She's All That (6 page)

It's not just Nana. It's my own selfish desires too. “I saw on
Oprah
that when you turn your passion into work, you make it. Did Oprah lie to me, girls? I mean, I don't want a BMW or anything, but a Marc Jacobs bag is tempting. Being able to sit in a luxurious salon, while I get my hair straightened—is tempting. Being able to afford a respectable vice, like Starbucks, is tempting!” I pull the paper out of my pocket and show Poppy. “Look at this salary. It actually qualifies as a salary.”

“You gave up that salary because you wanted to design. Right?” Poppy blinks her big, blue eyes and avoids the number. “I can get you a job in finance. Working for a normal boss if that's what you want. I have a ton of patients in high-tech finance. Don't take a job doing something you hate, for someone you ha—aren't fond of.”

“Poppy's right, Lil,” Morgan says. “You hate finance. You could have done that years ago. Not to mention that Shane Wesley will remind you every day that he was Sara's choice. You'll live with your failure every day. You want to design. You want to do what you love. What have all these years on Highway 101 been about if you're going to quit now?”

Of course, I know all this. I just want to be told I'm right. There are no better words in the English language than, “You're right, Lilly.” So I sink onto the bed, and listen while my Spa Girls tell me all the things I already know.

I give them a little more ammunition. “Three years ago, I was young and I had more determination and confidence. I'm twenty-nine now, and I have no windows. A girl my age should definitely be able to afford windows.” I look at Morgan, who is studying the carpet.

“If there was something I wanted, Lilly,” Morgan's cheek twitches, “I'd do it. At least you still have a
little
determination left. You brought the pickles, didn't you? You haven't lost all your will or you wouldn't have been willing to fight Granola Girl.”

“Hey!” Poppy shouts.

“I've got my facial appointment now.” I stand up, taking one last sniff of the gone-but-not-forgotten pickles. “I'll be back, and you're driving me to the store to get some pickles, Morgan.”

“Am not.”

“Are so.”

She takes her car keys out of her expensive handbag, and dangles them over the balcony, right over the sulfur-ridden hot tub on the floor below. As I lunge for them, she drops them into the water.

“The remote is electronic. You'll ruin it!” I say, shocked that she would be so callous with her own property.

“So be it. Daddy will FedEx me new ones.”

I don't say what I want to. Wouldn't be considered Christian. I just hike down the stairs for my facial. Life will look better when I'm well-moisturized and fresh as a cucumber.

As I lay smothered in a mango elastinregenerating fruit mask, I feel myself exhale the pressures of the week. Life looks clearer from under a layer of fruit. I
do
hate finance. I love design. I love the way it makes me feel to see my dresses hanging on a Saks Fifth Avenue mannequin. To see the female form evolve into something breathtaking when draped in a beautiful, elegant silk. God created such beauty. It's my calling to clothe it.

chapter 4

F
ashion is my calling,” I say as I get back to the room, convicted as only a cleansing facial can convict a person of depth and truth. Sure, I act like they convinced me, but what are friends for, if not for solid affirmation? They scratch my back; I scratch theirs.

“A good handbag is my calling,” Morgan says, looking up from her romantic suspense novel.

“A perfectly-curved spine is my calling,” Poppy adds, dropping her
Health
magazine.

“No, wait. My calling is finding the perfect man and learning how to make a pot roast without the cook on duty,” Morgan winks. “Romance can't blossom with a cook for chaperone or on an empty stomach.” We all laugh at the thought of Morgan in an apron.

“Do you even know how to turn on the oven?” I ask.

“Okay,” Poppy interrupts, “then my true calling is finding the perfect man and not laying him out on a table to crack his back within the first ten minutes of meeting him. Romance can't blossom with a man lying prostrate before you.” We all gaze at her. “It's true. A guy doesn't want a girl who can snap him like a stalk of celery.”

“Well, now there's a shocker,” Morgan giggles. “Twisting a man like a pretzel is not good for romance. Go figure.”

“Oh, we're talking our
real
callings,” I say. “
Pardonez moi
, I misunderstood. Forget fashion, then. Mine is meeting a man I find attractive, and not uttering something unintelligible. Not being Cyrano de Bergerac—except replace the bad nose with bad hair—that's my calling. Oh, and wearing couture while I do it.”

“Well, good,” Morgan sighs. “Now that we have that out of the way, and Lilly has decided to leave finance behind her, back there with her knowledge of geography, we're all set.”

“Excuse me. I know every back road on the San Francisco Peninsula.” I cross my arms.

“Where's Missouri?” Poppy asks.

I pause before saying confidently, “It's in the middle.”

“The middle of what?”

“Duh, the country,” I answer. “I'm a native Californian. Why do I need to know where Missouri is? It's one of those middle states.”

“We're all native Californians, Lilly. Who is more organic Californian than Poppy? I bet she knows where Missouri is.”

“I do,” Poppy sits up straight. “It's on the Mississippi River.”

“See? In the middle,” I say with more confidence than I feel.

“The middle of the country more toward the left or the right?” Morgan asks.

Ack, a little lost here.
It's a fifty-fifty shot, and I'm a gambling girl. “The left.”

“Wrong!” Poppy and Morgan say in unison, falling into giggles. It's a big joke that I can find any alley in the City, but I cannot tell you how to get to Nevada, our neighboring state. Since I don't own a car, it doesn't get me into much trouble.

“I meant if you were facing south.” I raise my eyebrows and cross my arms.

Morgan throws a pillow at me, “You are so full of it, Lilly.”

“I've got my facial appointment now.” Poppy stands up and grabs her spa robe that comes with the room. There's only one esthetician at Spa Del Mar, so we have to take turns. “How was that reenergizing mask, Lilly? Should I get that one?”

“Energizing. Not sure about the
re
part, but doesn't my face look like that battery bunny? Pink and moist? I just keep going and going…”

Poppy rolls her eyes. “You need your curls back. Only you would complain that you don't have money for a decent vice and then pay to have your hair straightened like a wet dog. How can you have such good taste in couture and such bad taste in your coiffure?” She slaps her knee. “Hey, I made a rhyme!”

“I thought you had a facial.”

“I'm going.” Poppy exits, and Morgan breaks into giggles again.

“She's right. You do sort of look like a wet dog.” Morgan wrinkles her nose. “I've always wondered how you can notice the difference in stitching on a dress, but can't see that your hair looks glued to your head in that style. You have great hair, but you
pay
for bad hair.”

People who have manageable hair always say things like this. It doesn't occur to them that when your hair enters a room before you, it's not a good thing. Most likely, they can use a barrette without their hair exploding out of it. They don't need an industrial strength comb to brush their hair.

“It will fill out a little. It's freshly straightened.” I shrug. “Take your shampoo commercial hair away from me.”

But Morgan's not letting up. “You know how on
The Swan
they put those same hair extensions on the girls, and it makes them sort of look like cross-dressers?”

“No, I don't get that channel,” I lie.

“But you know what I'm talking about. They make the girls all look the same with bad, fake hair dye and long hair. Like all women should have long hair. It's so neanderthal.”

“More neanderthal than just major surgery to enter a beauty pageant, you mean?”

“I like that part,” Morgan says in all honesty. “I like knowing there are women in society willing to undergo torture to look good. It's interesting to see how much pain is involved. I don't know if I'd do it.”

“You're sadistic.”

“Like you don't watch. I know you get that channel. They give all those girls the round water-balloon chest—you know, the 1980s chest. Implants have come a long way, baby. Someone needs to tell them you don't need to look like you're going to tip over.”

“Excuse me, darling, but I couldn't help but notice that your implants are entirely out of fashion,” I say with a fake, hoity-toity English accent. “Don't you know natural is in?”

“I'm serious.”

“You would totally do plastic surgery, Morgan. You'll do it, and you'll be the first to lie about it. By the time we're fifty, you'll have that surprised look all the time that says,
‘Lilly, did
I invite you to dinner?'
when you answer the door. There isn't a vainer person on earth, and when that first wrinkle appears, you'll be clambering to the front of the line at the top plastic surgeon's office. Shocked that life should leave any sort of mark on you.”

She throws another pillow at me. “I'm vain? Vainer than spending five hours in a salon chair to look like a wet dog, you mean?”

“Like those highlights of yours are real. How long do those take?” I ask. “In human hours, not dog hours!”

Morgan's mouth tightens. “None of your business.”

“See, you're totally vain. What other woman would keep it a secret from her best friends that she gets highlights? Like we couldn't tell anyway? You think because you hide out in those exclusive salons you can put something past Poppy and me? Ha! Chunky blond highlights do not occur in nature on someone older than three years of age. Not even for you, Morgan.”

“I'm not trying to put something past you, Lilly. I was just taught you don't discuss private things.” Morgan rises and glides across the room like she's on a runway.

We laugh at our discussion. The fact is, we're both vain. Only Poppy is free of society's preoccupation with looks. If there was one hairdresser left in San Francisco with one good treatment left in him, Morgan and I would probably battle to the death for chunky blond highlights or straightening.

“I have your care package. Although I'm not sure I want to give it to you. You deserve to wallow in bad soap and cheap shampoo.”

I jump up. “Please give it to me! I'll be good, I promise.”

Morgan puts together a luxury-item basket for me whenever we see each other. Shampoos from luxury resorts she's stayed in, toss-off cashmere sweaters she's tired of, and fancy chocolates she may have been given. Her figure is actually affected by such things, but when you have the figure of your standard thirteen-year-old like I do, not so much.

Morgan brings out a hat box covered in shopping bag design, and I can hardly wait to tear into it. “Ooh, what did you bring me?” This is better than gifts from Santa. This is stuff I can actually use!

“Calm down, it's nothing special.”

She always says that. And it always rocks! “I'm calm,” I say, though I'm practically panting like the dog they say my hair resembles.

She opens the box and hands me my first freebie, a small sampler of Jane Iredale mineral foundation. “Ah!” I scream. “I
so
love this stuff! Where'd you get it?” I hold it up to the mirror, and it matches my tone perfectly.

“They gave it to me when I was looking for a darker color for summer. It was too dark. Okay, next. A Mac lipstick that was too brown for me.” She hands it over.

“
Wooo-hooo!
I love this stuff too!” It sticks like glue, and you never have to reapply.

Morgan proceeds to take out endless items from her magic bag of tricks.

Small bottles of Bed Head shampoo: “My hairstylist gave it to me for my birthday. It flattens my hair.”
Not a problem for
me.
Perlier honey Italian bath soap: “I don't have time for baths.”
I'll make time.
Lancome perfume: “It smells too citrusy for me.”
Bring on the lime!
And the
piece de resistance
: a Marc Jacobs pebbled pink leather handbag!

I grab the bag and begin dancing with it. “No way! You're getting rid of this?”

“I'm done with it.”

“Must I hurt you?” I clutch the bag close. “I was just lamenting how my job didn't let me afford a Marc Jacobs bag, and God provided!” I hold the purse in front of me and inspect it, not finding a single flaw. “Did you even use this?”

“I did. It wasn't structured enough for me. I like a more structured bag.”

“Look at this stitching!” I kiss the bag.

“I'm sure when you get to heaven, God will be quite satisfied to know your Marc Jacobs prayer was answered, Lilly.” Morgan rolls her eyes.

“You have not been given, because you have not asked,” I say, paraphrasing Scripture. “God knows I'm materialistic and a wee bit shallow. He's working on me, but in the meantime, He totally got me a Marc Jacobs bag! My God rocks! Oh, I've got a present for you too.” I rummage through my bag, now lightened since the Diet Pepsi and pickles have been destroyed. I pull out a pair of long-legged deep blue jeans. “I made these for you. I noticed your jeans were too short last time I saw you. When you have those legs, you should definitely take advantage and show them off.”

“Lilly!” She holds up the jeans, and I can just tell they're going to be a perfect fit. I smile confidently.
She's going to stop
traffic in those.
“They're perfect. I can't believe you can make a pair of jeans. They're just as soft as a baby's bottom. What are they made of?”