Popular: Vintage Wisdom for a Modern Geek (8 page)

Natalia and Simon

Mom and the trainer, Miss Stacy, help Natalia lead the horse into the enclosed riding area. I sit outside on one of the rusted lawn chairs and think sad thoughts. I can’t believe this posture thing has amounted to nothing. I’m so distracted that I almost don’t hear the conversation going on next to me.

Miss Stacy is telling Mom about the horse shows where her students compete.

“You know, the reason that kids don’t win,” she says, “is because they’re lazy.”

“How so?” Mom asks.

“They slouch. I’m constantly telling them that they have to sit up straight to win, but they don’t listen.” She watches my little sister circle around the ring. “Natalia has a fantastic stance.”

She’s right. Natalia always stands tall. I watch as she raises her arms and squeals with joy. She sits straight, head held high, showing the world how fantastic she is.

“Posture is everything,” I hear Miss Stacy say.

I smile, and in spite of my dreary attitude, I draw myself up, tummy tucked in, and show off my bosom.

Keep your muscles in trim and your body in line so you need never fear how you look.

Maybe posture isn’t such a waste of time after all.

SKIN PROBLEMS & MAKEUP

No teenager is ever stuck with the face she was born with, in view of the ways she has to make up her features to their best advantage . . .

I’ve only worn makeup in plays or ballet recitals, but dragonfly and flower costumes don’t really give you a feel for how the world of “big girl” makeup works. Of course I’ve experimented. When I was six my aunt bought me a whole set of makeup that included orange and purple lipsticks and mountains of glitter. But every time I wore it I’d end up looking like the prostitutes who hang out on 14th Street in downtown Brownsville.

Mom, who is naturally gorgeous, rarely wears makeup. Once a year, she goes all out for a wedding or some other special occasion. But other than that—nothing.

So you can understand why I’m sweating as I stand with Mom in the grocery store makeup aisle, leaning over a
MATCH YOUR SKIN TONE
poster, trying to figure out what color powder matches my undertones.

“There’s no way you’re porcelain,” my brown-skinned mother says, holding my hand under the plastic guide. “There are a lot of people lighter than you.”

“That’s what it says.”

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to get it then,” she concedes, tossing it into the grocery cart. “What else do we need?”

I think back to Betty Cornell’s list:

• Powder
  
• Mild face lotion that serves as a powder base
  
• Lipstick (
  “clear reds and strong pinks are good colors to work with”
  )
  
• Lipstick brush
  
• Nail polish that harmonizes with lipstick
  
• Nail base
  
• Clear nail polish
  
• Emery board
  
• Skin cleanser
  
• Cotton powder puffs
  
• Cuticle stick
  

My head is swirling with information.

I recite the list to Mom who finds a tube of red lipstick. “Are you sure you don’t need rouge?”

“Betty Cornell says that I don’t.”

Few teen-agers need to add color, for their skins have a glowing light of their own derived from an active outdoor life.

I’m counting on PE to provide this.

After we finish shopping, Mom and I get into the car. She looks at me really hard and smiles. “Wow, Maya. You are seriously ballsy.”

“Thanks . . . I guess.”

“I mean it. When I was in middle school, I never would’ve dreamed of doing a fraction of what you’re willing to do.”

I smile. Growing up, I was the quiet girl who no one talked to. I was the one who would blend in until the teacher called on me. And if I volunteered answers too often, the class would go silent, drawing an even larger barrier between us.

And now, look at me. I’m sitting in a minivan with new makeup on my lap, trying to earn the approval, the trust, and the admiration of those who I’d gone out of my way to avoid all my life.

Saturday, December 3

“Come on out, Maya, show us your makeup!” Dad’s voice drifts in from the living room, where he sits waiting with the rest of the family.

“No.”

“Come on! We haven’t got all day!”

They have to get bored sometime. Maybe if I just stay in the bathroom with the door locked they’ll forget about me.

“Hurry!” Brodie shouts.

I hear Mom walk to the door. “Maya, it’s okay. Come on out.”

“I look like a clown-whore.” I whimper.

Even through the wood, I hear her stifle a laugh. “I’m sure you don’t look like a clown-whore, baby.”

I look in the mirror and shudder. I followed Betty Cornell’s advice exactly. How did it go so wrong?

Finally, I unlock the door and walk outside.

Mom looks at me. She bites her lip. My cheeks go red, but she probably can’t tell.

“Honey, you have powder streaks all over your face. The goal is for it to be subtle.”

“Oh.”

She helps me fix it and pushes me into the living room to show the rest of the family. Brodie looks up at me and whistles before proceeding to make pigeon noises in Natalia’s face. Dad smiles. “You look very nice.” He’s just saying that because he feels obligated to. Or Mom is behind me whispering threats.

Kenzie will think I’ve gone nuts!

Monday, December 5

I wake up this morning a dithering, sweaty mess. My hand shakes as I apply my new red lipstick (with a new lipstick brush so that I can shape my mouth into
“the most enticing one possible”
). Soon, I force myself out the door. The red and yellow lights of the school bus pull around the corner. When the door screeches open, my heart stops. Slowly I climb the steps to my doom.

Keeping my face down, I sit behind Kenzie. It’s rather dark outside, so after a while I think she just doesn’t notice. Then her forehead wrinkles.

“Are you wearing . . . lip . . . stick?” Her voice is dangerously calm.

“Um, yeah?”

“Why?”

“Uh,” I stammer. Finally, I think of a response. “It’s for fun!”

She watches me carefully. “Are you wearing . . .
eye shadow
?” On the last word, her voice comes out as a high-pitched shriek.

I look around nervously, but no one’s paying attention. Everyone on the bus is either passed out or on their phones. Betty Cornell makes it very clear that we shouldn’t use eye makeup at our young age:

As to making up your eyes, don’t. Young eyes need no enhancement. They have their own sparkle and flashes of fire, so why bury them under gobs of goo? Mascara and eyebrow pencil . . . are artifices best left to others. Teen-agers who come to school with colored blobs above each eyelid look plain silly. If you are going somewhere extra special . . . and you feel that you just have to look glamorous, then try a little Vaseline or cream on each eyelid. Just this little touch will bring out all you need to give your eyes a triumphant twinkle.

“Actually, it’s Vaseline.” I smile innocently, even though my heart is pounding out of my chest. I giggle nervously.

Kenzie’s lip begins to twitch . . . literally. “So, you’re wearing Vaseline . . . on your eyelids.” It’s not a question. She’s just working through it.

She stares at me for a long time and finally just shakes her head. “You’re cute,” she says, and turns around.

From the way she glowers, I can tell it’s not a compliment.

Tuesday, December 6

I have zits. Quite a few of them. It’s not a medical condition like that poor girl in my science class (her name changed from Diane Acbey to Diane Acne overnight), but I still have tons of clogged pores.

Betty Cornell says washing my face is the best thing to do for zits. I have some super-fancy facial soap, but it doesn’t really work unless I use it, which I often forget to do. I’ll have to be better this month. I mean seriously, I spent the entire summer with a fiery red zit in the middle of my forehead. It looked like a bindi.

Betty Cornell says that I should wash my face with hot water to open my pores and then scrub it with soap, applying it in upward strokes (because
“pulling down on the facial tissues will, after a period of time, tend to make the muscles go slack”).
Then, I rinse with cold water. Twice a week I’m supposed to use ice cubes to fully close my pores.

Betty Cornell doesn’t use the word zit, though. She calls them “hickies.” This makes me chuckle every time I read it, because I doubt that modern “hickies” and 1950s “hickies” are the same thing. If they were, it could put a whole new spin on this chapter.

 . . . . . . .

“Are you still wearing your jelly?” Kenzie inquires in front of our PE locker. “You know . . .
petroleum
jelly.”

“Yep.”

“You’re insane,” she says. It’s true. Did you know that when you wear Vaseline on your eyelids, it smears onto your glasses and then melts so that it covers the entire lens? Try it some-time.

I pull off my pants and I hear a snarl of disgust behind me. I turn around to see Flor, the leader of the Goth Art Chicks, glaring at me. “Maya!” she yells. “Every time I turn my head I see your giant ass in my face! I don’t know what the hell you think it looks like, but it’s not pretty! So MOVE!”

She shoves past me to change on a different side of the room. Tears sting my eyes. But I steady myself and pull on my shorts.

Friday, December 9

How do models deal with fading lipstick? Mine seems to disappear within ten minutes. Betty Cornell says to use a little powder on the lips before applying it and then blot any extra with a tissue. But that doesn’t work very well. Maybe it’s because I wear cheap grocery store makeup.

I spend two hours on a teen fashion website searching for answers. After taking seven or eight quizzes, I find out the following:

• My skin is “super oily”
  
• My “fave look” is “natural”
  
• My “winter hairstyle” is “upswept bun”
  
• My “celeb skin match” is Selena Gomez
  
• My eye makeup should be “Sexy and Chic” (Like that’s going to happen!)
  

It is horrifying to realize how much time I’d wasted on the website. Normally I prefer reading classic works of literature. I don’t know what kept me looking at the stories and articles for so long. I guess it was kind of like that time my cousin and I looked at gossip magazines for an afternoon. It was more like a guilty fixation with something so otherworldly and unachievable.

Sunday, December 11

I wear makeup to church today. Every time I see Ethan, it hurts. As he passes, Dad grabs my wrist.

“What are you doing?” I ask, angry.

“Your pulse sped up when he walked by. You still like him.” He smiles, obviously thinking that he’s being clever. He’s not.

“It sped up because I was nervous because you grabbed me,” I babble. I lower my voice. “I don’t like him anymore, so leave me alone.”

“So who do you like? Dante?”

“No one, okay?”

He raises his eyebrows. “You can’t just not like anyone. When I was your age I had crushes on at least five girls at a time. And not one of them liked me back.”

He doesn’t understand what I feel. Whenever I have a crush on someone, it can last years, and it’s always just for one person.

The day I realized I had a crush on Ethan was when some of the girls at church locked me in a closet for the first time. They were mean. They tried to turn others against me, painted all over me at slumber parties, and lied about me to adults.

As I sat huddled in the corner of the dark closet, I heard Ethan telling off the girls for being awful to me. He shouted, “Go away. Leave her alone!” and he unlocked the door.

Then he smiled at me. My heart melted and my head turned to jelly, petroleum jelly. I knew that I liked him. A lot. Ever since that day he stood up for me, I’ve liked him. A lot. And as much as I try to convince Dad, Mom, and myself of the opposite, I still like him.

A lot.

Monday, December 12

“Come on, Brodie, I need you!” I shout down the stairs to my little brother.

“What do you want?!” he screams back.

“Come here and I’ll tell you!”

“FINE!”

He makes his way upstairs stomping his feet on every step.

“Can you help me do my fingernails?” I ask in my sweetest voice.

“No way!” He pretends to gag himself and heads back toward the stairs.

“If you do, you get to watch TV. I won’t tell Mom.”

He freezes. Then he turns and comes back to help me.

When your nails are filed and the cuticles softened, you are ready to put on the nail base . . . Cover the whole nail with the base and let it dry thoroughly before you start the polish. After the base has dried, the next step is to apply the first coat of polish. Cover the whole nail; it is easier than trying to describe an accurate curve around the moon.

Ten seconds later I’m explaining Betty Cornell’s nail regime, telling him I’ve already filed them into shape and applied a base coat. But I make a mess with the color and gloss layers and need some help. He nods sympathetically and begins applying the polish.

“Are you surprised that I’m doing so good?” he asks after a few minutes.

“Yep, you’re amazing.”

“I don’t like makeup, but I’m still really good.”

I was there when Mom got the ultrasound confirming that Brodie was a boy. I wigged. Hard. The only thing I wanted was an older sister or a puppy. The last thing I expected was a little brother. In fact, I didn’t even think it was possible and was convinced my parents were doing it just to spite me. So when Brodie was two or three years old, I dressed him up in my clothes and put all sorts of “pretty” stuff on him (thanks to my aunt’s gift of sparkly makeup). He’s had an irrational fear of lipstick or anything “girly” ever since.