Revenge of the Girl With the Great Personality (5 page)

M
ackenzie’s makeup kit is essentially a giant toolbox that’s bright pink with
Princess
and
Mackenzie
stickers all over it. I open it up and start setting out the items I need for tonight.

I already have my hair in rollers and my Benny-approved outfit on my bed. I’m required to wear at least one item from The Cellar when I’m at work. Luckily, their jeans fit me well, so I’m going to wear those, and a long blue tank over a gray tank with a big belt. I have to admit, it was fun picking out a cute outfit for tonight, deciding to highlight my figure instead of concealing myself. I’ve been in a personal funk for so long, maybe Benny’s right, maybe it’s time to get back to the person I was
before
.

My mind wanders back to when I first became interested in clothes. I was five when I started drawing my own designs for outfits. I’d just gotten my first Barbie doll. I’d take wrapping paper, or newspaper as a last resort, and cut out outfits for her. It started simple enough, with a tube dress. Then I moved to more intricate designs (I still have this Oscar-red-carpet-worthy dress I made when I was ten out of shiny red wrapping paper. I spent hours on this floral design that weaved from around the top of the dress to the bottom. Once I finished with it, I knew that I couldn’t play with that Barbie any longer. I had to preserve her.)

I’ve seen Mac get her hair and makeup done countless times. Usually, if she’s in a grumpy mood, I have to hold her hand or play a game with her so she’ll sit still. So I think I know what to do. At least I should be able to put on some mascara and eye shadow: How hard could it possibly be?

I open up the foundation, place it on a sponge, and start to apply. Mac’s skin is a little darker than mine, but I think this should look good; it makes me look like I’ve gotten some sun. I reach in and grab the darker blush, since I’ll need it to be brighter to stand out with my now-darker skin tone.

Then I begin working on my eyes. She doesn’t have neutral colors, so I decide to try blue to match my tank. I line my eyes with dark navy, and then use a lighter color on my eyelids. I use a few coats of mascara, but poke myself in my right eye with the wand. As I blink, trying to recover from getting black junk in my eyes, tears start to form.

I run over and get a tissue to try to stop the makeup from smearing.

The timer sounds, letting me know I’m supposed to take the rollers out. I start to unravel the rollers from my hair and notice that my hair has formed into tight ringlets. I bend over and try to shake out my hair to get it to calm down. It won’t budge. I guess I now know how much hairspray is too much.

I step away from the counter and study myself in the mirror.

My hair, which I wanted to be in loose waves, looks like my muse was a deranged Shirley Temple–like zombie.
Maybe if I brush it out,
I think. I grab a comb and can’t even get it through my hair.
Okay, it should calm down after a while.
Or at least I hope.

I finally step back to study my entire face and realize I look like I’ve come out of three rounds of a heavyweight championship boxing match. The blue makes my eyes looked bruised and my right eye is red from the unfortunate stabbing of the mascara wand.

This is a disaster. Why did I think blue eye shadow would look good on me? I guess the real question is: Why did Benny think that all it would take to transform me into a Glamour Girl was a little makeup? What a joke. But not the funny, ha-ha kind of joke, the what-on-earth-possessed-you-to-be-so-stupid kind.

I glance at the clock and see that I only have twenty minutes before I have to leave for work. I cannot be seen in public like this.

I turn the faucet on and start washing my face. Even soap isn’t getting this stuff off. My once-white washcloth is now beige and blue. I turn to Mac’s kit for industrial-strength makeup remover.

After five minutes, my face is finally clean. I grab my hair and try to tame it into a ponytail, but it isn’t budging. I don’t have time to wash it. I grab a few clips to at least get it to settle down. I throw open my closet and grab last season’s fedora hat that was all the rage at The Cellar. At least my manager will be excited to see me wearing two Cellar items today.

So much for my bet. I shrug, grab some blush and lip gloss, and hope I didn’t just give myself pinkeye.

As I open the bathroom door, I hear a strange noise coming from the living room. I freeze when I realize that it’s Mom crying.

I gingerly tiptoe into the room and see her slouched over her desk.

“Mom?” I say quietly.

She jerks herself upright and automatically starts wiping away the tears. “Oh, I thought you were at work.” I notice that she’s rearranging a stack of bills like they’re a deck of cards.

“Is everything okay?”

“Fine.” She waves her hand at me dismissively. “Just a long day at work. Nothing to worry about.”

But I know there
is
something to worry about, and it’s been something we’ve had hanging over us for years. The pageant spending is getting out of control.

I rack my brain trying to think of something that I can say that won’t lead to a fight. What I really want to say is,
Stop doing pageants!

Mom turns around and looks at me. I’m expecting her to open up, to finally admit that it’s gotten to be too much. That she can’t keep going on like this.

“Aren’t you going to be late for work?” She turns her back on me and picks up a piece of paper to read.

I stand there for another beat before I head out. I don’t know why I thought that she’d make any kind of admission to me. Or that she isn’t in denial.

I guess it runs in the family.

I’m more grateful than ever to have the distraction of work. Folding and refolding clothes can be therapeutically mind-numbing.

“I knew it!” I hear Benny’s voice from behind me. I turn around to see him looking me up and down, shaking his head. “You promised.”

“Hear me out …” I lead him over to the shirts and start holding up different options for him to look at. The Cellar has a very strict no loitering policy. Benny comes in often to visit me and I make him try on stuff since I’m usually bored. Benny doesn’t really like the clothes here; they’re too “generic” for his liking.

“We had a deal.” He looks disappointed.

“Yeah, we did, but I’m a complete novice and couldn’t handle a simple task of putting on mascara or doing my hair.” I take off my hat to show Benny the rat’s nest that currently resides on top of my head.

“What did you do?” he says incredulously as he touches my hair. “It feels like
straw
.”

“Yeah, I had some issues.” I shrug my shoulders.

“Well, this doesn’t count. You have to try it again.”

“Why?” I ask. “You’re talking to Chris, so pretty much we both got what we wanted.”

Benny looks disappointed. “Not really.”

I groan. “Benny, you’re talking to him. It’s a start. What else do you want?” I hand him a T-shirt to look at as my boss, Mark, starts circling us.

He holds up the shirt and says to it, “For you to become the person you deserve to be.”

Seriously? He needs to drop this already.

“I can’t really talk right now.” I start randomly picking clothes up and straightening them. “I tried it. Epic fail. I’m not meant to be that kind of girl.”

“You could ask for help?”

“Who can I ask? My
mother
?” I shake my head. “Not going to happen.”

Benny continues to follow me around the store. “Oh, I don’t know. What about the hundreds of people at the beauty pageants you go to every weekend?”

“Are you for real?” But I can tell by the look on his face that he is. And he’s not going to leave me alone until I give in. “Fine. I’ll ask this weekend and I’ll wear makeup to school on Monday.”

“I want the full week.”

“What?”

“The full week.”

“Ahem.” I hear Mark clear his voice and know I’m going to get in trouble if Benny doesn’t leave soon.

“Okay, fine, fine,” I say as I usher him out. Maybe once he sees me in hair and makeup he’ll realize that nothing is going to change for me. And if it did, how completely shallow are the people at our school? I know looks matter — I’d be an idiot to think they don’t — but there are some people who are born beautiful, like Mackenzie, and others who are born to serve the Chosen Ones.

The next couple of hours drag on. The store’s dead. I’m now on the floor trying to make sense of the mess that used to be the boot-cut jean display. None of the sizes are together, so I spend the better part of my shift trying to put them in order. It’s busy work, but I enjoy it. I feel accomplished after getting everything in nice, orderly fashion … only for it to be destroy two seconds later.

“Excuse me, miss?” I recognize Taylor’s voice behind me.

I turn around and gesture to the store. “Well, hello, sir. Welcome to The Cellar. How may I help you today?”

“Wow, so professional.” He reaches out his hand to help me off the floor.

“Well, The Cellar is not your average clothing-store chain. We’re here to make dreams happen. Tell me — wait, don’t. I’m getting something.”

Taylor laughs as I walk around him, tapping my finger on my lips.

“Yes, I’m sensing a great academic journey coming up. May I suggest our tailored, straight-fit khaki?”

“Sign me up!”

I lead Taylor over to our men’s section, ask his size, and start piling different shirts and pants into his arms.

“I didn’t realize you were so bossy,” he says as I put another shirt in his stack.

“Not bossy, just really good at my job.” I lead him toward the dressing room. “I’ll be waiting here for the fashion show. Hurry it up.”

“Okay, man, you’re fast. I’m hoping we can be done with this by the time my mom comes. She spends forever looking at every single item of clothing. If shopping were an endurance sport, she’d be a world-record holder.”

I go into the empty dressing rooms and start cleaning up. Taylor comes out in a pair of khakis and a dark-blue-and-white-checkered shirt that’s buttoned up all the way to the top.

“What?” He can probably tell from my shaking head that he’s done something wrong.

“You’ve got to loosen up.” I unbutton the cuffs of the shirt and begin to fold them up three times. Then I unbutton two buttons at the front.

“Are you undressing me?” Taylor raises his eyebrow.

“In your dreams.” I stand back and gesture for him to turn around.

Taylor obliges and twirls around a few times. “I’m kinda feeling like a piece of meat here.”

“Shut it and pose for me, model boy.” I shake my head. “It’s not quite right. Button up your collar — I’ll be right back.” I run and grab a few ties. “Here.” I put the tie around him and start to tie it.

“You know how to tie a tie?” He seems impressed.

“Yep.”
No thanks to my dad.

“There you are!” Taylor’s mom walks in, her hands full of shopping bags from all the pricey stores in the mall. “Oh, doesn’t that look nice?” Mrs. Riggins makes Taylor turn around for her. “Well done, Lexi.”

“Thanks. What I was thinking is that he could wear this during the campus tours and then …” I go into his dressing room and pull out a matching blazer. I hand it to Taylor to put on. “He can put this on for the interview. If it’s cooler out, he can wear a sweater vest over it.”

“I’m so not wearing a sweater vest,” Taylor objects.

Mrs. Riggins nods to herself. “Try one on anyway.”

Taylor sulks and goes into the dressing room to put on the vest I pulled for him.

“See, that’s not so bad,” Mrs. Riggins says when her not-amused son returns.

Taylor steps back and looks in the mirror. “Hey, this actually looks pretty cool. I look like I belong in, like,
GQ
or something.” He then poses like he’s looking at his watch, then puts his hand on his chin like he’s in deep thought.

“I put together a few other color combinations as well, sticking with the basic colors, figuring Taylor wouldn’t be caught dead in a peach.”

“Good call.”

Mrs. Riggins smiles warmly at me. “We’ll take it all. Thanks so much, Lexi.”