cigarettes.

“Come on in,” the bouncer says.

“This is Montana,” Karissa says, putting an arm around me and kissing my cheek. “She cool?”

The bouncer looks me up and down. It seems like A Moment. I've been asking myself this very same question all year long. Am I cool?

I've had a lot of time to mull it over, in the absence of my sister and my best friend. It's the kind of question I've been working out, listening to stories of dorm parties and gender studies classes and roommates with dreadlocks and how quiet and sweet and full life outside the city can be.

I haven't come up with an answer, and the bouncer looks unconvinced.

“She young?” he says.

“Younger than me!” Karissa says. “But old enough.”

“Fine, fine, get her in there,” the bouncer says. “But I can't promise she'll fit in.”

“Isn't the point to not fit in?” Karissa says. Every word out of her mouth is perfect. Wry and flirty and smart and funny and killer.

Goddamn it I want to be her. But I'll settle for having her take me under her wing for now.

The bar is exactly what it promised to be. Everything is painted
gold but also chipping. Chandeliers with fake crystals hang from the ceilings. Half the lightbulbs are out.

It's funny how something sad is automatically more beautiful than something happy.

It applies to people too. Karissa is the sad kind of pretty. Like a very wise Tinker Bell. Tinker Bell's sad too. All wrapped in unrequited love and unbelievability and misery. Karissa, Tinker Bell, and this bar are all lovely for the same reasons.

“Tinker Bell is sort of a tragic literary figure, right?” I say. It seems smart and interesting in my head, like a brilliant thesis I've come up with that Karissa could get behind. Something that will astound and impress her. Make it clear I'm worth the trouble of sneaking into a bar.

“Huh. Maybe,” she says. “But I'm an Ophelia girl personally. Crazy and gorgeous and loved and ill-fated. Not that I'm gorgeous. I'm like the opposite of gorgeous.” Karissa makes a nervous gesture with her hand running through her hair, and she is completely gorgeous. “But I'm a little crazy, like all the best people are.”

She looks at me like I'm supposed to say something, and I want to say something even though I have nothing to say.

“They so are,” I say. “I'm, like, bonkers.” It's a word Roxanne uses all the time so I am a total fraud, but it works. Karissa beams.

“And Ophelia's about a million times better than Juliet, you know? Juliet had a stupidity to her. Ophelia is all tragedy, all the time,” she says. I nod and wonder at talking about Ophelia on a Thursday night at a downtown bar next to a guy with a beard and a green drink and a neon-yellow bow tie.

“Ophelia commits to the tragedy of life,” I say, playing with the gold tassel on my bar stool. “She knows how it is.”

“Yes!” Karissa says, before turning to the bartender and ordering a bottle of red. He gives us goblets and some kind of French wine and fills everything to the tippy top because he's so distracted by Karissa. It doesn't matter that her teeth are crooked and her chin is a little small and she's even flatter than me. It doesn't matter that she's freckled and that her hair is light brown and not honey blond or platinum blond or champagne blond.

She is charged. And beautiful. And telling me to drink faster, harder, more enthusiastically.

“Let's be drunk,” she says. “Let's be drunk best friends who rule the world.”

“Best friends?” I say. The music is loud and I wonder if I've misheard her. I've been aching to have a best friend again. Even though Roxanne has been back from college for a few weeks, it hasn't felt the way it did last year or the ten years before that. She talks about people whose names I've never heard. People who have names I didn't even know were names. People who go only by their last names. People who go by shortened versions of their last names: Hertz and Scal and Jav and Gerb. It's hard to keep up.

Arizona gets back tonight. We haven't spoken in over a month, which seems impossible for someone I used to co-parent a stuffed elephant with. She won't even be living at home over the summer. Dad's letting her split a summer sublet with one of her new Colby friends. I hate that the word
sister
has this shifting, changeable definition that
doesn't mean two people who share a room and a brain and a speech pattern and a body type anymore.

I'm over it. Over them. Over the things I knew and did and thought. I'm with Karissa now.

“I think we could be best friends, don't you?” Karissa says. She slams down her goblet and fills it up with more wine. Her teeth are insta-purple. “If I find you a cute college guy to hook up with, would you ditch your other best friends and become mine?”

“I'd definitely consider it,” I say, but really I'm looking everywhere for the guy I see sometimes in the park. I'm pretty sure we have developed a whole relationship based on continuous, awkward eye contact over the last two months.

“It's rare to have a real connection with someone,” Karissa says. She leans in close to me. She smells like baby powder deodorant, and I know from experience, even though I can't hear them now, that her cheap metal earrings are making tiny clanging noises. “You're in high school, so maybe you don't know this, but you'll mostly hate people when you're in your twenties, and you'll be wondering why everyone's trying to be so boring. They're all scared.”

I don't tell her that I'm scared.

I do tell her that I've seen a lot of women on a quest to be boring.

My dad's a plastic surgeon. A fancy one who specializes in marrying women, changing everything about them on his operating table, and divorcing them when they're as close to perfect as he can get them.

That's not what's written on his business card or anything. But that's how it goes with Dr. Sean Varren.

“There's a guy for you,” Karissa says, pointing across the bar to a dude in a plaid button-up whose mohawk is so tall it almost touches one of the low-hanging chandeliers.

“I think he's for you,” I say. He's handsome in the same unknowing, wild, fantastic way that Karissa is beautiful. He doesn't look kissable because he doesn't look knowable.

“For you!” she says. “Be brave. Live big.” She shakes her mane and the light catches the glittery blush she wears. Her eye shadow is ironic blue, and it matches not only the boots but also a thin headband she's strapped across her forehead.

I pull my Elmo shirt down so that it covers my stomach. I wave at Mohawk Man. He waves back but doesn't come over. We pound the rest of the bottle of wine. It's a brand-new feeling—I'm used to chugging beer or taking shots of cheap liquor, but I'm not used to wine at all, in any context. It hits all slow and sleepy, and I like that it tastes purple, royal, sweet.

Roxanne favors Malibu rum and kegs of light beer.

If Karissa's my new best friend, everything we do will be different and new and better.

She orders another bottle.

I've made it. I'm here. I'm hers.

When we are drunker and it's later, we end up in a booth in the back. The guy with the mohawk bought us some beers and talked about art for a while, but he must have felt like a third wheel, because Karissa and I have this secret-language way of talking. It doesn't
matter that we've only known each other for six months and that there's no real reason for us to be friends now that acting class is over. It doesn't matter that I'm seventeen and she's twenty-three. We're connected. We fit. We're mismatched and cozy in the back booth. We make sense in a weird and wonderful way. Like math except sexy and cool.

I'm getting texts from Arizona asking where I am, saying she got home and ordered us a pizza, saying I was supposed to be there to welcome her home after her post-freshman-year European backpacking trip. She could have returned to New York when her semester ended three weeks ago. She chose even less time with me. She keeps choosing less time with me, over and over.

I don't reply to the texts.

I can't stop swinging my hair around like Karissa does. She makes it look so good, and I'm convinced I could be a little like her, if I tried harder. Arizona texts again, a bunch of question marks instead of words, so I start to feel bad. Punctuation marks make me feel more than words, sometimes.

“I think I need to get home,” I say. “My sister's waiting for me. I told her I'd hang out even if she got home late. Start our summer together off right or something. Pizza. Bonding. All that.”

“Your sister's back,” Karissa says. She doesn't make a move to pay the bill or slide out of the booth. “You must be so happy.”

“Mmmm. I miss the way things were with her,” I say, and it's the truest thing I've said all night and maybe all month. Karissa hits the bottom of her umpteenth glass of wine. She shakes her head like
she's trying to clear it. Wipes her mouth and teeters on the edge of weepiness.

“I need to tell you something about me,” Karissa says.

“Anything,” I say.

“I'm sort of messed up, okay? Like . . . okay. Okay. This is such a weird thing to announce, but if we're going to be friends, real ones, it's like, we have to know the big things, right? So we need to get all the big things out there, as, like, foundation.” Karissa pushes her hair behind her ear in this ballerina way and I am certain she will be famous someday, even if it is simply for that one gesture.

“Let's do it,” I say, leaning forward. I wonder if people are listening in on us. I would.

“My whole family is dead. Car accident four years ago. You talking about your sister made my heart—I don't know. I feel like I can't even have a normal conversation if you don't know that about me. Like, you won't understand anything I say if you don't know that, right?”

“Right,” I say. Her eyes fill up and mine do too, a mirror image of her. She is Ophelia.

I feel desperately sad for her and a little bit sad for myself that she didn't tell me before. That I've known her all this time without really knowing her. “Are you . . . how are you? About it?” Drunkenness is a blessing right now, because everything I say sounds smooth and deep. I can look right into her green eyes and not blink or blush or get nervous.

“I'm a mess,” she says. “I'm not like anyone else.” She's whispering,
and little pieces of crystal on the chandeliers above chime whenever the air conditioner clicks onto a higher level.

“That's . . . wow. Wow. I'm sorry. I don't know what to say. It's incredible you, like, get up and walk around every day. Seriously.”

Karissa sighs and licks her lips that must taste like wine and lipstick, and she brushes her hair aside again and again.

“I can tell you have something dark in there too,” she says. “Something that happened. Or something missing. Or something you want.” Even through the beginnings of tears, she sees me. It's a little scary, to be seen.

“All three,” I say, thinking of my mother who left us and my father who keeps marrying new women and the emptiness of the house without Arizona and the way three stepmothers in ten years feels less like a surplus of stepmoms and more like a deficit of mothers.