“Cute eligible guys, party of the season...cute eligible guys.”
“But—”
“Don’t make me come up there.”
I surveyed Marisol’s distressed denim and pale gray tee. Her leather jacket puddled on the table like black butter. Okay, I was verging on basic, but still. “My outfit is perfectly acceptable.”
Marisol grabbed her belongings and sprinted up. “You were warned.” She dragged me into the apartment and, bless her—even though I was miffed—because she didn’t throw the slightest glance left or right as she barreled through the goat tunnel into my bedroom.
Helpless, I stood like a Darcy-doll while Marisol played stylist. Not two whirlwind minutes later, she’d transformed my look to her satisfaction. The navy sweatshirt drooped on my bed, replaced by a black tee under a long, chunky black cardigan I’d forgotten I owned. She looped a baby blue infinity scarf around my neck. “It’ll get chilly by the water.” Speedy fingers raked styling cream through my layers. “There. And you can keep the sneakers.”
How generous.
Marisol stood back, grinning. “My work here is done.” She grabbed her tote. “I’ll just touch up my face, and we’re off.”
I consulted the nearest bookshelf. “So I have time to read a couple chapters?”
“Hilarious.” Marisol toted her polka-dot makeup bag to my mirror. “Seriously, Natalia?”
“Was sissy playing in your pretty-kit again?”
Marisol waved a rose-gold tube of what I recognized as a special edition Elisa B. lipstick. “I hope Natalia’s enjoyed her thirteen years on the planet, because I’m going to...ugh! Look, I just bought this Raspberry Rose color yesterday. Right before I left, she begged for one swipe, and stupid me agreed.” She shoved the tube into my vision. The stick had broken clean off, leaving only pink dregs inside the base.
I winced. “Bummer, hon. Those are thirty bucks a pop.”
“Tell me. She probably pressed too hard and snap. Then tried to hide the evidence. I bet she thought I’d blame little Camila, too.”
I glanced through the open doorway, then back to Marisol. She eyed me suspiciously. “What does your scheming face have to do with my destroyed Raspberry Rose?”
It would be okay, right? Mom’s at work, and it’s just this once...
“Darcy!”
“Right. Err, follow me,” I said, and Marisol did, until we reached the area most tenants called a dining nook. Andrea Wells had transformed ours into a mini cosmetics warehouse. Sadly, I knew exactly where to look. I unstacked four plastic tubs and opened one, to Marisol’s stunned gasp.
“Dios mío, you think you know, but you really don’t know, know,” she said.
“Oh, I know.” I knelt on the tile floor and dug two hands into the tub, netting brand-new lipsticks and glosses. “There has to be a Raspberry Rose in here somewhere.”
Marisol joined the search. We found ten tubes of the newly released color. “Are all these from trade shows?”
I shrugged. “Mom gets the show swag at a huge discount, which only makes her bring home more. Then when Macy’s has triple point days, well...”
“There’s just...so much. I’ll never understand how she’s able to keep track of every item.”
“And exactly where it goes.” I shook off the tingling thought and held out the shiny pink-gold package. “You’re going to take this tonight and hope she hasn’t counted tubes of this particular color.”
Marisol looked hesitant. “I shouldn’t.”
I pressed the lipstick into her palm. “You’re going to, anyway, because you’re my best friend and...” I trailed off and opened another tub, just to look. Hundreds of eye shadow pots, blushes, and makeup brushes piled inside. Elisa B. foundation tubes, concealers, mascara, and gift sets with specially curated colors. “There has to be thousands’ worth of product in here.”
Marisol sighed dreamily. “Oh, I dream in Livewire Purple Liquid Liner and Shady Pistachio Cream Shadow. And there are dozens and hundreds and so, so many. Welcome to my version of the Cave of Wonders.”
“A real-life Treasure Island.”
Marisol held up an eye shadow palette. “Just one of these retails for sixty-five dollars. The foundations go for fifty.”
“Don’t remind me. That’s more than I make during one afternoon at Yellow Feather.” I was saving Monday afternoon to visit the student job board in the Jefferson High front office. But any other work I found would mean even less time for studying, and zero free time. Or...
No. One replacement lipstick for Marisol is different.
Marisol studied my gaze. “Hey, that’s your ‘I’m about to do something questionable’ face. Which, I might add, would do you some good to put on more often.”
My throat pushed out a wordless sound. I began lining up random Elisa B. on the floor, heartbeat fluttering underneath the gauzy blue scarf. “Questionable and stupid, or brilliant and cunning? The money I’d make from selling one of these products replaces hours of work.”
I watched Marisol’s face shift from confusion to comprehension to concern in under five seconds. “Darcy, I know it’s super tempting, but you can’t.”
“Or... I can.”
“Doesn’t this go against everything the counselor told you about? Not interfering with the hoard?”
My hands overflowed with product. “Every single thing.”
“This makeup is all brand-new, though. Mint,” Marisol added wistfully. “Just sitting here in boxes, doing nothing. Unless you let it do something for you.”
“Oh, so now you’re in?”
“More like I’m cutting mental dress patterns. I haven’t sewn any stitches, yet. Nothing permanent. We’re just considering.”
“Right. Considering,” I mused. “A couple of lipsticks here, a blush and mascara there.” My eyes lit on other items around the apartment, the relentless clutter. “And not just makeup. Those boxes are filled with expensive hair dryers and flat irons. I could sell just a few products, little by little, so she won’t notice.”
But after witnessing the heartbreak and panic of my mom, lost on the floor with greeting cards and memories... Could I knowingly betray the precarious boundaries of her illness even further? If Mom discovered my scheme, it could easily overwhelm her into a place I could never bring her back from.
Marisol scooted closer. “What about eBay? New cosmetics sell so fast. We’ll just knock a few dollars off the retail price of each item, and there’s no tax. Mama and I share an account where we buy and sell fabrics and vintage bits for sewing. You could list items under our profile until you turn eighteen and then get your own. We’ll just separate your fees and pay you from our PayPal fund. Easy.”
Relatively quick money, all without working more retail hours I didn’t have to spare? I stared at the tubs again, knowing Mom had more upon more just like them. Pirates’ chests filled with forbidden gold.
Wasn’t it time I started taking back some control and progressing where I could?
“Okay. It’s on,” I told Marisol, with more confidence than I felt.
With a firm nod, Marisol opened the new Raspberry Rose and applied it flawlessly without a mirror.
“What changed your mind about the makeup, anyway?” I replaced the plastic tub lid. “You were all tripped up at first.”
“Still am. I mean, Darcy,” she warned. “It’s like you’re in the middle of a tug-of-war game. Protecting your mom on one end. Protecting yourself on the other. It’s far from a perfect solution, but maybe it’s the best one for now?”
I felt the desperate pull of all my limbs in opposite directions. “Yeah, but Mom can’t find out. That’s number one.” I couldn’t bear to imagine her reaction if she did.
“Then we’ll make sure she doesn’t. We’ll have to be smarter than she is careful,” Marisol said. “But if you’re about to do something questionable and stupid and brilliant and cunning, you’re not doing it without me.”
Seven
Just One Word
“I like strong words that mean something.”
—Louisa May Alcott, Little Women
Throwback jams pumped across Mission Beach while Bryn Humboldt entertained her friends with impressive jeté and pas de chat ballet leaps. I breathed in deep. The ocean air hung low and heavy with salt. I turned to watch slashes of sunlight flicker across the horizon and found myself strolling toward the water. Washed-up seaweed dotted the shore like tangled masses of mermaid hair. My mother had always woven that image into impromptu fables when I built sandcastles here.
“Hey.” Marisol appeared behind me. “Let’s check out the food poison.”
I followed my friend to the buffet. Bryn’s parents had arranged a spread on two folding tables parallel to the black rock jetty, then split, leaving her college-age brothers to manage the crowd. And, for once, not manage Bryn’s caloric intake. Ballet demanded a strict diet of green juice and whole grains, minimally processed snacks and lean protein. But at her annual Nutcracker blowout, Bryn splurged.
“Oh no. Don’t make a scene,” I pleaded with Marisol, after a quick look at the second table.
“Huh?”
I pointed.
She glanced. Scoffed. Hooked one hand on her hip.
“Marisol.”
“Nachos? You know—”
“Yes, that nachos are completely American-contrived. A hundred times over. You forget I’m totally schooled on your authentic Mexican food snobbery.” Marisol loved waxing poetic about the link between cuisine and her native culture. “We’ll just call it food. Not Mexican food, okay? Chips. Guacamole. Melted cheese and salsa. Sour cream. We can pile them together on one plate without emotional trauma. Not traditional, still highly edible.”
Three steps forward. I swore I saw her nose twitch. “Tomorrow, we’re having the real stuff at my house.” Marisol grabbed a plate. “Don’t you dare breathe a word about this to Mama.”
* * *
No matter how expertly Marisol dressed me, I was basically a living party foul underneath the trendy sweater and scarf. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy the idea of parties. Food and drinks and music—all good. I didn’t mind big groups of people, either. Unfortunately, what usually happened when I attended parties was happening now. I’d already eaten—two helpings of nachos and one giant chocolate chip cookie. I’d chatted up a few schoolmates, too.
But my hands wanted books.
I longed to curl up on one of the beach blankets with my portable reading light, letting the party around me settle into white noise fog. Allowing myself to temporarily forget I had to school myself on eBay listing strategy. Forget that I was about to risk my entire relationship with my mother.
There was just one problem: Marisol had confiscated the three novels I’d crammed into my purse when she parked her red Pathfinder.
So while my friend huddled with Bryn and a junior, Amy Hsu, I slinked around the firepit toward the water. I matched my breathing to the calming pull of the tide.
It was the small time between sunset and evening when the sky turned the color of crushed plums, bruised from the wounds of another day. I followed the shoreline toward the jetty, a wide peninsula of jagged stones poking into the Pacific like a giant stick of black rock candy. A lone figure perched atop the structure, one I thought I recognized. I stepped closer, looked again with focused eyes, and confirmed what I’d suspected.
Asher Fleet. His downturned face bent away, washed in the thin white light of outdoor lamps. He was using a flat stone as a makeshift bench.
Asher had never attended one of Bryn’s Nutcracker blowouts before. Could he be following me? Right away, I dismissed the ridiculous notion. I wasn’t the type of girl boys followed around a room, let alone the city of San Diego. It didn’t take long to trace the connection, either. Asher was tight with Jase Donnelly, who was currently on another visit to the nacho buffet. Jase had dated Bryn briefly over the summer, but they’d remained friends when it fizzled. Plus, Bryn was one of London’s faithful cohorts.
They were all good reasons for this brooding boy to be here, watching the sunset on a black rock, but none of them explained why I cared so much. Why I couldn’t look away until a nearby movement caught my eye.
London was beelining toward the jetty and her on-again boyfriend. I watched the couple exchange words and whispers I couldn’t hear. Asher shook his head and brushed away whatever London was offering from her purse. She didn’t seem to take that well, briskly throwing her arms skyward before she stomped away toward the crowd.
Asher turned and saw me then. His mouth held tight for exactly one second before he swiveled back to the ocean. I wasn’t delusional enough to think we were now besties, but we had officially “met” at Tops. Now he was back to freeze-out mode?
A blue pickup truck screeched onto the paved section of the jetty. Bryn’s older brother Derek hopped from the cab and flipped the tailgate. “Bonfire! Come and get it, losers!” he shouted. “Let’s make this happen, people.”
Most of the guys in attendance, and more than a few girls, ran up to the truck. They tag-teamed, unloading wood planks and piling them into the firepit. I stood, camouflaged behind a group of cookie-eating juniors, curiosity piqued. Asher surveyed the action, but didn’t help. Didn’t even move. One hand cupped around his face, fingers digging into his forehead. Was he sick or something?
When the massive fire hissed and swelled to life, I dismissed Asher and his recurrent Mr. Darcy attitude from my mind and joined the crowd. Flames wove into darkness, curling orange tendrils into the blackened coastline. For a quick beat, I closed my eyes and heard the fire spit and pop, the music dip into softer tones.
Partygoers had pulled chairs and blankets close. Marisol lounged on her elbows at my left, debating something fashion-related with Alyssa. Even Asher abandoned the jetty for a fireside seat. He arranged himself on a shared blanket with London, his body lean, but tipped with a sharp, steely presence.
London turned away from some friends to smile at him, animated with laughter and trailing hair she could’ve robbed straight from the flames. Wild and coppery. Asher scooted closer to her side, pulled off his blue hoodie, and draped it over her shoulders.
I should’ve looked away when she stretched her arms around his back, kissing him slowly and deeply. But they could’ve been any one of the book couples in my bedroom library. I watched print come to life until they parted to chat with more friends. The image gradually waned until it was as small as a moonlike pearl, but I couldn’t make it disappear. It lodged behind my tongue like a pill you can’t seem to swallow.
Bryn’s sudden laugh—loud and grating—startled me as it sliced through the night air. Along with firewood, the Humboldt brothers had provided gallons of cheap Chardonnay, cleverly disguised in chilled plastic water bottles. Being so slight, it hadn’t taken Bryn long to jump past her tipsy point, and she’d probably gotten a head start on the rest of her friends.
One of the insulated coolers reached our blanket, another near Asher and London. The redhead took two bottles and slapped on a haughty glare that challenged anyone to have a problem with it. Asher waved off the bottle Bryn’s brother Jon offered him. So, he wasn’t drinking either?
Marisol was, though. She eyed me pointedly as she plunged her hands into the ice, fishing out a dripping bottle. “Treating myself. I’ve been working my ass off on those Much Ado costumes.”
“Knock yourself out. But if you crawl too far down that thing, I’m driving us home and you get to spend the night at the Hoard Hilton,” I whispered.
Marisol unscrewed the plastic top. “Don’t get your book bindings in a bunch. Just a few sips. Call it an early celebration, too. Our birthdays are coming up. Eighteen, baby.”
“Eighteen,” I said, trying out the word. Sampling the calm relief of the approaching day when no government agency could separate me from my mother.
My thoughts fizzled when Bryn jumped up suddenly. “Guys, guys,” she bellowed, waving her arms. “I need a minute.”
>
Marisol and I glanced at one another in horror. “Tell me someone’s recording this, because good Lord,” my friend whispered.
Bryn took a few steps, teetering like no ballerina ever should. “You are each here ’cause you’re just so very...”
I gasped. “She’s gonna end up in the pit.” Luckily, I wasn’t the only one who feared it. Soccer-mom-worthy arms readied, friends took turns gently guiding Bryn away from fiery peril as she wobbled on baby giraffe limbs around the crowd.
The reaction was mixed. Versions of, “Yeah, get it, Brynnie-boo,” came from a group of fellow seniors. Some guests stared, mouths hung low, heads shaking. Cheers and laughs and flame-bright cackles rang as others rhythmically patted their denim-covered thighs, urging on our hostess.
Bryn bowed deeply. “Soo, I wanna first thank my Jon and Derek.” She scanned the crowd until she spotted her brothers. She gestured broadly and said, “For all your work and the firewood and the good stuff you brought.”
Marisol burrowed the base of her wine bottle into the sand. “Oh, the absolute humanity.”
“Talk about theatrical,” I said. “Forget Nutcracker, she needs to star in Much Ado.”
Bryn planted herself onto a patch of sand. “I’m not gonna see you all for a long, long time because of dance and stuff. So much work.”
Oh dear.
“I hope you’ll all come see me this year, ’cause I’m very entertaining.” Bryn held up one finger. “But now I think it’s time I should be entertained. My party and I say so.”
“If I wasn’t watching this, I’d never believe it,” Marisol murmured.
“You’d believe it.”
Marisol’s mouth twitched as Bryn continued, arm outstretched. “A few of you tried already.” A half turn. “Robbie landed some back handsprings. Very impressive.”
The crowd, including Robbie, snickered.
“Amy and Chelsea and a couple others were trying to ballet real good.” Bryn pointed at no one and everyone. “And some of you think you can sing, but you really can’t.”
The Library of Lost Things Page 6