The Crazy Things Girls Do for Love (24 page)

Just because it says that something is natural on the label doesn’t mean that it is.

“Well…” says Sicilee.

“Not pink, though.” Kristin lowers her voice so Ash won’t hear her. “Pink is too babyish. I want something more sophisticated.” This time, the tube she picks up is Key West Sunset. “What about this one?”

Just because something is named after something good doesn’t mean that it is.

“Well…”

“I don’t know…” Kristin is studying her face in the mirror. “Do you think my mouth’s too thin?” she asks. She pouts. She smiles. She sucks in her cheeks. “Maybe I should get a lip plumper. That girl Lisette in my gym class? She said they really work.”

Cosmetics are made of chemicals, not magic.

“Did she say how?” asks Sicilee.

Kristin turns around as quick as a gunslinger hearing a noise behind her. “What do you mean
how
?”

“You know … I mean … the thing is … well, you know … they don’t really make your lips fuller, do they? So how do they make them puff up?”

Kristin frowns. “What are you talking about? They do make them fuller. That’s the whole point.”

“Yeah, but they can’t really change the way your lips
are
.” Which is the point Kristin should be paying attention to. “So I just wondered if Lisette told you exactly
how
they work.” She puts Blood Wedding back in the display.

“What’s that?” Kristin’s frown deepens with suspicion, her eyes on the box. “What are you up to? Why were you looking at that?”

“I’m not up to anything,” says Sicilee. “I was just checking out the ingredients in that lipstick you were looking at, that’s all.”

“Oh, really?” Kristin slaps Key West Sunset down on the counter. “And why were you doing that?”

“Why do you think? I wanted to see what’s in it.”

“It’s make-up,” says Kristin. “Make-up’s what’s in it.”

“Yeah, but what’s make-up made of?”

Make-up is one thing no one had to tell Sicilee about. She looked it up herself. Not because she thought it could be loaded with anything dangerous or bad, but, ironically enough, because of Kristin’s comment that not all toiletries and make-up are vegan. Sicilee looked at all the tubes, jars and compacts spread across her dressing table and she was curious. It had never before occurred to her to wonder what was actually in the things she rubbed into her skin and smeared over her face. How was it possible that her lipstick or shampoo wasn’t vegan? Was there animal fat in her foundation? Milk in her eye shadow? Ground-up chicken feet in her mother’s night cream? Did the sweetness of her lipstick come from honey? The sweetness of her lipstick turned out not to come from anything as benign as honey. Chicken feet were the least of the problems.

Kristin is now standing with a hand on one hip and her head to one side as though she has a chip of wood on her shoulder and is waiting for Sicilee to knock it off. “So what’s in the lipstick?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t really know.” The list of ingredients on the box is a long one, consisting mainly of things whose names are unpronounceable and unknown unless you have a degree in advanced chemistry. “But most of this stuff is made from petrochemicals and lots of them have toxins and carcinogens and preservatives and—”

“You’re telling me that I’m going to get cancer from my lipstick.”

Sicilee laughs. “Of course not. All I’m saying is—”

“What’s going on?” asks Loretta as she and Ash come to a stop between them.

“Oh, you guys’ll want to hear this,” says Kristin. “Sicilee was just telling me how all our make-up’s poisonous.”

Sicilee sighs and rolls her eyes. “I didn’t say that. All I said was—”

“I thought we were here to have fun.” Ash looks accusingly at Sicilee. “I thought you were dropping all that never-washing-your-clothes-and-eating-bean-sprouts garbage.”

“Talk about born-again Green,” says Loretta. “You people can’t leave anything alone, can you? You’re fanatical. You always have to convert everybody.”

“I’m not trying to convert anybody.” Sicilee practically yelps with exasperation. “I’m just trying to—”

“Educate us?” asks Kristin.

“No. I’m just trying to say that if we’re putting this stuff on our skin and everything, we should know what’s in it. I don’t see what the big crime is in that.” Three very unsmiling, hard-eyed faces, swathed in petrochemicals and irritation, stare back at Sicilee. This should tell her that it’s time to stop talking, but for some reason it just makes her talk more. “I mean, chemicals get into our food from plastics, right? So it just makes sense that they must get into us from make-up and stuff.”

“You know, you really are losing the plot,” says Ash. “You’re like one of those conspiracy-theory freaks. Next thing you know, you’ll be telling us that the world’s ruled by giant lizards. I mean, you can’t really think that these mega companies are going to
poison
people? How sick is that?”

“Well, they—”

“You know everything, don’t you?” Loretta sneers. “It’s really pretty awesome how much smarter than us you are.”

“In fact, I’m amazed you can stand to be seen with us, we’re so stupid.” Kristin picks up her bags. “Why don’t you do us all a favour and go home by yourself, Sicilee?”

“But I came with you guys,” protests Sicilee. “How am I supposed to get home?”

“Well, you’re the big walker,” says Loretta.

“Or even better,” says Ash, “you can take the bus.”

* * *

Sicilee does both. She takes the bus back to town, and then she stomps home from there. The rain has stopped and the sun has broken through the clouds. Though not the cloud that hovers over Sicilee, of course. Why do her friends keep getting mad at her like that? What did she say? No, really. What did she say? That make-up’s made with petrochemicals? Sweet Mary, she’s not the one who put the petrochemicals in the lipstick or the eye shadow. Or in anything else. You’d think they’d thank her. You’d think they’d say, “Hey, thanks, Siss. We don’t want to suck carcinogens into our bodies.” Not tell her to walk home from the mall. Not get all snotty and attitudinal. It isn’t fair. Why should she be punished for telling them the truth?

Sicilee’s mind echoes with the bratty voices of her friends as she marches down the leafy, pleasant streets of Clifton Springs.
Go home by yourself … you’re the big walker … take the bus. Go home by yourself … you’re the big walker … take the bus.
Sicilee isn’t sure whether she’s more hurt than angry, or more angry than hurt. She refuses to cry. She’s not going to give them the satisfaction. So involved is Sicilee in reliving the scene in the cosmetics department and in not crying that she doesn’t realize that she isn’t alone until something cold and wet suddenly touches her hand.

Sicilee jumps and screams. Behind her – though not far enough behind her – is a very large dog, drool dripping from his half-open mouth, looking at her as if he’s deciding which part of her he wants to bite first. How long has he been walking with her? Since she left the village? Was there something beside her while she waited at that last set of traffic lights on Boyer? Something big enough to be ridden by a small child?

“Nice doggy.” Sicilee smiles. “Good boy.”

The dog’s bark is like a small explosion.

“Stay!” Sicilee doesn’t point – she doesn’t want to give him an easy target like a finger – but her voice is the stern one she uses when her cat Lucy does something she shouldn’t, like climb into the washing machine. “Stay!” She turns and starts walking again. The stern voice doesn’t work on Lucy, either. The dog follows, his nose nudging towards her, his head so close she can feel his breath – warm, moist and surrounded by teeth. Sicilee’s heart beats faster.
Oh great
, she thinks.
The perfect end to a really lousy day.

“Go home,” she orders. “Shoo.”

She walks a little faster. The dog lopes behind her.

They turn a corner and the Kewes’ house is now in sight. The only time anyone has ever seen Sicilee run since she was ten is in gym class, where she is given no choice, but Sicilee starts to run now. The dog starts to run, too. Past Mr Kreple in his driveway vacuuming his car. Past the Larkins’ little girl blowing bubbles in their front yard. Past Mrs Novatny reading on her porch. Sicilee runs faster and the dog bounds after her, barking excitedly, now in full pursuit. Does he think it’s a game, or is he coming in for the kill?

Their next-door neighbour stops on her stoop when she sees Sicilee galloping towards her. “Hi there, Sicilee!” she calls. “Tell your mother—”

If Sicilee were capable of thinking, her thought would be
Tell her yourself!
but both thought and speech are beyond her at the moment. She speeds by without a glance and races up the path, wedging herself between the storm door and the front door for protection while she desperately rings the bell. The dog jumps up and down beside her as if he’s confused himself with a performing dolphin. Her mother’s not home! Sicilee digs into her pocket for her keys and pulls out the soggy napkin wrapped around her Hamburger of the Day from her soggy pocket. Sweet Mary! The dog didn’t want to eat her; he wanted to eat her lunch! Someday, this story will make even Sicilee laugh, but right now all she feels is weak with relief. She hurls the hamburger onto the grass and the dog joyously follows.

Thankful now that her mother isn’t home to want to know what happened and make her talk about it, Sicilee goes to her room and throws herself onto her bed. Lucy immediately leaves her seat by the window and jumps up beside her, purring warmly, sprawling across her lap as if she has no bones. Sicilee rubs Lucy under her chin and behind her ears the way she likes best. Lucy closes her eyes and smiles, and Sicilee’s pulse rate starts to return to normal; her fear and anger begin to fade.

It is Lucy who has loved Sicilee unconditionally since the day they brought her home from the animal shelter when Sicilee was six, Lucy who can make Sicilee smile no matter how blue she’s feeling, Lucy who always comforts Sicilee when she’s low, Lucy who trusts Sicilee without question, Lucy who would never hurt her. She’s not just a cat. She’s not even just a pet. She is Lucy Kewe, who loves to play with Sicilee’s shoelace and eat corn on the cob. It is Lucy, Sicilee realizes – and not Kristin, Loretta or Ash – who is her best friend. And in that moment of realization, Sicilee suddenly understands what Clemens has been trying to tell them all along. Not everything that’s important is human. Not everything that’s valuable can be bought.

It is now that Sicilee finally starts to cry.

Chapter Thirty-eight
The last person to leave doesn’t have to turn out the lights

Maya
slides a tray of soy nuggets into the oven and shuts the door. “OK,” she mumbles to herself, “they’ll be done in ten minutes… I already put out the chips and pretzels… I’ll stick the nachos in the oven when everybody gets here…”

She straightens up and looks around the kitchen with a satisfied smile. Normally, the Baraberras’ kitchen looks pretty much like the kitchen of everyone else Maya knows – pleasant in a functional, here’s-where-you-peel-the-potatoes kind of way. But right now it looks more like a wizard’s den. Maya gives herself an excited hug. This has got to be one of the best ideas she’s ever had.

On Saturday nights the crowd always gets together, and tonight, because Mr and Mrs Baraberra and Molly have gone out, they are coming here. But Maya has planned something different to usual. Instead of watching movies and putting on some music, tonight they will play board games and talk. Maya has decided that tonight is Be Kind to Our Planet Night, when the use of electricity is more or less restricted to the fridge-freezer. Instead of having virtually every light in the house on, Maya has put dozens of candles all over the living room and kitchen – tea lights in glass holders at the windows, botánicas in jars decorated with pictures of saints and candles stuck in candlesticks and bottles over the counters, shelves and tables. Which is why she’s smiling like a girl who’s reinvented cool. Maya thinks the candlelight is beyond beautiful – romantic, mystical and mysterious, transforming the boring old kitchen and the boring old living room into places of timeless magic. But then her eyes fall on Alice and she stops smiling. “Alice! Alice, what are you doing?”

What Alice is doing is kneeling on the floor by the fridge, stirring salad dressing mix into a bowl of tofu sour cream.

“I’m making the dip like you told me to. What do you think I’m doing?” Alice’s patience is as exhausted as she is. If proof was necessary (which, to be honest, Alice never thought it was), she now knows for sure that it’s a lot easier to flip a switch than it is to light thirty-nine-and-a-half candles.

“But you can’t leave the door open like that,” argues Maya. “You’re wasting electricity.”
Gott im Himmel
, the whole point of this evening is to
save
it. “Go back to the counter.”

Alice, however, is obviously not as enthusiastic about tonight as Maya. Alice likes watching movies and being able to walk around without bumping into things. And she certainly doesn’t think that she’s in a place of romance, mystery or magic. Alice thinks she’s in a dim, gloomy room filled with shadows and threatening shapes where making a simple dip is a major challenge.

“But I can’t
see
at the counter,” she grumbles. “I wouldn’t even recognize my own hand if it wasn’t attached to my arm.”

“Of course you ca—” Maya breaks off as someone, finally realizing that the doorbell isn’t working, starts banging forcefully on the front door. “They’re here!” She picks up the Santa candle left over from Christmas. “Get off the floor,” she orders. “You put the nachos in the oven. I’ll let everybody in.”

Shelby, Mallory and Finn start talking loudly to Maya as soon as they hear her knock into the hall table.

“Why don’t you turn on the porch light?” grumbles Mallory. “I nearly broke my neck on the steps.”

“You know your bell’s not working?” asks Finn. “I’ve been ringing it for ages.”