Lipstick Apology (24 page)

“Oh my God!” Georgia wailed. “You're going to become a statistic!”

“A what?” I asked.

“Pregnant at sixteen is not becoming, Emily. I thought we agreed we wouldn't be like those trashy girls that gave it up to the first guy that showed interest.”

“I'm not giving anything up. Jeez, calm down. I'm not a trashy girl. Don't you know me at all? I just thought I could share a little insight about the art of a good make-out session.”

“Oh, sure, call it a make-out session, but when Silvia on
Rhapsody in Rio
decided to quote-unquote
make out
with Miguel, nine months later they wound up with triplet boys and an ugly custody hearing.”

I shook my head. “Stop freaking.”

But Georgia continued to freak, without a breath, until I swore on my first unborn child, which I assured her would not arrive for at least another decade, that I would
not,
in the heat of the moment, allow Owen to deflower me.

“HAPPY THANKSGIVING!”
Trent bellowed as he walked in carrying an apple pie and a stack of DVDs. “Football's on all day.” He frowned. “So I brought movies.” He joined us in the living room, helping himself to a plate of chips and salsa.

I could hardly believe it was already Thanksgiving. It seemed like just yesterday I was the new girl at Darlington and totally overwhelmed by New York City. Now, looking out of Jolie's floor-to-ceiling windows at her view of the West Village, it felt different. Not exactly like home, but not a scary foreign place either. The trees down the streets were all bare by now, and dark fallen leaves blew in the wind.

Trent popped in
A Christmas Story
and we began a game of Trivial Pursuit.

“This movie reminds me of when I was ten. Only I didn't want a Red Ryder BB gun, although in retrospect it might have been a good gift, then I could have nipped Dad in the butt every time he annoyed me, but really I wanted a set of perm rods so I could give my golden retriever a perm.” Trent turned toward me. “Perms were all the rage back then. I wrote to Santa, I even included a picture from my aunt Yvonne's beauty supply catalog. But my parents ignored all my requests and bought me a set of Matchbox cars.”

“Trent,” I said. “Where is your family? Do they live far away? Is that why you're here with us on Thanksgiving?”

Trent's mouth twitched slightly, and for a moment he looked sad. Then he sandwiched himself between me and Jolie on the couch, wrapping an arm around each of us.

“This is my family, sweetie,” he said.

I nodded slowly. “Me too.”

Jolie leaned over and gave Trent a soft kiss on the cheek, then got up and went into the kitchen.

I wanted to tell Trent that nothing was bad enough to keep you away from your family. That he needed to search deep into his heart and forgive whatever it was that made him sad and give his family a second chance, because as long as they were alive, there still was time for reconciliation. I wanted to tell him I wished my mom had the courage to ask for my forgiveness while she was alive and could explain herself. Because now I was caught in this purgatory of the unknown and it was pretty awful. But Trent was laughing at the Chinese waiters in the movie, singing,
Far a ra ra ra ra,
and I didn't want to break the mood. So I kept quiet.

“What's with her?” Trent said, nodding toward Jolie, who had returned to the kitchen and was peering into the oven.

I shrugged. “I don't know. She put the turkey in like three hours ago, but she keeps opening and closing the oven and fiddling with the dials.” Personally, I was preoccupied thinking about Owen. He had promised to call me tomorrow to finally have that third date.

“The light keeps going off,” Jolie shouted from the kitchen. “The little red light. I turned it to 325 degrees, and the light went on. But then it went off. So I turned it up to 350 degrees, and the light came back on.”

Trent and I looked at each other and bolted into the kitchen.

“You have it on 500 degrees!” Trent shouted.

“It was the only way the light would stay on,” Jolie said, her voice shaky and shrill.

Trent extracted the steaming turkey from the oven.

“It's brown,” Jolie said. “But it's supposed to be brown, right?”

Trent took a knife and attempted to slice a piece.

We all held our breath.

He sawed back and forth.

“Oh my God, it's like rubber!” Jolie said, putting her hand up to her eyes. She ran out of the room.

Trent called after her, “Come on, Jo. Who really wants to eat a bird anyway? They pluck their feathers with their own mouth.”

We heard her bedroom door slam.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Trent and I burst out laughing.

“I bet if I threw this on the ground, it would bounce back up,” Trent said.

“Poor Jolie,” I said. “She really wanted to make a nice meal.” I regained my composure and walked to Jolie's room.

“Come on,” I said, sitting next to her on the bed. “There's so much food, we don't need a turkey.”

“It's Thanksgiving! We're supposed to have turkey.” She let out a string of expletives and I realized it had been a while since Jolie had cursed like a sailor, the way she did when I first moved in.

“Hey,” I said. “I just realized it's been like a month since you've cursed. Great job!”

I truly was impressed, but Jolie took it for sarcasm.

“Well, that's just another thing I screwed up today,” she said bitterly.

I exhaled, knowing it wasn't worth a rebuttal. I glanced over at her desk, picked up one of the invitations for Thanksgiving dinner, and tossed it in her lap. “Come on. Let's go.”

When Jolie told Trent that we were going to a Thanksgiving party at the Tribeca loft of a very famous actress, he insisted on another outfit. Before we left, I was forced into a black satin bubble dress Jolie had bought for me. She said she'd wanted to save it and give it to me at Christmas but now was too perfect an occasion to wait. I looked at myself in the hallway mirror and couldn't help grinning wide. I looked amazing, my blond hair having grown to my shoulders and my highlights glowing in contrast to the elegant dark dress that showed off my knees.

We walked a few blocks down Perry Street, Jolie complaining that her stilettos kept lodging between the cobblestones. Jolie and I sat on the stoop in front of the mahogany double doors while Trent ran inside to change. Ten minutes later he emerged looking suave yet understated in a navy button-down and jeans. We hailed a cab and sped down the West Side Highway.

“I just want to know why you got invited and I didn't,” Trent whined. “I mean, I do her hair just as often as you do her makeup.”

The TV in the cab flashed.
Breaking news. The largest train crash in American history caused by a cell phone?
Jolie cringed and shut off the TV. My stomach tightened as I recalled that she discovered my parents' accident while in a cab.

The party was well under way by the time we arrived. Cocktail waitresses dressed in skimpy black uniforms passed out fancy finger foods and poured glasses of wine.

“Uh.” Trent turned his nose up at the silver platter in front of him. “I'm so over sushi.”

“Sushi?” I balked. “On Thanksgiving? Couldn't they at least have turkey kabobs or something?”

Jolie and Trent shuddered.

Trent made a beeline for the bar, and Jolie was surrounded by a circle of insanely tall and rail-thin women. They peppered Jolie with questions about whether she would be attending a photo shoot in Maui.

Jolie extended a hand in my direction. “This is my niece, Emily.”

The models acknowledged me for a brief second, then resumed their Maui talk.

I decided to slip away. I wandered around the huge apartment, recognizing several celebrities from the tabloid magazines. There were also numerous non-celebrities walking around, but they all looked so styled and important, I felt completely out of place. Not to mention I was possibly the only person under the age of twenty.

Although I knew it was rude, I walked around the apartment looking for a quiet place. My parents would have been horrified at my bad manners, but I continued to scavenge. I walked down a hallway off the kitchen and found a door. I tried the knob. It was a bedroom, dark and silent. I debated. If I flipped the light switch, there was a possibility I would see some random couple in a compromising position sprawled out on the bed. I took my chances and found the light. To my delight, the room was vacant, and there was a TV.

I camped out on the floor, thinking that if I lay on the bed, that would really be crossing the line. I needed something to distract me from this first holiday without my parents. I found the remote.
It's a Wonderful Life
was on. I smiled and nestled my face against the side of the soft duvet that hung from the side of the bed. I watched the familiar story, trying to muster up some holiday spirit. As the credits were rolling across the screen, the bedroom door flung open and Trent peered in, flushed in the cheeks and a little wobbly on his feet.

“Emily? Is that you?” he whispered.

I peered up over the bed. “Yup.”

He came in, shut the door behind him, and sat on the floor next to me. He placed a glass of red wine between his legs. He stroked the soft, beige duvet. “Nice linens,” he said. Then he glanced up at the TV. “Are you bored?”

“No,” I said. “Just wanted some time to myself.”

He rolled his eyes with exaggeration. “I
know.
Some of these people are so hung up on themselves, it's like torture trying to converse with them. I just want to say,
Get over yourself.
”

I guessed Trent had spent the last hour or so in close proximity to the bar.

“But seriously,” he continued. “I'm glad we have this time to ourselves because there is something I want to talk to you about.”

“Okay,” I said, clicking off the TV, thinking perhaps he had a new strategy for my hair.

Trent took a deep breath and placed a hand on my shoulder dramatically. “Emily. Sweet, innocent, rose-scented Emily.”

Oh God. This was not going to be good.

He flung his arms out wide, as if addressing a crowd. “In life there are good bees and there are bad bees.” He brought his hands together and cupped my chin. “And you, dear Emily, are the
beautiful flower.
” He paused, giving a philosophical look. “One of these days one of those buzzing bees is going to want to poke at your pollen . . .”

“Trent!” I interrupted his monologue. “I'm not an IDIOT. I did attend sex ed in fifth grade, okay? Please stop, before I vomit.”

“Well, it wasn't my idea,” he said defensively. He raised his eyebrows as if to say,
You know who.

“Aaargh,” I groaned.

“She's just freaking out about that hot little number you've been spending time with.”

I sighed. I didn't know who had less faith in me, Jolie or Georgia.

“I know, hon,” Trent said. “Living with Jolie is a chore. I've started naming my wrinkles after her. Not that you can see any wrinkles, can you?” he asked, zooming in close to me.

I laughed.

“Ooh, I've got a great idea!” Trent said. “Let's go buy a pregnancy test and leave it in your trash can.” He laughed devilishly.

“Trent!!”

“You're no fun. Okay, so promise me that your body is a temple and we can end this little conversation.”

“Promise,” I said.

“Ah, you
are
a good girl,” he said, reaching up to hold on to the bed for support and hoisting himself up. “Come on, let's go home.”

We walked back into the large loft area. Jolie was deep in conversation with a striking man with long, slicked-back hair. She circled the top of her wineglass with her index finger, smiling and laughing animatedly. The dark-skinned man leaned over, whispering something in her ear. Jolie flushed, dropped her head in embarrassment, and playfully pushed him away.

“Ew! Who's Rico Suave?” Trent said, gesturing toward Jolie's male companion. “Look at him—all that hardware on his belt! Throw a vest on him and he'd fit right in at a rodeo. Who does he think he is—John Wayne? And he's so over-styled. Anyone who uses that much hair gel gives me the creeps.”

I jabbed Trent in the ribs. “Stop!”

Jolie was engrossed in their conversation, twirling her hair around her finger and biting her lip. I had never seen her this way before. She was smitten. I wondered if I wore my crush so obviously for the world to view.

We walked toward them. As we got closer, I heard the man speak in broken English.

Trent tapped the man on the arm. “Excuse me, the children's party next door is looking for their cowboy.”

Jolie's eyes narrowed.

The man looked confused, trying to translate in his head.

Jolie shoved Trent away, taking the handsome man's arm. “Don't pay attention to him.” She dug into her purse, pulling out her card. “Here,” she said, scribbling on the back of the card. “My home number is on the back. My cell is on the front.”

The man reached down, pulling his phone off his belt. “I put you in my phone right now,” he said, examining the number on the card and tapping the digits on his phone. “
J-o-l-i-e
. Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

Jolie's face glowed.

He leaned over and gave Jolie a kiss on the cheek. It was soft, and he lingered there just a second longer than you would expect. I thought I saw Jolie shiver. I wished I had a video camera to record and study how he made a simple gesture so sensual.