Lipstick Apology (13 page)

I didn't see it, but I heard later that the hose from the water slide was the only thing that prevented the whole building from bursting into flames.

When Lindsey finally rolled off me, I lifted my head off the ground and looked at my body, covered in orange pulp and slippery seeds. I reached around and felt the singed tips of my hair. “Trent is going to kill me,” was all I could think to say.

Lindsey gave a sympathetic smile. We both lay there for a while, stunned.

Smoke seemed to be rising off the floor like steam. Shards of glass and slices of aluminum cans littered the floor. A huge line of people jostled each other trying to exit single file down the narrow staircase.

I looked over my shoulder. Owen was being interrogated by police officers and firefighters.
They got here fast.
I guess when rich people are in danger, the cops come running quick.

Lindsey followed my glance over to where Owen was standing with his hands in his pockets, looking surprisingly calm. “Just shy of contact, huh?”

I contemplated asking her if my pre-kiss head tilt had looked right, before the flames had gone up, that is.

Instead, I peered through the haze of smoke toward the sky. Given the proximity of the rooftop to the great beyond, I wondered if my parents had a clearer, bird's-eye view of all the rowdiness. I looked over at Owen again. I could visualize my parents sitting in lawn chairs, popcorn in hand, shaking their heads.
First she forces the kind, smart boy out of the apartment like a crazy person,
I imagined my parents' thoughts.
Then she carouses with drunken fire starters. What's happened to our little girl?

I inhaled deeply and linked my arm through Lindsey's. “Let's get out of here,” I said. “I have a ten-minute cab ride to invent an excuse for why my hair is burned and I'm covered in pumpkin.”

In the cab, Lindsey and I tried to concoct a feasible explanation for my singed hair while brushing leftover pumpkin goo off of ourselves.

“Oh my God, you're like Cinderella!” Georgia exclaimed over the phone when I called her for some advice. “And why didn't you
stop, drop, and roll
?!! Everybody knows: you catch on fire, you
stop, drop, and roll!
Did you sleep through elementary school?” Georgia's voice was shrill.

In the end, Lindsey and I decided on a modified version of the truth. We invented a story involving a slippery floor and a single jack-o'-lantern whose top had been removed.

The cab pulled up to my apartment and Lindsey wished me luck. I rehearsed my story on the elevator ride up. Funny thing is, I never even needed the details because Jolie was more obsessed with
what
happened rather than
how.

“Your hair! Your hair!” she kept repeating after seeing me trudge into the apartment. She raced over to me. “Thank God, not your face.” She put her hands on either side of my face and tried to assess the damage. Then she wrapped me in an amazingly soft blanket and called an emergency session with Trent. He showed up twenty minutes later.

“I'm not happy about being called over at one in the OH MY GOD, your hair!” He practically
ran
over to where I was perched at the kitchen bar and started molesting my head. He walked around me four times, then took a breath and said, “Well, at first I thought we could go funky, asymmetrical, but I keep getting eighties flashbacks, so that's a no go.” He sucked in a breath. “I think we're just going to have to whack it off. I think you could pull off a wedged bob.”

Jolie saw my face and tried to reassure me. “Lindsey went shorter with her hair and she looks great.”

“Yeah, but not
that short.
Plus, I don't have her bone structure,” I whined. “My face is all cheeks. And I love my long hair. Just the other day, a lady at the bus stop told me my hair looked like Gisele's—the model.”

Trent's eyes widened. “Gisele? Oh, honey, let's not get carried away.”

So, with no other options, I let Trent whack my hair into a bob.

The whole time I watched my wavy locks fall to the shiny kitchen floor, I thought of Owen—and what would have happened if the fire hadn't interrupted us.

I WOKE THE NEXT MORNING
with the smell of smoke still lingering in my clothes and thoughts of Owen lingering on my mind. What
would
have happened if the fire hadn't erupted? Was it possible that gorgeous, popular Owen really wanted to kiss me? I thought of all those sleepless nights back in Pennsylvania when I was afraid I'd never have a boyfriend. Now in this new life, could it be that romantic possibilities were within reach?

I climbed out of bed and joined Jolie at the kitchen table.

She smiled. “I like the shorter hair. It makes you look smarter. Hey, I just got in a sample of the cucumber-mint exfoliating mask from my new skin care line.” She held up a black jar. “They need my final approval for the go-ahead. Want to try it out with me first?”

We went into the bathroom and finger painted our foreheads, noses, and chins with a green, tingly paste. We were supposed to let it sit for an hour, so we plopped on the couch, Jolie with a mug of coffee, me with a bowl of Froot Loops, turned on the TV, and let the mask work its magic.

Suddenly, we heard a knock on the door and both instinctively looked at the ornate clock on the living room wall. It was only ten. I shrugged and decided to open the door.

In retrospect, I should have checked the peephole. But I didn't. So when I opened the door with green paste covering my face and wearing my pink flannel duck pajamas, I was completely unprepared to see Owen's flirtatious smile. I threw my hands over my face and screamed. Owen burst out laughing.

Jolie set her mug down with a quizzical look.

“Sorry to show up so early and unannounced,” Owen said with a wry grin. “I told the doorman I wanted to surprise you. Guess I have a trustworthy face.”

Jolie got up and crossed the room, her hand outstretched. I stayed frozen in the doorway.

Owen extended his hand. “Owen Nichols. And you're Emily's aunt, I presume?” He sounded so mature and articulate. “Emily and I had some unfinished business.”

Jolie raised her eyebrows at me.

Oh my God. Unfinished business. The tilt-and-lean, the parting lips. We were just shy of contact,
Lindsey had said. I blushed.

“Remember, Em?” Owen said. “Last night, I told you I would show you around the city?” He leaned toward me and touched the end of a bobbed lock of my hair in his fingertips. His eyes twinkled with mischief.

Jolie looked back and forth from Owen to me, and I wondered if she was thinking about our
players
conversation.

“Oh, right,” I said with exaggeration. “Did we say ten? I thought it was eleven! Let me shower and rinse this mask off.” As I ran into my bedroom, my cell phone rang. I saw the caller ID listed Lindsey. I picked it up. “Hey, I can't go to your riding lesson with you this morning. Now ask me why.”

“Okay,” Lindsey said. “Why?”

“Because
Owen
is in my kitchen eating an English muffin with Jolie! He showed up this morning, totally unexpected, and said
we had unfinished business
!”

“Oh my God,” Lindsey panted.

“Do you think he really likes me?!” I whispered frantically.

“OF COURSE he likes you! Don't be such an idiot!!”

“You've got to help me.” I hyperventilated. “I don't want to screw this up. Tell me what to do.”

“Okay, wear that pretty lip gloss Jolie used last night. Make sure you have gum. Oh, and if all else fails, just laugh like everything he says is hilarious. Good luck!”

“Thanks!” I said, and we hung up.

Forty-five minutes later I emerged from the bathroom. Any signs of Jolie's hesitation were erased; she was transfixed by Owen's charm and had clearly forgotten to even bother removing her own cucumber-mint mask. They were in the kitchen, Owen's sleeves of his blue oxford were rolled to his elbows, and he was cracking eggs into a glass dish. He reached past her and grabbed a wire whisk from a container of utensils.

“Seriously, kid,” Owen said, his back still to me. “How can you not know how to scramble an egg?”

Did Owen just call my aunt
kid?

Jolie threw her head back and laughed.

Owen looked over his shoulder at me and smiled. “Ready?” He handed the whisk to Jolie, then covered her hand with his and swirled it in the eggs. Then he patted her on the back two times. “Remember, nobody likes runny eggs.”

Jolie laughed again.

We closed the door behind us and Owen turned to me. He took my hand in his.

“Hey,” he said, smiling. “I was worried about you last night.” He reached over and stroked my short hair again. “After the cops and firemen left, I looked everywhere for you—but you were gone. I'm glad to see you weren't hurt. And that you even had time to get your hair done.” He grinned again.

I shook my head. “Yeah, I'm okay. It was just, a minor hair catastrophe . . .” He laughed, and I waited for him to say something else, like about whether he'd gotten in trouble for having the party, but the elevator doors opened with a
ping
and we walked in.

“So what are we doing?” I asked tentatively.

He flashed that flirtatious smile. “Stuff.”

My stomach felt all knotty with anticipation. What did he have planned? I felt this enormous pressure not to crush his expectations. What if he thought I was boring? Oh my God, he was going to think I was an inexperienced, immature simpleton. I wished I had time to call Georgia. I needed to know what Silvia Rodero did to make all the men of Rio adore her! Didn't she do some flippy thing with her hair and call everyone
cara mia
?

Owen looked at me funny. I took my finger down from my imaginary glasses and pretended to rub between my eyebrows.

“Did I get all that green stuff off?” I asked.

He nodded, amused.

The elevator doors opened and we walked through the lobby into the crisp air. The sky was a magnificent cobalt blue and the sun peeped in and out behind cotton bundle clouds. There was practically no breeze, but somehow the leaves were falling from the trees and circling around us in patterns of gold and red. We walked over toward Hudson River Park.

He put his arm around me as we walked along the bike path flanked with towering elm trees. It was a breathtakingly romantic walk, and if the maniac bike riders left us alone for two seconds, I'm sure we would have concluded our previously attempted kiss. But on they rode.

Looking out to the dark water of the Hudson made me think back to the peaceful, calm Delaware River. My relationship with the Hudson had been much more tumultuous.
Please,
I prayed.
Just for today, let these waters sweep me away to a fairy-tale land with no plane crashes, no mysteries, and a popular boy who adores me.

Owen sat down on a bench. “This place is awesome,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” I said breathlessly.

“I know what you're thinking,” Owen said.

Owen smiled. “They do like tons of photo shoots here all the time.” He nodded toward a stretch of lawn. “Some days this place is just loaded with hot chicks everywhere. Even in the winter when it's cold as balls, they've got these models with skimpy little bikinis on and man, you can really tell when they're cold.” He snickered.

Okay, not exactly what I was thinking.

A few minutes of awkward silence passed. I tried to think of something to say.

“So, the party was fun last night.”
What am I talking about??!! Does he really think I would say I had
fun
after I caught on fire??!!
My stomach felt tight and anxious.

“Yeah. It was fun. Crazy fun.”

Silence again. Two bike riders whizzed by us. Owen pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and made a call. “Yeah, Clyde? We'll be there in ten.”

Clyde?
Who was Clyde?

When we walked back to the road, there was a black Town Car waiting for us. A man jumped out of the car and held the door open for us.

I gave Owen a suspicious look.

“My dad lets me use the car for special occasions,” he said, sticking his arm out to let me get in first.
Special occasions!
I was so worried that Owen wasn't having a good time, that he noticed the awkward silences and stilted conversations. But he called this day a
special occasion.

“Take us to the ferry,” Owen told Clyde, the driver. He held my hand as we drove farther downtown, apparently to a place called Battery Park.

“We're taking a ferry?” I asked.

“To see the statue,” Owen explained, smiling. “What's more New York than good old Lady Liberty?” he asked, looking out the window.

The Statue of Liberty.
The most famous symbol of freedom
. That's what Owen was trying to tell me—I deserved freedom from my grief, freedom from the burden of my mother's apology. Freedom to begin a romantic journey . . .

While waiting in line to board the ferry, the salty air blew my hair and pricked my cheeks. In the distance, the green statue seemed to smile toward me. The line of tourists wrapped around us, but I hardly noticed. Maybe I was getting used to this busy city after all. Owen told stories and jokes and cheered for the street performers near the station. He never asked about the accident or the apology, and I truly felt like the new Emily.

I was so caught up in the pure romance that I forgot an important detail: I get seasick. Like deathly ill, fall-on-the-floor seasick. I looked across the turbulent water toward the statue. It couldn't be that long of a trip, I thought.