by Karen Glista
“Who’s Becky?”
“Becky is Heather’s friend, I think I mentioned that she and Heather went out last night. Anyway, we don’t hang a lot, but I like her. She and Heather are close. They live next door to each other.”
“And this club, you can get in at seventeen?”
“Umm hmm, you just can’t buy liquor, but the dancing’s nice and like I said, there are some really hot guys.”
“Hmm, they might not like my style.”
“Then change it, you’re an incredibly beautiful girl and you don’t have to hide anymore. I can be your shield from your mental insecurities and you my dear, can be Prozac for mine.”
Donja laughed. “One misfit saving another huh?”
“Well you know what they say, two halves make a whole,” Makayla mused with spiked brows and a thin grin that widened to a contagious smile. “You lose the makeup, I lose the pills and we both win.”
Donja laughed, tucking her hair behind her ears. “You got a way with words I’ll give you that.”
Makayla’s eyes suddenly narrowed, studying Donja’s face. “You know, some dark shadowing on your outer eyes, some layers in your hair and a glossy lipstick…oh and I almost forgot, a tight skirt and stilettos hot off the runway in Paris,” she smiled knowingly with a glint in her eye. “Trust me, you’ll soon forget heavy goth, cause honey child, with your looks, you’re gonna have guys swarming you like bees.”
Donja laughed though suspicion and doubt plagued her. “I don’t know. I’m not a glitzy gal.”
“And I’m not just speaking inanely to hear my head rattle, come on girl, it’s a fact!”
“I don’t know, glitter and glam. I’d be a fish out of water, it just wouldn’t feel right.”
Anyway, I like goth.
“How do you know, have you ever tried it?”
“Well…no.”
“I didn’t think so. I tell you what. You let me dress you for a week and then, you can dress me in goth for a week.”
“You’d do that?” Donja queried with arched brows.
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Makayla said with a smug grin.
“Okay, that might be fun. You got a deal!”
“Yes!” Makayla screeched as if she had just won the lottery. “I’m going to turn you into a femme fatale.”
“A what?” Donja’s eyes widened.
Makayla tucked golden locks behind her ears with a silly giggle. “It’s French, for a female capable of snaring her lover and luring him,” she paused, “seductively. It’s kinda like witchcraft with hypnotic spells…power akin to a sorceress or enchantress. French guys in this area refer to them as vamps, which is like a sexually capable vampire.”
Donja laughed. “Vampires, hmmm is Robert Pattinson French by chance?”
“No, that hunk’s from across the pond, but there are guys here just as hot—you’ll see.”
“Well, all I can say is, you got your work cut out for you because I’m a tomboy turned goth, that’s my comfort zone.” She squinted her eyes. “You know a little goth with your glam, dark liner and perhaps a single tear…like a beauty mark might spice you up as well.”
“Really?” Makayla whispered. “I guess I…well…I never considered such.”
“Just saying. We could mix it up, call it…hmmm, gothiglam,” she grinned.
“Hmmm, you mean like our own personal look?”
“Yeah,” Donja teased with sly grin. “Like you said, two halves make a whole.”
“What the hell, why not?” Makayla laughed. “Now get dressed and let’s get down to the Secretary of State and get you an M.D.L.”
Donja rolled her eyes. “A what?”
“An enhanced Michigan Driver’s License so you can pass back and forth between customs.”
“Wow,” Donja marveled, “this is a different world.”
~~~
Speeding over I-75 through the Michigan Soo, Donja, dressed in skinny jeans, sandals and a short T-shirt riding high on her abdomen, let her hair fly out the open window of the Lexus. She felt naked without her goth makeup, almost as if people could look right through her and read her darkest secrets. They took a sharp right, buzzing through traffic and then she caught her first glimpse of the International Bridge, spanning the St. Mary’s River, between Michigan and Ontario. She was amazed by the steel truss double arched passage with a suspended deck and though it wasn’t as impressive as the Mackinaw, it possessed a mystical appeal as if it had the power to join two great countries.
“Impressive!” she shouted over the blasting lyrics of a Katy Perry CD.
Makayla peeked over her sunshades. “It has two distinct spans, a double arch on the U.S. side and a smaller single on the Canadian side.”
Donja switched the CDs. “How about some Metallica?”
Makayla snarled her lips. “That’s fair, I guess I have been pushing my fav’s down your throat.”
Donja chuckled and turned back surveying the bridge. “Neat, the double arch looks like the top of a heart,” she cried out, her voice all but lost in the cacophony of cars, horns, Metallica and overhead gulls which were screeching.
“The double arch spans the four United States locks,” Makayla remarked, “and the single spans the Canadian.
“Canada only has one?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s all they need but the U.S. side is busier…much busier.” She scaled back the volume on the music. “Did you know the Soo is the oldest city in Michigan?”
“No,” Donja said, winds whipping her hair.
Makayla brushed back her flying tresses. “It is and think what you want of the Upper Peninsula, but I love it here. It’s a different world.”
“I can see that.”
Passing over the 2.8-mile bridge Donja marveled at the glistening waters. “Big river,” she said.
“It’s broad, but short for a river. It’s only seventy-five miles long in its entirety, but it’s impressive,” Makayla chimed. “It starts up at Whitefish Bay. Have you ever been there?”
“No.”
“It’s quaint, but historic. Lake Superior drains in that area forming the river which takes a drastic fall, with intense rapids, hmm I think it’s about a twenty-three foot drop with a mad rush for Lake Huron. The rapids are why the French named these two cities, Sault Ste. Marie, Sault being the French word for—”
“Rapids,” Donja blurted. “My mom told me. Seems your dad has schooled her well.”
“Ahhh,” Makayla smiled.
Suddenly Donja sat erect, watching a thousand-foot vessel below them. “She’s an amazing lady this St. Mary.”
“Indeed,” Makayla smiled, “and she not only serves as an international border, but when her lover, Lake Superior, sends loving winds to embrace her waiting lips, she can turn volatile with passionate swells, capsizing any vessel that disturbs their love affair.”
“That’s eerily romantic,” Donja breathed.
“My dad told me that,” Makayla beamed with admiration. “He’s a hopeless romantic.” She paused the music. “Get your license out.”
Donja looked ahead as cars were lining up to pass through customs. Her heart palpated, and it dawned on her that St. Joseph was fading…something she never expected to happen. Her friends, especially Debbie, flashed in her mind and then by no will of her own, Kevin. She remembered his eyes, his lips and that cute little twitch he got on his jaw when he was nervous.
Makayla eased forward, following a line of cars. Donja, taken by curiosity, scanned customs with booths and wooden barriers reminiscent of the Chicago toll roads. Washed in memories, she felt a bit melancholic but when they stopped to show their license the newness of the situation erased her thoughts.
Leaving customs, Makayla sped past traffic like a silver bullet and it occurred to Donja that this fancy Lexus was nothing short of a race car compared to her old banger.
Straight ahead Donja saw a sign that said, ‘Welcome to Ontario.’
“Are you ready for an adventure, birthday
girl?” Makayla shouted.
“Bring it on!” Donja laughed.
~~~
Déjà vu was an amazing establishment, unlike anything Donja had ever experienced. She and Makayla spent a half hour in the sauna, then got a massage. A manicure and pedicure had them giggling like fifth graders while deciding on nail colors. Makayla chose red and Donja eventually chose a deep burgundy. After ten minutes under a blue lighted nail dryer, they were escorted to a wall of sinks with lay down chairs. Donja closed her eyes and she felt completely pampered. After a shampoo and twenty-minute nap during deep conditioning, the shampoo and color specialist escorted her to the gallery where she was handed over to a male stylist named Dirk. He was lanky, built for speed with arched brows, purple hair, a thick French accent and a nose ring. He seated Donja in his swivel chair. All but enthralled, she couldn’t stop staring; he was flamboyant with a feminine facial quality unlike any male she had ever encountered.
Dirk, seeing Donja’s eyes in the mirror locked up on him, gave her a quick wink.
Rosy with embarrassment, Donja dropped her eyes.
He laughed boisterously and spun the chair left, then right, studying her facial structure. Finally, without a word, he began a love affair with her hair all the while eyeing her in the mirror. He snipped six to eight inches off the ends, added some soft layers, then removed her drape. “Mademoiselle,” he winked, “I’ll finish after your makeup.”
Across the room from the hairdressers, Donja and Makayla sat in swivel chairs side by side facing lighted mirrors as two makeup artists cleaned their faces with astringent. Donja closed her eyes and she felt completely giddy as the artist, makeup brush in hand set upon her newest masterpiece. Curious, Donja opened one eye to peek as the artist whose English was nil to none, finished her foundation and cheeks. Astonished, she opened the other, all the while holding her breath, trying not to blink as a picture began to develop before her very eyes. The clinician lined her eyes in black then used dark shadows on the outer edges, lighter near the nose. She plucked her dark brows, then with a brush and pencil arched them to perfection. Three coats of mascara finished off the eyes and then she worked magic on her lips. When the artist moved away and Donja saw the image staring back from the mirror, she froze.
Is that me?
The makeup artist contorted her face glancing back and forth from the mirror to Donja, then she babbled something in French which Donja didn’t understand.
“She wants to know if you like it?” Makayla chimed in.
Finding her voice, Donja blurted, “Yes…it’s unbelievable.”
“I told you,” Makayla said, just as another artist quieted her voice by painting her lips.
Donja climbed down from the chair and thanked the artist, who in her mind was a Leonardo da Vinci in the making. She strolled toward the hair salon, yet her steps faltered. Snared by the strangest of feelings, certain that she had left part of herself in that makeup chair, she came to a stop. She turned and glanced back to the lighted mirror. She raised a hand to her cheek.
That really is me.
She cocked her head to one side, locked on her image and for a brief second lamented the loss of painted-on teardrops, Elvira eyes, black lace and spikes, a façade certainly attributable to…
The makeup clinician pressed past her, drawing her from the depths of thought. She forced a smile, but her maniacal eyes once more found her reflection in the mirror.
Was my counselor right, I mean goth is beautiful but was I hiding from what I could not face, painting over and disguising…you?
She blinked.
Maybe so, but I still want a tear drop, that’s not hiding, that’s who I am.
She marched back to the chair and sat down. The artist rushed up in a tizzy, babbling in French.
“Makayla,” Donja said calmly. “Tell her I love it, but I want a black teardrop on the left side and my eyes lined a little darker.”
Makayla spoke in French and the artist rolled her eyes.
“Tell her to do it,” Donja said.
Makayla spoke to her again.
Dismayed, the artistic clinician shook her head, then snatched the black liner and painted a tiny teardrop on Donja’s cheek. She finished off the eyes and with a final glance to Donja’s image in the mirror, her demeanor shifted. She smiled as she rattled in French.
“Perfect.” Donja said as her lips curled up, “but what did she say?”
“She said she loves the look,” Makayla giggled as she gripped her clinician by the arm. “I want the same thing.”
They all laughed.
Later, back to Dirk who added a foam mousse to her hair then grabbed a brush and blow-dryer, Donja watched as he transformed her locks into undulating torrents of shimmering elegance. Finished, running his hands through her mane with an inarticulate chunter, he found a smile, spun the chair and took a bow. “Magnificent,” he mused a bit grandiose, as Donja rose to her feet, a new woman.
At the register, Makayla bought kits specially designed for each of them with makeup and hair products, the price tag for their three hours at Déjà vu—outrageous.
Speechless and totally lost in idyllic thought, Donja with her kit in hand followed Makayla down the busy sidewalks, past street vendors toward the Lexus.
“Well aren’t you going to say anything?” Makayla asked, stopping outside a sidewalk vendor displaying his wares.
“Oh, sorry,” Donja blurted, “thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Makayla responded, avoiding eye contact while thumbing through a colorful selection of summer tops, “but that’s not the answer I was hoping for.”
“Pardon?”
“What do you think of the new you?” Makayla asked with raised brows.
Donja exhaled with a huff. “I’m in shock, I mean, I could see myself in the mirror, but I wasn’t at all sure it was me.”
“It is you, and you’re stunning,” she said as they shared a look of intensity. “I hope you can see that.”
“Yes, well…I guess I do but I won’t lie, without the teardrop and thicker eye liner, it wasn’t me. Like I said…gothiglam. It’s beautiful, don’t you agree?”
“In all honesty, I didn’t think I’d like it but you’re right,” she said, “it’s lovely and seeing it combined into gothiglam, well…let’s just say you wear it well. You’re beautiful Donja.”
“Ditto,” Donja smiled, “it looks super on you.”
“Thanks, I’ve had my Prozac for the day,” Makayla laughed.
“And I have my shield,” Donja smiled rummaging through tops and jeans.
“Forget these,” Makayla smirked, “not our style. Let’s get out of here and I’ll show you fashion, my dear. Real fashion.”
Speeding through the cosmopolitan city which was packed with street vendors and mobs of shoppers, Makayla turned into a parking garage which reeked of oil, dirt and exhaust fumes. They got out, the hum of cars from the streets and honking of horns echoing the garage as they walked to the elevator. Donja, still reeling from her transformation, felt her heart palpating as they rode the silver box up three levels. Finally, it halted its ascent and a bell dinged. After what seemed forever the chrome doors slid open, revealing a mall so ritzy that Donja gaped. It was packed with people and had an ice rink in the middle.
Makayla navigated past food vendors and off to one side Donja noticed an amusement park with a roller coaster that looped the entire mall. “Wow, this is incredible, Frankie would love it,” she mumbled as Makayla led them to a high dollar boutique that rivaled New York’s finest.
A classy lady with bouncy blonde hair, dressed to the teeth with diamonds galore, rushed to greet them. She hugged Makayla. “Good to see you, sweetie.”
Makayla pulled back from the embrace. “Jennifer, I want you to meet my sister, Donja. Donja, this is Jennifer Gardner, a long-time friend of my mother’s, who actually owned this boutique at one time.”
“Donja,” Jennifer smiled, false eye lashes framing her blue eyes. “Welcom
e. My, aren’t you a beauty and I love the teardrop. How unique.”
“Thank you,” Donja mouthed, still hung up on the word sister. She rolled it in her head, the word reverberating and though it felt strange, almost unrealistic, it felt good.
A sister, hmm. I didn’t see that coming.
“I want Donja dressed to kill,” Makayla winked. “She’s a vamp, she’s just not entirely convinced.”
Jennifer took Donja’s arm. “Well pretty girl, I’m Makayla’s fairy godmother and I can be yours as well. Now,” she mused softly, “where did I leave my wand?”
Makayla laughed.
Overwhelmed, Donja tried on skimpy dresses and skirts so short, they could almost pass for belts. The styles and colors just kept coming. She picked out an assortment of lacy bras with matching thongs as Makayla cheered from the sidelines. Donja tried on skinny jeans and crop tops and after an hour or two she felt completely overwhelmed but before she could protest, Jennifer dragged her to the shoe section. She must have tried a hundred different pairs of sandals, flats and every color of pumps and stilettos imaginable. Watching Makayla throughout the entire process, Donja noticed the joy in her eyes which seemed to sparkle in ways she had not previously noted.
Finished up and standing at the checkout counter with Donja in burgundy, open toe pumps, a short black skirt and a burgundy top which revealed lots of cleavage, Makayla produced a credit card and it was done. After a hug from Jennifer, and a plea to please return to view her fall collection arriving in two days, they set out for the car in silence, two security guards carrying their bags.
As they pulled out of the parking garage and sped down Huron Street toward customs, Donja shattered the still quiet between them.
“Thanks for all you did, but it was a bit much.”
Makayla smiled but remained silent.
Donja swallowed. “You spent more today than I’ve spent in my entire life on shoes, clothes, perfume, makeup, hair and nails. I don’t know what to say.”
“Just say you like it,” Makayla said with sincerity in her dazzling blue eyes.