The Prettiest

by Brigit Young

Eve nodded, perhaps too enthusiastically.

  By the time the clock read two-thirty P.M., Eve was getting nervous.

  “Mom, I’m sure she texted me if she’s just late or not coming. Maybe I should just turn on the phone.” Sitting in the kitchen, Eve’s powered-down cell phone lay plugged in next to the microwave, and she stared at it as if it could transmit information to her through telepathy.

  “You know, honey, it’s your choice if you want to turn it on,” her mom said. “You chose to not use your cell on Shabbat. I didn’t force you.”

  This made her feel even more guilty, because her parents were so cool about the whole thing.

  What would Sophie think when Eve didn’t text back? It was too hard to explain to her.

  “So are you two new friends?” her mom asked.

  At that moment, the doorbell rang. Eve bolted up to get it.

  Sophie Kane stood in the doorway with what Eve was beginning to see was her typical pose: hand on a hip, head tilted slightly to the side, long hair resting behind her shoulders.

  But what wasn’t typical of Sophie Kane, at least the tiny bit of Sophie Kane that Eve knew, was that she was accompanied by a little girl.

  “This is Bella, my sister.”

  “Bella Marie Kane!” the girl announced, in this kind of grande dame voice that old British ladies used in TV shows.

  Sophie nudged Bella with a shoulder. “I had to bring her.”

  “It’s okay.” Eve opened the door and let them in.

  Her mom shook both their hands and asked them if they wanted anything to eat. Sophie declined. Bella jumped up and down and said yes, and Eve’s mom and Bella made up a plate of snacks and brought them to the TV room.

  “I found you a friend,” Eve heard her mom say to Hannah.

  “Hi! Bella Marie Kane,” Eve heard.

  “She’s in fourth grade.” Sophie looked around their hallway and living room, and Eve couldn’t begin to guess at what she was thinking.

  “I get it. Mine’s in fifth.”

  When they got up to Eve’s room, Sophie circled around it slowly. She reminded Eve of a lioness stalking out the perimeter of her territory.

  Sophie stopped in front of Eve’s music box. She lifted it up and ballet music began to play.

  “My bubbe got that for me when I was, like, five,” Eve said apologetically.

  Sophie looked back at her as if she’d forgotten Eve was in the room. “It’s really pretty.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sophie pulled a bag off her shoulder and sat down. “Let’s get to work.”

  Out of that bag came concealers, foundations, blush, mascara, eye shadow, eyeliner, a lot of little plastic baggies the size of quarters filled with what looked like lip colors, and a whole sack of bobby pins.

  “What are you going to do to me?” Eve asked.

  “Teach you to make yourself as cute as you can be.” Sophie arranged the makeup along the side of the bed.

  Eve glanced toward her bedroom door. If her mom walked in, she’d be in shock.

  “That’s a little much,” Eve demurred.

  Sophie gave her a narrow-eyed glare. “What did you think we were doing? Hanging out? I’m going to teach you how to do a morning routine to get you looking a little less background dancer and a little more front-and-center.”

  Eve felt her face flush even though she didn’t feel particularly embarrassed … why did her face do this? “But if Brody did put me on the list to make it okay to go out with me or something, then why would I need to change? Wouldn’t that mean he likes me the way I look now?”

  Sophie groaned and did one of her hair flips. “He won’t stay into you if you keep wearing sports teams’ shirts that don’t fit. Maybe he’s giving you a hint to change a little for him. I mean, seriously?”

  Eve looked down at herself. That day she still wore her clothes from synagogue: a white blouse with a midcalf-length black skirt. She felt herself fingering her hamsa necklace.

  Sophie looked her up and down, too. “You don’t look so bad now,” she said. “A little nunlike, maybe, but that’s it. At least I can see your waist.”

  “Ha,” Eve said to herself. “Definitely not a nun.”

  Sophie quizzically scrunched up her made-up face.

  “I’m Jewish. These are my synagogue clothes.”

  Sophie said nothing.

  For a second, Eve thought that Sophie might leave. She knew that was paranoid, but she’d heard stories, stories from her dad about a long time ago, when he was a kid. Before his family had moved to St. Louis Park, Minnesota, where there were lots of other Jewish families, he’d been beaten up one time and called “Jew boy.” Her mom hadn’t had that experience, but she’d long ago taught Eve that some people still thought bad things about Jews, and that sometimes people might think those things of her, and that she should always just be herself. But whenever people found out, she had that millisecond of wondering how they’d react.

  It didn’t help that recently, only a few towns away, a neo-Nazi group had marched in the streets.

  But Sophie simply said, “So let’s see more of those synagogue clothes.”

  Relief flooded Eve as she pulled open her closet.

  Sophie flicked through Eve’s nicest clothes, piece by piece. “Some of these just scream Anne of Green Gables.”

  “You like that book? It used to be my favorite!” Eve heard her voice go up an octave like it did when she got overly excited. She coughed as if to cover up what they’d both heard.

  “Not really, no.” Sophie’s tone reminded Eve that Sophie hated her.

  Sophie laid out a few items on Eve’s bed and placed them together in different combinations. Her focus reminded Eve of an artist before her canvas. She explained to Eve which pieces worked with which and why, both because of the colors and because of how they flattered one body part or another.

  “This one’s for Monday.” Sophie pointed to a skirt and dressy shirt. “And this one’s Tuesday…” And she went through the whole week as if she were setting up a clothing syllabus.

  Eve couldn’t hide her skepticism. “Um … Those are a little … fancy? For school? A little showy?”

  “Showing what?” Sophie snapped. “Your chest you’re incredibly lucky to have? Your really nice clothes?” She shook her head. “Just be happy about it.”

  Eve shook her head, too. “You don’t understand.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sophie stood by the bed, hand back on hip. “Cuz I’m flat?”

  “No! I just mean you don’t get it. What it’s like to be stared at like that.” Eve remembered the stares, oh gosh, those stares, which she’d gotten all summer at the pool, while she was just trying to have fun and go down the slide with Nessa like they always had.

  Sophie let out an angry laugh. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be stared at? Are you kidding me?”

  “I—I—that’s not … that’s not what I meant…” Eve fumbled for what to say.

  “You know, there’ve been other lists before. There have been lists written on bathroom walls. There have been surveys of which girls have the best smiles, clothes, stuff like that. I’ve always won those. I’ve been stared at plenty. The difference is that I embrace it.”

  “Well”—Eve tried to be brave and push back on Sophie Kane—“I don’t. And those are special-occasion clothes, anyway. They’re too formfitting to wear to school,” Eve said. “Ever since…” Last summer when her body had changed its size.

  “They’re not!” Sophie spat back.

  Eve almost said “They are!” but she didn’t want to turn this into a pointless fight. Eve tried to remember that if she did what Sophie said, if she could keep Brody’s interest and get his trust, then she could go back to T-shirts. “I just don’t want to dress, like, for other people, you know?”

  “You know what?” Sophie picked up one of the shirts on Eve’s bed, went toward the mirror, and held it up in front of herself. “Whether it’s to try to look
like number one or not, it’s okay to just wear something that makes you feel good, you know? Like, I would feel good wearing this. Even if I wasn’t trying to be anything.” She spun around to Eve and posed. She went to grab some of the other shirts and repeated the same routine.

  “But…” Eve felt herself genuinely wanting to know what Sophie thought. “What if my brother’s shirts do make me feel good? And it feels good to not be stared at?”

  “Aren’t you kind of wearing them for ‘other people’ then, too?” Sophie put one of Eve’s skirts in front of her waist and swayed side to side a little. “You’re not wearing them because they make you feel good. You’re wearing them because of how you want other people to see you. Or not see you. Right? Same thing, kind of. Here, put this on.” Sophie tossed her a different skirt and a necklace she’d found in the jewelry box. “See if you feel good.”

  “Okay,” Eve relented. “I’ll put it on.”

  Eve went into her closet and changed. Did she wear the big shirts only because of other people’s opinions? She wasn’t sure.

  When she came out, Sophie said, “Feels nice, right?” and went toward the closet to hang up all the outfits she’d created.

  It felt okay. Yeah.

  “Your wardrobe for the week,” Sophie declared. Then she went back to the makeup and motioned for Eve to sit down on the edge of the bed. Sophie pulled a chair in front of her to begin their makeup tutorial.

  “So what did Brody say when you said yes to going to the Halloween dance with him?” Sophie asked as she picked up some sponges and concealer.

  “I’m not putting that on my face!” The sponges looked like sea creatures.

  “You’re right.” Sophie sifted through more items. “This foundation is too dark for you. You have, like, no tan at all. Have you ever seen the sunlight?” She tsk-tsked Eve. “Forget it. We’ll just start with a little concealer under the eyes and then try out eye shadow colors. Your eyes are stunning.”

  “Oh.” Eve blushed for real this time. “Thanks.”

  “And these colors will really bring that out, so don’t forget that this is your palette,” she explained like a strict teacher.

  As Sophie played around with little circles of eye shadow colors on the top of Eve’s hand, testing out shades of blue and violet against her skin, she asked again, “So what’d Brody say when you said yes to the dance?”

  “Oh, I never actually said yes. I avoided him the rest of the week, to be honest. I didn’t know what to say.”

  Sophie smacked a hand against her knee. “What?”

  “I—” Eve couldn’t finish before Sophie cut her off.

  “Give me your phone.” Sophie held her hand out.

  “Um. No.”

  “What? Give me your phone!” She emphasized each word with more and more annoyance.

  “I can’t!”

  “Where is it?” Sophie searched Eve’s room. She checked low to the ground, looking for outlets.

  “Don’t!”

  “Eve Hoffman. If you wait and wait to do something because you’re scared, then nothing ever gets done. Where is it?”

  “No, it’s not that! It’s Shabbat, I can’t use it!” Eve sighed.

  “So … what’s that mean?” Sophie asked.

  Should she try to explain it? “Well, there are all these religious laws that on Shabbat you can’t do stuff like tear toilet paper or turn on the lights.” Oh man, now Sophie would definitely judge her. “But my family doesn’t follow all that.”

  She was confusing Sophie. She’d try again. “When my brother Abe and I had our bar and bat mitzvahs, um, these big parties we have, my parents wanted us to pick one action for Shabbat that honors the deeper meaning of the day. And I felt like the meaning of the day is to quiet your mind. Rest. So on Saturdays, Shabbat, my brother doesn’t use the internet and I stopped using my phone.” She paused. “Well, I’m trying to stop.”

  “Huh.” Sophie appeared to be processing all of it. “‘Quiet your mind.’ Doesn’t sound so bad.”

  Eve thought she’d caught Sophie in an argument she couldn’t win—religious protest. Yet Sophie’s palm stayed out, waiting.

  “Still,” Sophie challenged, raising her eyebrows, “how badly do you want to go back to nobody noticing you in your baggy shirts, huh?”

  Eve sighed and nodded toward the door. “In the kitchen. By the microwave.”

  Sophie retrieved the phone, put Eve’s surrendering thumb on it to get past the password, and spoke out loud as she wrote. “Brody, sorry I didn’t write back yet. TBH this is my first date. Smiley-blushy face. I’d love to go to the Halloween dance with you. What are you going as?” She dropped the phone down on the bed. “Done.”

  Guilt rose up in Eve as she raced to her phone and shut it off again.

  “Back to the eyes?” Sophie picked up an applicator.

  Eve returned to her spot on the bed and obediently closed her eyes, but she couldn’t help herself from saying, “I hate this.”

  “The violet is the winner.” Sophie ignored her, and went on to explain which eye colors worked best with which shades.

  “Okay.” The thought of what Brody might write back filled Eve with anxiety. She could hardly take in the detailed information on colors and ways of patting and spreading paints on her face. But she tried.

  As Sophie plugged in a hair straightener under Eve’s desk, she said to her, “Look. I actually believe that you don’t want to be number one. At first I wasn’t sure, but, hey, look at you. Pretty obvious. And I’m with you—I don’t think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, either. I mean, you’re fine. There’s just no such thing. You were chosen as the prettiest by one person, but then everyone else just took that as ‘the truth,’ and now everyone believes it. It’s not real. Sure, you’re, like, really pretty. But if someone woke up tomorrow and put Rose Reed as the new number one, everyone would want to look like her instead.” Sophie visibly shuddered.

  “What are you going to do to my hair?” is all Eve could manage to say.

  “I’m going to take the Shirley Temple out of it,” Sophie answered.

  As a silence passed between them, they heard their sisters laughing down the hall.

  “Things were a lot easier back then, huh?” Sophie’s voice softened.

  “Yeah.”

  “Ya know, it’s funny…” Sophie’s eyes stayed on the straightener as its light turned to red and it began to steam a little. “You have this wild curly hair, and to look prettier, you have to straighten it. I have straight hair, and to look pretty I curl it.” Sophie let out a funny little laugh. “Opposites.”

  “You don’t have to,” Eve offered.

  Sophie turned to her, sharp. “You have no idea what I have to do.”

  19

  SOPHIE

  “Not everybody has it as easy as you, okay?” Sophie couldn’t stop herself. This girl knew nothing. “Some of us have to work a little harder, let’s just say that.”

  “You’re so pretty, though. You don’t have to work hard.” Eve kept turning her head to respond to Sophie, and Sophie kept shifting it back to the right angle in order to straighten her hair.

  “Ha. Pretty is different than prettiest, I guess,” Sophie groused. She immediately regretted saying it. It made her sound jealous. “But whatever,” she added.

  “So you do all this every morning?” Eve turned her head back to Sophie. “Really?”

  “Of course!” Sophie adjusted Eve’s head again, a little more forcefully this time.

  “Why would you even want to?” Eve went on. She was getting chatty. “Didn’t you say that what people think of as pretty could change really easily? Like if the list changed, everyone’s opinions would change? So just decide what’s prettiest to you and do that!”

  “I’m not the one who gets to decide! Don’t you get it?” Sophie felt her voice begin to crack, and she stuffed her anger in deep.

  The word “pretty” was starting to swirl around in her head until it didn�
��t mean anything anymore.

  Eve’s curls steamed.

  “That’s confusing.” Eve wouldn’t let up.

  Little Eve Hoffman wasn’t so quiet all of a sudden. Maybe this was what happened when you had the bad luck of having to get to know her in her big, fancy house. It’s also what happened whenever you did anyone’s hair. Sophie had heard lots of secrets from people in her building when she cut their hair for them.

  “Ya know what?” Sophie felt a wisp of the anger slip out. “You’re judging me for the way I look, okay? You’re judging me for liking to look a certain way. So maybe you’re not the saint you think you are.”

  “Oh my gosh!” Eve turned around all the way to face her, nearly burning a cheek in the process. “No, I wouldn’t judge you! I’m not!”

  But Sophie put an end to it. “Let’s turn on some music.” She picked up her phone and put it on shuffle. Some country music came on.

  They didn’t speak again for the amount of time it took a country singer to tell the story of how he got his favorite truck.

  “Do you know who Emily Dickinson is?” Eve finally asked her, breaking through the sound of the twangs.

  “Um, no.” Sophie watched the ends of Eve’s oak brown curls turn into streams of flattened strands.

  “She’s who I’m doing the biography assignment on. What about you?”

  Eve was trying to be nice now. Fine. “Audrey Hepburn,” Sophie told her.

  “Oh, cool! Well, Emily Dickinson was a famous American poet. Like, the most famous.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Eve probably assumed Sophie didn’t read. Not true. Sophie read every school assignment. She got As on every paper. Eve probably thought Sophie was stupid just because she wore makeup. She probably didn’t even know that in addition to being a famous actress, Audrey Hepburn also spent most of her life helping people all around the world. Both things were awesome.

  “She inspired me to write poems, actually, even though mine are pretty bad,” Eve went on. Maybe getting your hair done was like the confessionals at the church where her dad used to take her sometimes. When you couldn’t see someone’s face, it made it easier to tell the truth. “Anyway, I learned that Emily Dickinson never went outside! Like … ever. She just read and wrote poetry and letters in her room, all the time. Does part of that sound great to you? I think it sounds amazing.”