I’m in. I’m in before I even look in the mirror.
But then I look.
And I look…good. This shirt is incredibly flattering. The jeans are so comfortable that at this point I don’t care what they look like, but they look good, too.
I look good. I mean, I’m no Virginia Cook. But I’m not sure Virginia Cook is all Virginia Cook anymore, either. She may have had work done. Even so…
I look good, and I feel good, and I feel good about how I look. That’s enough for me.
“Cohen?” I say, because I don’t hear him talking to the sales girl anymore.
“Yeah,” he says. When he speaks again, his voice is closer, and I can tell he’s right outside the door. “Are you almost done? You’re taking forever.”
“I told you you didn’t have to come with me. I graciously let you tag along,” I remind him. “You are here because I am nice.”
“Right,” he says. “Sorry.”
Then I feel bad for reminding him that his estranged father is at his house doing who-knows-what, so I go on. “But yes. I am done.”
“And?” he says, sounding apprehensive.
I hesitate for a second, and then I speak. “I’m in.”
“Are you going to show me?” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
“I told you I wasn’t,” I say, but I can’t help it; I smile, too.
“But you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” he says, sounding teasing. “You don’t have to, but it would be nice to know what I’ve got to work with.”
I bite back my smile. It’s an excuse, and we both know it; he’s just nosy. But maybe I’m just a little bit vain, because I open the dressing room door and step out anyway.
Cohen steps back immediately, looking startled at my appearance. I get a faint whiff of his cologne as I say,
“Well, don’t stand so close.”
His face is unreadable save for a brief look of surprise as he looks at me, his gaze running the length of my body in a not-so-subtle way. I can feel my cheeks heating.
“Say something,” I say. Then I think better of it. “Actually, don’t.”
And then out of nowhere he’s laughing. My previously pink cheeks are probably now tomato red. I fold my arms, but before I can speak, he says,
“As your mentor, I will just say that you look good.” He’s still chuckling as he sits back down. “You’ll be fine. This will work. I hope you’re buying those.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice coming out in its seemingly ever-present squeak. “So it’s—it’s fine?”
He hesitates for a beat before answering, and I see something like appreciation in his eyes. “Yep. What does your hair do?”
“You were laughing at me,” I say, ignoring his question. I lean back against the doorframe to give my strangely jittery legs a break.
He grins. “I wasn’t laughing at you. I was just laughing. I was surprised.” He pauses and then goes on. “Pleasantly surprised. Which I can say—”
“As my mentor,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips.
“Exactly. Now what does your hair do?” he says, eyeing me.
“It dances. Sings. But it really just depends how much you’re willing to pay it.”
His grin widens. “Jack loves dancing hair.”
“Most men do,” I say.
He tilts his head a bit, still smiling, and says, “Can you take it down? How long is it?”
“I’m not cutting my hair,” I say immediately.
He holds his hands up. “You can do whatever you want with your hair. I just wanted to see what it looks like.”
“It’s pretty long,” I say.
He considers me. “It always was when we were kids. Do you remember when our families went to the lake and it got so tangled that you cried when your mom had to brush it out?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You would have cried too. And I was little.”
He just smiles, and I can tell he’s waiting.
I sigh. “Fine. But prepare to be blinded. It’s so blonde that it’s basically neon.” I unwind my hair tie and slip it over my wrist as I uncoil my hair, running my fingers loosely through it. It hits just below my ribcage; I haven’t cut it in years, a fact I’m suddenly self-conscious about.
I look at Cohen, whose smile has widened. “You have a ton of hair.”
“I know,” I say ruefully. “I just can’t bring myself to cut it.”
Cohen shrugs, still smiling. “I like it. Why do you wear it up all the time?”
“It’s a pain, for one,” I say, wrestling the hair back into a ponytail. “And the color is just so…bright. It feels like I have a neon sign on top of my head.”
“It works for you,” he says. “Neon sign and all.” He gestures at me. “Now, aren’t you glad we did this?”
I am, but I’m not going to tell him that. Instead I say, “When do you want to start tutoring?”
His expression fades into a grimace as he looks at me. “As soon as possible,” he says, running his thumb over the scar on his upper lip as he thinks. “I can take it two more times, I think, before I really need to have my applications finalized.”
I nod, stepping back into the tiny dressing room. “Well, I’ll get you my work schedule. When do you do football stuff?” I say as I close the door and try on my second shirt. It, too, fits beautifully. Then I get my old clothes back on.
“Afternoons,” he says. “Evenings and weekends are probably best.”
I nod again, even though he can’t see me. “We can do that. How often are you thinking? I guess we should probably see where you are first so we know what needs to be done,” I say, answering my own question.
“Probably,” he agrees.
I step out of the changing room again, pay for my clothes, and then we leave. I determinedly avoid looking at him as we pass back through the cologne section of the department store we entered through. After that we get groceries and stop for gas, and on an impulse—one I should squash, because I know my mom is doing leftover spaghetti for dinner—I pull into the drive-thru at the local taco joint.
“I’m starving,” I say. “Do you want anything? Are you doing anything for dinner?”
“I don’t think so. This sounds great. Let me buy it, though.” He pauses and then says, “Thanks for taking me with you. There’s a church dinner tonight, and there was one last night too. I really didn’t want to go.”
I smile at him, and it’s not as forced as I thought it would be. “Any time.” I hesitate. “Not interested in church dinners?”
“Not interested in church right now, actually.”
I blink, surprised that he’s so forthcoming about it. “Oh.”
“Order me two soft tacos,” he says before I can say any more. His eyes scan the menu. “No sour cream.”
“If you’re not getting sour cream, you don’t deserve tacos,” I say, but I comply anyway and order him his food. I let him pay, because he offered, and I can tell he wants to show that he’s grateful. I park in a parking spot and turn off the car, pulling our food from the bag.
I turn to hand him his tacos and see him giving me a funny look. “What?” I say. “I’m not going to eat a burrito and drive at the same time.”
He just shrugs and unwraps his food. We’re halfway through our food when I see someone unexpected coming out of the restaurant.
Virginia and Jack.
My stomach does a weird combination of a jump and a plummet. I smack Cohen on the shoulder—harder than I mean to—and say, “Lean your chair back. Jack and Virginia are here. They might see you.”
He stares at me, looking like he’d like to say something if his mouth weren’t full of sour-cream-free taco.
I roll my eyes. “They would have something to say about you being in a car with Wet Willy. I’m doing this for you and your reputation.”
Cohen swallows and then says, “It could be good for your reputation.”
But he knows that’s a lie, and so do I. I gesture at myse
lf and say, “Not like this, it wouldn’t. Maybe if I looked good. Right now it will do nothing. Just lean your chair back.”
“I don’t care, Mina. And I can’t eat if I’m leaning back.”
I grab his taco from his hand. “Just do it,” I say, because he may not care, but I do. He grumbles under his breath but reclines his chair all the way so that none of him is visible to anyone outside the car.
“I can’t believe her,” I say as I watch Virginia. “She always says she doesn’t eat carbs.”
“She doesn’t eat much of anything,” Cohen says. “But she’ll follow a cute boy anywhere.”
“Does Jack know you think he’s cute?” I say, still watching Virginia and Jack. Virginia is saying something, looking irritable with her face all scrunched up, but Jack is just staring at her as though entranced by her beauty.
“We have heart-to-hearts about it,” Cohen says, and I smile.
I wait for them to get in their car, and when they’re finally pulling away, I say, “They’re gone. You’re good.”
Cohen sits back up. We finish our food and head to our neighborhood. Cohen cranes his neck, I assume to check if his dad’s car is gone, and then he breathes a sigh of relief.
“Thanks, Mina,” he says as I park on the street in front of my house. “Let me know about your work schedule?”
“Yeah,” I say. “But you said weekends are good? Do you want to start tomorrow? I usually don’t work Saturdays.” I’m strangely nervous as I ask this, probably because actively attempting to hang out with someone is completely foreign to me.
“That would be great,” he says, getting out of the car. “Let me check on some things, and I’ll call you.”
“Sounds good. Thanks for the food.”
“Yep.” He waves at me, and I watch him until he disappears through his front door.
8
Cohen
Well, that was a surprisingly pleasant distraction. Or maybe I should call it a rescue. Mina never seemed like the rescuing type to me, but today she stepped up.
The tacos were a bonus.
Finding out that there was real potential under all Mina’s baggy gray-and-white mess was a bonus, too. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised; her sisters are all pretty. Ruby is unbelievably gorgeous. It would make sense that Mina is attractive, too. It was a bizarre experience, actually—for just a minute when she stepped out of the dressing room, my brain forgot she was Mina and only recognized that Jack wouldn’t need much convincing. Then I got my head on straight.
I can’t help a grin as I step through the front door and kick my shoes off. Virginia would kill to have hair that’s naturally that blonde.
I bet I could get Lydia to help Mina put on makeup. I used to think all makeup was the same, that putting it on worked the same for everyone, until Lydia set me straight and spent a solid thirty minutes showing me pictures of poorly done makeup. Now I know better.
How did Mina get so skilled at playing all that down? If she “dressed for her body” (that’s how Lydia says it), did something with her hair, put on some makeup—she’d be attractive. Really attractive. Even just the clothes were a major and somewhat eye-opening improvement.
Which I can say, as her mentor.
“Lyd?” I call, waiting for an answer. There’s no response. “Lydia,” I call again.
I take the stairs up two at a time and head to Lydia’s room, directly across from my own. Her door is closed, so I knock. There’s no answer. She’s either at church or—more likely—listening to music so loudly that she doesn’t hear me. Praying she’s fully clothed, I open her door and stick my head in.
Sure enough, she’s sprawled on her bed, flipping through a magazine, her headphones in. She looks up when I enter.
“Hi,” she says, and she pulls out one headphone before looking back down at her magazine.
I don’t have her interest yet, but there’s one word that always gets Lydia’s attention.
“I have a potential project for you.”
“Ooh,” she says, her eyes widening and lighting up. We don’t look exceptionally alike—she doesn’t look like she’s had her nose broken ten times—but we do have the same dark eyes and the same coloring. “I love projects. What is it?” She holds up a hand. “If it’s football-related, I’m not interested.”
I grin. “Not football. Do you want to help me be a matchmaker?”
Her eyes widen even further, if that’s possible. “Yes. Yes! Who are we setting up?” Then her face changes, and she frowns. “Wait. Why are you playing matchmaker? That sounds like your worst nightmare.”
Normally, she would be right. I have no desire to meddle in other people’s relationships. High school relationships don’t matter, anyway. But since I don’t want to tell her about the teaching experiment or about my low ACT score, I keep it vague. “I owe Mina, and she’s got a thing for Jack.”
Lydia wrinkles her nose. “Really? She likes Jack? He’s so…superficial.”
He is, a little, but I shrug. “She’s liked him forever. And she could do worse. It could be Marcus. At least Jack is nice.”
Marcus is just…well, kind of creepy. The way he looks at girls makes me uncomfortable. I mean, I appreciate female beauty. But Marcus seems to appreciate it too much.
“Ew,” Lydia says. “Marcus is gross and should not be allowed near women anywhere.”
“I would not recommend him,” I agree. “Are you in?”
She bites her lower lip. “What would this entail?”
“I don’t think she really knows how to…you know. Do hair or makeup or stuff.”
I watch Lydia’s face, and I know what she’s thinking—Mina has to be her makeover dream. Lydia loves projects, she loves fashion, and she loves making people happy. Setting up a happy couple has to be right up her alley, right?
“I would love to get my hands on her hair,” she says, sounding thoughtful. “And I could help her fill in her eyebrows so you can see them; I bet they’re great. Just look at her sisters. And I bet she’s hot when you do something about the wardrobe—”
“She is,” I say without thinking, remembering the way her jeans and shirt hugged the curves I didn’t know were there.
Lydia’s eyebrows shoot up.
Crap. I’m not going to live that one down. “Are you in or not?” I say, hoping to move past it.
“But there’s no way Mina’s going to go for any of that, Cohen,” she says, although she’s still looking at me suspiciously.
I sit on her bed. “We have a deal,” I say.
“Go on.” Lydia finally puts down her magazine. “What kind of deal?”
I hesitate. “She’s tutoring me,” I admit. “And this is how I’m paying her. I told her I’d try to help her with Jack. She took some convincing, but she actually seems okay with it now.”
“She’s tutoring you?” Lydia says, frowning. “Are you getting bad grades?”
I so don’t want to talk about this, but I just say, “It’s ACT stuff. So are you in or not?”
Lydia considers me. Then she shrugs, smiling. “If Mina’s okay with it, I’m in. I love playing fairy godmother.”
“Great,” I say, relieved, although I have no right to be relieved yet. If anyone is going to veto Lydia’s help, it will be Mina, and that seems likely. But she tried on some new clothes, and even though she didn’t say so, I could tell she liked it. She wouldn’t have shown me otherwise. “Thanks, Lyd.”
“This will be fun!” she says. “I love makeovers.”
“I know,” I say, grinning. “I was banking on that. I was thinking tomorrow night. Are you doing anything?”
“I am now,” she says with a smile. “I should be home from student council in time.”
I thank her again and leave her room, heading for my own. I pull out my phone and find Mina in my contacts, dialing her number as I flop down on my bed. The springs squeak, and I still use the same pillow I used ten years ago, but it’s the most comfortable thing in the world.
“Hi. Tomorrow should be good,” I say, staring absently at my ceiling. “But I have a question.”
“Okay,” she says, sounding almost offensively suspicious.
“Well, it’s more of a proposition.”
“I’m nervous,” she says, and I smile.
“It’s not a scary proposition,” I say, sitting up. “I was just thinking, if you liked the clothes and you wanted to try doing makeup stuff—you know, pretty stuff or whatever—”
Suddenly my door bangs open, and Lydia comes marching in.
“I’m sorry, Cohen, but you’re so bad at this. ‘Pretty stuff?’ Give me the phone.”
I watch her, my jaw dropped, as she takes the phone from me. “Hi, Mina,” she says cheerily into the phone. “It’s Lydia.”
She’s silent for a second and then says, “I’m good! Listen, Cohen mentioned that you’re—”
I make “shut-up” motions with my hands, but Lydia just frowns at me and then starts talking again.
“I want to give you a makeover,” she says, cutting to the chase as only Lydia can. “Before you say no,” she says quickly, “just listen. Cohen says he owes you for tutoring him and that there’s a guy you like.” Lydia sits on my bed, looking utterly at ease. “Now, while there is much more to you than your looks, men aren’t usually very aware of things like that at first. You need to make him interested in getting to know you. Usually the best way to do that is to catch his eye. You’re naturally beautiful, but I think it gets hidden sometimes because your style is so understated. I’d love to help you highlight some of that beauty.”
I just sit there, feeling a mix of incredulity and relief. Lydia sounds like she’s negotiating a business transaction, but I’m glad it’s her instead of me.
Lydia nods as she listens to whatever Mina’s saying. Then she says, “I know. And if you don’t want to do this, of course you don’t have to. And I wouldn’t want you to feel like you’re changing yourself for a man. But let me ask you this: Do you feel like you would just be doing it for him? Or does part of you want to do it for yourself? Because if it would just be for him, then I agree. Don’t bother. But if you would like it, then what’s there to lose?”
Eye of the Beholder (Stone Springs Book 1) Page 6