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Authors: Diane Vanaskie Mulligan

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BOOK: Watch Me Disappear
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“Katherine and I are going to the mall,” Maura says. “Want to come with us? We can look at makeup and stuff.”

I can feel my mother hovering behind me. I can only imagine the look of delight on her face. The mall. Makeup. Her little girl hanging out with the pretty, popular girls. It is her dream come true. I know I have to answer in the affirmative. I am the one who asked Maura for help with makeup. But Katherine is going. I can handle spending some time with Maura; I have seen that there is more to her than the persona I first met. But Katherine is another story. She was overtly rude to me at the Morgans’ cookout and she sent me some not-so-nice messages on Facebook earlier this summer. And undoubtedly Maura with Katherine will not be the same as Maura with me and our mothers. Then again, Maura silenced Katherine at the cookout when Jessica asked me about California. In their friendship, Maura is the one with the power.

“Yeah, okay,” I say. “Are you going now?”

“Like twenty minutes,” Maura says. “Katherine’s driving. Just come out when you’re ready.”

I go back upstairs to change and dig out my babysitting money, and when I come back down, my mother is waiting for me with her debit card.

“No more than a hundred and fifty dollars,” she says, handing it to me.

This is new. “What?” I say.

“Makeup is expensive. And maybe you’ll see some clothes or shoes for back-to-school.”

“It’s okay, mom. I have money.”

“Well then now you have a little more. Just get receipts.”

“But I’ll have to sign your name.”

“They never check,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

“Go and have fun. I think they’re already out there waiting for you.”

And that’s it. I am going to the mall with Maura and Katherine in Katherine’s sporty little red car—her sixteenth birthday present—with my mother’s debit card in my purse. I keep wondering when the
Twilight Zone
theme music will start playing.

I seriously think my mother doesn’t even realize the mixed messages she sends me sometimes. How does she not get that it is not possible to stick to all her rules and to be friends with girls like Maura and Katherine?

Before we can look at makeup, we have to do a couple of laps around the mall to find out if anyone worth seeing is also there. Then we have to look at the clearance racks in a few trendy stores and cruise the shoe department of Macy’s. At one point, when Maura and I are waiting for Katherine to finish up in the dressing room at Old Navy, I see my chance to hash some things out with Maura. I am still afraid she is setting me up somehow, getting back at me for using her computer. After all, she has a good reason to hate me, and she doesn’t owe me anything for not telling
my
parents about her drunken scene. After all, I assume
her
parents already know.

“Listen, Maura,” I say, glancing toward the dressing room, making sure Katherine isn’t approaching. “About earlier this summer, your computer…”

“Hey, no sweat,” she interrupts.

“No, I should explain.”

“Seriously,” she says, not letting me finish. “I probably would have done the same in your shoes.”

“Still,” I say. “It wasn’t cool, and I’m sorry.” I want to explain about my insanely strict parents, but Maura cuts me off again.

“Say no more,” she insists. “It’s totally forgotten. You know, I was really unfair about all that.”

“Thanks,” I say, seeing Katherine coming toward us, a pair of jeans in her hands.

“Sephora next?” she asks, and we follow her to the front of the store.

I know the point of this makeup quest is to enhance my appearance, just as Maura was able to do so easily when we were dress shopping, but is it necessary to have someone point out all of your flaws before they enhance your face? Maura and Katherine study me like a rare old painting, recently discovered and in need of much repair before it can be displayed. I may see flaws in my appearance, but I’ve always felt good about my complexion and my eyes. I have often thought I’d gladly stay chubby if the price of being thin were bad skin, and people have always complimented me on my big blue eyes. But there, under the carefully designed lighting of Sephora, Katherine finds all sorts of flaws with my skin and Maura can’t decide how best to brighten the grayish tone of my eye color. They proceed through my makeover without talking to me much. They just sort of examine me and put various colors on my face and then sometimes wipe it all off to start again. I think they’re having fun, not with me, but because of me.

“Do you tweeze?” Maura asks, tracing a finger along my right eyebrow.

“No,” I say. I have nicely shaped eyebrows. Not bushy or anything. “Should I?”

“Hmm. You could really use some more definition here. I mean, we can put some brow pencil on them, but you have to pluck these strays,” she says. “We can take care of that when we get home.”

“But won’t it hurt?” I ask.

“No beauty without a little pain,” Katherine says.

By the time they’re done with me, they have applied a yellow concealer beneath my eyes where Katherine says my thin skin gives me a tired appearance, foundation over my entire face (which I protested on the grounds that I have nice skin, but Maura and Katherine both insisted that to be sure one is always ready to be photographed, foundation is a must), rosy blush on my cheeks, eyeliner all around my eyes, three shades of eye shadow in progressing layers, mascara, brow pencil, and “face illuminating” powder over the top, which is like a hint of glitter over my whole face.

“I cannot go out in public like this,” I say when they turn me to the mirror.

“You look great,” Maura says.

“It doesn’t really go with your hair and clothes, does it?” Katherine says.

She’s right.

“It’s just too much.”

“Well, what don’t you like?” Maura asks.

The eyeliner. There is nothing subtle about it, and I am pretty sure it makes my eyes look smaller.

“If you’re going to be all dressed up, you need eyeliner,” Maura reasons. “You don’t have to wear it every day, but you do need it.”

I look in the basket where they’ve been collecting the various products I
have
to buy. It is going to cost a fortune. I wonder if my mom’s spending limit will even cover it. I wasn’t planning to use her debit card, but seeing the price tags, I decide I should take this opportunity, as it might be once-in-a-lifetime.

“How do you normally wear your hair?” Katherine asks.

“Like this,” I say. My hair, as usual, is in a ponytail.

Katherine tugs out the elastic and ruffles her hand through my hair. “Maybe we should look at some styling products too,” she says.

“You guys are going to teach me how to use all this stuff, right?”

Maura assures me they will. I am becoming their little test dummy and protégé.

In addition to my basket full of makeup, I also buy fancy shampoo, conditioner, styling mousse, a straightening iron, and hair spray. And perfume. I blow right by the hundred and fifty dollar limit and have to contribute fifty bucks of my own. When we get back to Maura’s, they make me wash off all the makeup and wash my hair. Then I get my first lesson in hairstyling and makeup application.

I like the makeup better when I put it on myself. I apply it more lightly than they had, so it looks more natural. Try as I might, I’m not very handy at hairstyling, though. I can’t seem to tease the roots as Katherine instructed, and I have no luck with the up-dos they showed me. In the end, Katherine produces a small set of scissors and, while I hold my breath, trims some fringy bangs and layers, which we iron flat into a funky style. When we’re done, I don’t look like me, but I look sort of good. And good thing, too, because all the little pieces she cut are never going to fit into a ponytail.

“See,” Maura says. “That wasn’t so hard.”

“Maybe we should come raid your closet and see what we can do with that,” Katherine says, laughing smugly. She has gotten a little friendlier as the day has gone on. When I let her cut my hair, I think that sealed the deal. She is willing to at least consider extending friendship to me.

“You won’t find much interesting in my closet,” I say.

“What, no secrets?” Maura asks, suddenly turning our conversation away from the safe realm of appearances. My heart pounds. I’m not ready for this kind of conversation. Is this where they turn on me?

“No,” I say. “No cute clothes or skeletons.”

“How disappointing,” Maura says. “I thought there was a wild child in you that we had yet to uncover.”

“You’ve met my parents. They don’t allow much for wildness.”

“Exactly. Kids with strict parents are usually the ones who let it all out when they step outside their parents’ grasp.”

“I guess I’m still pretty much within their grasp,” I say.

Maura makes a
tsk
sound. “I thought for sure there was more to you, Lizzie,” she says.

I shrug. I wish there was more to me, too.

“No time like the present,” Maura says. “Spend some time with us and we might find your inner wild child yet.”

 

*          *          *

 

Now, after enduring my mother’s ohhing and ahhing over my new hairdo and makeup, which she made me remove and reapply to prove that I could in fact put it on by myself, I sit in my room, every now and then giving in to the temptation to study my new reflection, thinking about what Maura said. My inner wild child. I’m pretty sure I don’t have one, and yet if I just cast my lot with Maura—who seems completely willing, for reasons I cannot comprehend, to add me to her posse—I can have unprecedented freedom. My mother handed me her debit card only a few hours ago to send me off to the mall. She watched me get into Katherine’s car, the very car we have seen peeling out next door countless times, even though she’s never met Katherine’s parents, or Katherine for that matter. All that freedom just because I am becoming friends with Maura. I wonder what else I might get away with if I make a habit of this.

 

 

Chapter 7

 

 

I know I can be judgmental, but it isn’t my fault. I learned from the best. Look at my mother. She so seldom finds anyone who meets her standards. It’s amazing she’s ever had a friend in her life. I try not to be judgmental, but sometimes I just fall into it before I even know what I’m doing. Maybe I see an overweight woman eating a sandwich and I think, “Yeah, that’s what you need. Bread and mayonnaise. Pile it on.” Or I see some kid with acne and in my head I name him “pizza face.” Or I see a gorgeous, thin girl in stylish (that is, skimpy) clothing and I think “slutty bitch” without ever even talking to her.

At least I try not to let these thoughts influence my actions. I try to be nice to people even when the thoughts going through my mind are nasty, not like my mother who thinks anyone in cut-off jeans is trash and not worth her time. It’s just when I notice the thoughts that play in my head, I feel like such a bitch. The more I get to know Maura and her friends, the more I think maybe I’m the bitchy one, not the other way around. As long as they’re willing to make a new start with me, I figure I can give them the benefit of the doubt, too.

Missy—in typical friendly, optimistic Missy fashion—agrees. If they are extending friendship, why not take them up on it? I’m hesitant to bring Missy into the group, though, and I am disgusted with myself to admit the reason. I’m afraid they’ll like her more than me. Who wouldn’t? She’s beautiful, funny, outgoing. Her only flaw that I can see is her incessant chatter, and that isn’t enough to make her hard to like. But I got Missy an invitation to Maura’s birthday bash, so at least for one night I will try to balance both friendships.

Missy comes over in the afternoon before the party to get ready. My parents are taking us, and afterwards Missy is going to stay at my house. Another first for me—I haven’t had a sleepover before, unless cousins count. I would rather stay at Missy’s house, but that is out of the question. Even if my parents had met hers, they’d never allow it. How could they trust me if I am out of their sight all night? I am still finding ways to delay our parents meeting, and I know I can’t keep it up forever. For now, though, having Missy stay at my house is already a huge step forward.

When we are all dressed and ready to go, we stand side by side looking into the mirror in the bathroom. Missy slips her arm around my waist.

“We look fantastic,” she says. “We’ll be the belles of the ball.”


You
look fantastic,” I say. Beside Missy, I look like a sad sack destined to become a lonely old maid.

“So do you!” Missy says. “Stop frowning!”

I give a half-hearted smile.

“More,” Missy commands.

I force my face into a close-lipped smile.

“For real!” she says, poking my ribs.

I laugh and crack a real smile.

“See,” she says. “A smile makes all the difference.”

“That’s really corny,” I say.

“But true. Wait, I want to take a picture,” she says, dashing to my bedroom to find her cell phone.

I follow her into the hallway. “We can probably find a better place than the bathroom,” I say.

We take one of the classic long-armed shots in which Missy holds the camera away from us and snaps the picture. It is slightly off-centered and charming for that. Then, we get my dad to take some better ones so you can see our outfits. And then we’re off to the party of the decade.

 

*          *          *

 

The party is ridiculous. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan’s adult friends, for the most part not in 1920s costumes, stand near the bar drinking, and Maura’s friends mill around the patio of the clubhouse holding “mocktails” in fancy glasses and talking over the upbeat jazz the DJ had chosen for cocktail hour. The boys are mostly just wearing regular suits, a few even have on tuxedos, but the girls are wearing dresses that are completely over-the-top. Each is hoping to outdo the others. Of course, none can rival Maura. It’s like a wedding where the bride is always the most beautiful woman. Maura is the center of the universe for the evening.

BOOK: Watch Me Disappear
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