Bulletproof Mascara: A Novel (3 page)

“Um,” said Nikki, sensing that she had better ask something before her brain melted. “So this, er, training center”—she wasn’t sure what else to call the place—“how does it fit in with that philosophy?”

“Ah,” said Connie, smiling as though Nikki had finally done something worthwhile. “We here at the Carrie Mae West Coast Training Facility train operatives to carry out the Carrie Mae philosophy in many ways. Whether it’s navigating the international red tape to allow women to work with Carrie Mae or through the use of more clandestine methods to ensure that they have the opportunity to live peaceful lives.”

Nikki wondered if there was a brochure somewhere that Connie had memorized, and if so, why hadn’t Nikki seen it? Mrs. Merrivel hadn’t said anything about things like this, had she? She remembered Mrs. M using the word
clandestine
, but at the time she had thought it meant things like bribing border guards. Now she was beginning to think it involved things that needed a gun safe.

“So the Carrie Mae charity foundation is actually some sort of SWAT team for women?” Nikki asked slowly.

“No,” Connie said icily. “We are not about police action.”

“Oh,” Nikki said, laughing with embarrassment and relief. “I thought . . . my mistake. It just sounded like you were some sort of international espionage organization. Really, I must have misunderstood. So silly of me.” She knew she was babbling.

“The Carrie Mae Foundation is
also
an international espionage organization,” Connie interrupted. “Our public face remains very committed to bringing help to women worldwide in the form of medicine, education, and financial assistance.”

“But your not-public face . . .” Nikki noticed that the vocabulary portion of her brain had developed an unsettling disconnect with her speech center; she had no words to wrap around her thoughts.

“The confidential side of the foundation works toward the same goals, improving the lives of women, but we use slightly different methods—different parts of the same machine. Let’s go back up to the house; Mrs. Merrivel will be waiting.”

Connie walked past Nikki, giving her no time to ask further questions. Nikki couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. She rode back to the main house with her face frozen into a polite half-smile of disbelief.

Mrs. Merrivel was waiting for them in an office with a long oval table ringed with chairs. A thick manila folder sat neatly at one end. But it was Mrs. Merrivel who commanded Nikki’s attention: she was petite, over sixty, and scary. From the moment Nikki had laid eyes on her at the Carrie Mae recruiting meeting she had found the older woman’s energy, efficiency, and perfect appearance intimidating. And a week spent living in her house had not done much to diminish that impression.

“Nikki!” exclaimed Mrs. Merrivel, coming forward to give a hug. Her beautifully tinted brown hair brushed against Nikki’s nose, and Nikki returned the gesture gingerly. She wasn’t practiced in the art of the hug as greeting. “How was your tour? I hope you found the facilities to your liking.”

“Well, yes, but . . .” said Nikki.

“But what?” Mrs. Merrivel asked, taking her seat at the head of the table.

“You’re running a spy farm in the middle of California!” Nikki exclaimed, unable to hold it in any longer.

“I know,” Mrs. Merrivel said cheerfully. “It’s great, isn’t it? So convenient to be able to do our training inside the States.”

“But . . .” said Nikki again.

“But what?” repeated Mrs. Merrivel, a single wrinkle forming between her brows.

“You’re makeup ladies! Carrie Mae sells makeup. Ding dong, I’m with Carrie Mae. Try my blusher. You’re just makeup ladies. I mean . . .” Nikki became aware of an overwhelming silence filling up the room as she spoke. Mrs. Merrivel had pursed her lips as if she smelled something distasteful. Nikki knew she should shut up, but couldn’t.

“I was at the recruiting meeting in Canada. You said the Carrie Mae Foundation helped with education and medical needs in the third world. You didn’t say anything about guns and . . .” Nikki waved her hands, trying capture in gesture what she couldn’t in words. “You didn’t say anything about spies. I think I would have remembered.”

“Well, we can’t, of course,” said Mrs. Merrivel, smiling sweetly again. “But I had hoped that by now you would have gathered that Carrie Mae is not just about makeup. And, by the way, I resent our other team members being described as ‘just makeup ladies.’
Our sales consultants provide needed income for their families and affordable, quality cosmetics for women everywhere. Our sales consultants are the backbone of Carrie Mae and the heart of America. Please do not take them for granted or belittle their status simply because they have chosen not to pursue corporate jobs.” Mrs. Merrivel’s rebuke was delivered in a quiet tone of gentle disappointment.

Nikki hung her head. “Sorry, Mrs. Merrivel,” she said meekly.

“That’s quite all right. Did you enjoy the tour of the ranch?”

“Yes, it was very nice,” said Nikki dutifully.

“I’m glad you thought so. Now what do you think about joining us?”

Nikki stared. Of all the unbelievable parts about this place this was the one that required the largest suspension of disbelief. There was no way that they could want her.

“Why me?” she asked at last, unable to think of anything better.

“Why wouldn’t we want you, Nikki?” asked Mrs. Merrivel, looking shocked.

“Well, Connie told me about the other girls, and they’re all, you know, super soldiers or whatever. I don’t think I’m . . . I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for.” In response, Mrs. Merrivel flipped open the folder in front of her.

“Nikki,” she said, leafing through the pages, “I have been over your entire record. You got your bachelor’s degree in linguistics, with minors in classical literature—where you learned Italian and Latin—and physical education.”

“I took a lot of aerobics classes,” mumbled Nikki.

“And a lot of judo and martial arts classes,” Mrs. Merrivel added, flipping a few more pages. “By high school you had acquired full command of French and Spanish.”

“My father is Quebecois,” Nikki said. “We always spoke French at home.”

“Yes, I notice here in your grade-school record that you attended Catholic school in Quebec through third grade. Then you moved to Washington after your parents divorced. So you hold dual citizenship with Canada, is that correct?”

“What do you mean ‘in my grade-school record’?” asked Nikki, ignoring Mrs. M’s question. “Where did you get all that information?”

“I looked up your permanent record,” Mrs. Merrivel said, flipping a page.

“That’s a myth,” Nikki said in disbelief. “There’s no such thing as a ‘permanent record.’ That’s just something adults make up to scare kids, like the bogeyman.”

“My point is, Nikki,” Mrs. Merrivel said, ignoring Nikki’s interjection, “you hold dual citizenship, speak five languages, have a firm grounding in martial arts and a sharp mind. You’re exactly what Carrie Mae is looking for. So, what do you think?”

“I think I’m seriously reconsidering my position on the bogeyman,” Nikki said, focusing on details because she couldn’t take in the big picture. They weren’t seriously measuring her for a pair of James Bond pumps, were they? She knew very well that James Bond did not wear pumps. Spies were boys, or really hot chicks who had a more active sex life than she did.

“What do you think about working at Carrie Mae?” Mrs. Merrivel asked, ignoring Nikki’s comment.

Nikki chewed her lip. She had said she would do anything for a job, but this wasn’t what she’d had in mind. But her mother would have a field day if she returned home still trailing the stench of unemployment. Or worse yet, what if she tried it and they found out Mrs. Merrivel was wrong? What if she couldn’t do the job?

“What if I fail?” she asked, blushing as she unintentionally spoke out loud.

“Give us your best, and we won’t let you,” said Mrs. Merrivel.

It was a big decision. Not safe. The road less traveled. Different. Her mother wouldn’t approve.

“Yes,” Nikki said. “I’ll do it. Where do I sign?”

CALIFORNIA III

Tactics

“That was terrible! Your strategy was stupid, your formations sloppy! You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a Howitzer if you were standing next to it. And you!” Mrs. Boyer, the physical training instructor, pointed an accusing finger at Dina, two spots down from Nikki. “You are wearing blue eyeliner!”

Nikki smothered a laugh, but not before her shoulders gave a revealing twitch. With two quick strides, Mrs. Boyer was bellowing in Nikki’s ear.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that your socks don’t match, Miss Lanier!”

“There was a mix-up in the laundry!” protested Nikki weakly.

Mrs. Boyer threw her hands up in disgust and turned back to the rest of the squad. “We are Carrie Mae, ladies! We do not have mix-ups in the laundry! We are always impeccably dressed, and we always achieve our objective. If I tell you to take that hill, then I expect you to take that hill, and I expect you to take it in style. I do not want excuses. I want success!”

Mrs. Boyer’s vicious glance raked the line of assembled women, but little by little, Nikki watched her reel her anger back in.

“Give me three laps of the compound before you turn in,” Mrs. Boyer said with a dismissive sniff. Dejectedly, the squad began their jog with leaden feet.

“I hate this!” Ellen gasped as they rounded the corner. Ellen’s comfortable figure, short gray hair, and pleasant round face gave the impression that she ought to have been hovering over her grandchildren, not playing war games in the high deserts of California.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have sucked, then!” said Dina, bounding by like a gazelle.

“We didn’t suck,” Nikki muttered. “Dina’s the one who gave the orders.”

“What do you expect from a woman who wears blue eyeliner?” Jenny said, jogging up beside them and eyeing Dina’s back in disgust. “I mean, has she not seen a
Cosmo
since 1984?” Jenny’s accent was Southern—Georgian, maybe—and just as manicured as her bright pink nails. She had long blond hair, long tan legs, and a perfect beauty queen figure that Nikki envied.

“She did follow all the rules,” Ellen said, her tone split between pragmatic and gasping for air.

Nikki thought that following the rules was the problem with Dina’s leadership, but she didn’t say anything. She had been in the Carrie Mae training facility for only a week; she wasn’t sure she was allowed to have opinions on things at this point.

“You know, I have to say,” said Ellen, and Jenny and Nikki waited for the rest of the sentence. “I never really thought when I started selling Carrie Mae cosmetics . . .” Nikki and Jenny waited three more steps. “That it would involve this much running.”

“I’d rather run than sell cosmetics,” Nikki said, trying not to remember her single, disastrous sales attempt.

“That’s easy for you to say,” said Ellen. “You can run.”

It was true. Nikki could run. When an extended period of post-college unemployment had forced her to move back in with her mother, she had taken up working out just to get out of the house. After seeing her for the fifth day in a row, one of the personal trainers at her gym had joked that they were going to give Nikki her own permanent locker. She had smiled the expected smile, but Nikki knew that working out was just the latest in a long line of carefully honed avoidance techniques.

“I just like to jog occasionally,” she muttered. An inability to deal with her mother was not something to brag about, even if it had given her buns of steel.

“Well, occasionally I’d just like to kick Dina’s ass,” said Jenny; her genteel accent made the comment funny, but Nikki knew she meant it. “Seriously y’all, what are we going to do about her?”

“I’m too tired to think of solutions; these late-night study sessions are killing me,” Nikki said, and Ellen tsked sympathetically.

They ran in silence for the rest of the distance. The sun was past its zenith and the shadows were starting to lengthen when they finally dropped to a walk.

“Are we going to go shooting tonight after dinner?” Jenny asked suddenly, and Nikki groaned. She was already tired, and trekking down to the firing range didn’t have nearly the appeal of a really great after-dinner doze in front of the TV.

“I think maybe we ought to,” Jenny continued, “because, no offense or anything, Nikki, but I think that Howitzer-barn comment was kinda about you.”

“Yes,” Nikki agreed with a sigh. “Thanks,” she added after a moment, knowing the extra practice and instruction was a favor. Jenny made a waving motion and dismissed the matter entirely.

“I’ll go with you,” volunteered Ellen, and Nikki felt a surge of
appreciation. It didn’t seem possible that she had known Jenny and Ellen only a week; they were already better friends than anyone she had known in high school.

“But first,” said Ellen, “I’m going to beat you to the shower.”

“Hey,” Nikki said, laughing as Ellen made a spirited effort to sprint for their room.

“Are you going to put up with that?” Jenny asked in mock seriousness.

“Yes,” Nikki said, and Jenny laughed. “I’ll see you at dinner.” She waved goodbye to Jenny and followed Ellen to their room.

The shower was already running as she pulled the rubber band out of her hair and stripped off her sweat-soaked shirt. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she groaned. Her red hair was standing out from her head in the kind of whimsical mess that a hairstylist would have taken two hours to complete, but would take Nikki hours and a ton of detangler to undo. In the mirror, her gray eyes stared wearily back at her, and she waved at her reflection to cheer it up, but it didn’t work. She sank down onto the bed and considered skipping dinner to take a nap.

The leisurely week spent golfing and singing swing standards with Mr. Merrivel had left her with a lazy feeling of a summer vacation. But once she had made the decision to join Carrie Mae, events had moved swiftly, leaving Nikki no time to unpack. As a consequence, her side of the room looked as if her backpack had exploded, and to make matters worse, she had somehow managed to lose essential items—her hairbrush and workout gear—in transit.