I loop my arm through her elbow so we’re walking along Italian style, like I do with Mamma, and I pull her close so our sides would be touching if our arms weren’t in the way. I squeeze so tight I’m practically lifting her toward me. “It will happen, Devin. Maybe not this year. Maybe not next. But it will. Soon.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“You’re lovable, Devin. And you’re loving. It’ll happen.”
Devin sniffs and I realize she was on the verge of tears. “You’re the best friend ever, Sep.”
“So are you.” And that’s the truth. I love Devin. I want her to be happy. For her sake I even hope she’ll fall in love this year.
“What have you been waiting for?” she asks quietly.
“You mean my whole life? Nothing.”
“Come on, Sep, tell me.”
“No, really. I guess I’m just not like that.”
“Trust me, you are. I bet everyone is. They have to be. And I bet something good will happen to you because you look good. You look like a good person, I mean. People can see it in you. So tell me: what have you been waiting for?”
I look like a good person. What a daft thing to say. But I don’t want to argue with Devin—not now, not the way she’s feeling. “I’m just moving ahead, eyes open. Whatever happens, happens.”
She laughs. “Right. What about the index cards?”
Devin’s no one’s fool. Yesterday she went with me on my annual trek to put index cards in all my new teachers’ school mailboxes, asking them to please call me Sep and never use my full name in class. So she’s right, I do try to control some things—but you’d have to be an idiot not to try to control something like that. “You win.”
But I still don’t think I’ve been waiting my whole life for something. I’m doing what I want to do—daily life is fine. Sure, I want to fall in love. Deep and true. But I’m not in a rush. Devin might be ready. But I’m not.
“Okay, don’t tell me if you don’t want to.” Devin drops my arm. “Becca’s having a party on Friday. Leave it to her to have the first party of the year. A dance party, of course. What are you going to wear? I bought some of those new pants, you know, the cropped ones. Everyone’s got them. I was nice and took Amanda shopping last week and saw them and couldn’t resist. But they look stupid on me. They make my thighs seem huge. Like a whale. Like I shouldn’t walk on the Atlantic City boardwalk or some passing Japanese guy might harpoon me.”
I have no idea what pants she’s talking about—I’ve never been super observant about clothes—but she’s looking at me as though she expects a reaction. “Whales don’t have thighs.”
“You’re supposed to laugh anyway, Sep. It’s called being polite.”
“Sorry. Your thighs are great, by the way.”
“No they’re not. Whatever. I bought white, which is extra stupid, especially since I want to look juicy for this party.”
That’s the way the two of us have always divided the world: everything and everyone is either juicy or juiceless. We tell each other we are definitely juicy, even if no one else has noticed yet. Devin goes on and on, speed talking as though she doesn’t want to give me the chance to interrupt. Right now, though, it’s just fine with me to listen. My lips need time off.
They feel weird. Not because they’re white. They are weird because they’re white. But they feel weird because this lipstick is like a coat of car wax. Gummy. I don’t remember lipstick feeling like this in middle school. Maybe old lipstick rots? What a dumb idea it was to put it on. Now everyone will react like Devin. That’s the last thing I need.
Unless they act like Mamma—the worry in her eyes. That would be worse.
WE GET TO SCHOOL and Devin goes her way and I go mine. I put my backpack away in my locker and watch the girl beside me check her teeth in her iPod mirror. We’re not supposed to bring iPods to school, but she’s packing. I’m not. So I duck into the bathroom for a quick peek at the mirror—yup, ugly pink goop still there—and go to my first class, trying to act natural and disappear at the same time, which I guess sort of works, except maybe nine hundred people say hi to me, so I have to at least nod.
I don’t see Dante anywhere. Probably he’s already lost. I almost feel sorry for him.
Faces parade past. Some have lipstick—but not many. And no one has pink. I bet everyone who passes is thinking, Pink lipstick, what’s up with her? I bend my neck and look at the floor, which is clean—I bet that won’t last a day. It’s a pattern of dark gray diamonds with light gray diamonds in the spaces between. Ugly. I feel sorry for it.
My first class is AP Biology. I have been fascinated by animals for as long as I can remember, so I walk in hopeful, ready to get lost in the whirl of information that’s sure to come.
Mr. Dupris says that swifts stop flying just long enough to nest—but that’s all—the rest of the time, they are in the air.
Swifts sleep in the air.
Could that be true?
Mr. Dupris is an odd duck. According to his own outline of the semester, he’s supposed to be talking about basic chemistry—water and carbon and all that. Instead, he’s jumped ahead to metabolism. His eyes shine and he bounces on his metatarsals, clicking his heels each time, like a metronome. It’s like he can’t stop himself. Like he’s the one with a metabolism problem. But I like teachers who get off the topic. They tend to talk about what they love, and that means they know details that aren’t in the book.
Next is English, and it’s pretty much what I expected it to be. We read a poem—that’s the part of English I’ve always loved, the reading. And sometimes the writing. It’s the discussion that bores me. Today’s discussion feels aimless, like always, and my thoughts keep going back to my lips. I can’t wait for this class to end.
I rush to the bathroom after English and check my lipstick. I rushed here after Bio, too. If anyone’s noticed, they must think I have a urinary tract infection. Or a weak bladder. Or irritable bladder syndrome. Or I’m pregnant. And high school is a rumor mill. This is not cool. On the other hand, I can’t imagine who would notice. Devin says no one notices her. But really I’m the one no one notices.
Just to be sure, though, I lock my eyes on the floor as I exit the bathroom, then race to the lunchroom that way. Today’s lunch is a thick slice of spinach pie. The Italian kind. Mamma made it. It has the flakiest crust in the world, like a little miracle—it’s actually worth reeking of parmigiano afterward.
“Sep? Right?”
I look up.
“I’m Rachel. We’re in Bio together.” She sits beside me on the bench. She’s little and neat, almost prim.
“Nice to meet you.”
“That has a great aroma.”
I laugh. “You could smell my mother’s spinach pie just walking past me?”
“I’m trying to develop a nose. Like they say in wine tasting.” She looks at the pie. And not in a casual way.
It is a particularly big slice. Why not? “Want a bite?”
“Oh, could I? Thanks.” She pulls a fork out of her pocket.
“You come prepared.”
“You never know what you’ll find.” She takes a bite. “That’s insanely good. Simple, but right. Spinach, onions, eggs, parmigiano, ricotta, and nothing but salt and pepper.”
“Exactly. I’m impressed.”
“Thanks so much. Give your mother my compliments. See you in Bio,” she says as she leaves.
I finish the pie with even more appreciation than before, if that’s possible. Simple, but right. You bet. Then I eat a peach from our tree, which is sweeter and juicier than anything store-bought. I finish it off slowly with a thermos of milk.
Oh no. Lipstick came off on the thermos lip. Okay. I’ll go to the bathroom and touch up. No biggie. But my head goes hot anyway. I hold the thermos in front of my mouth and keep my head down and make a dash for it.
And I crash into someone.
“Sep? How you doing?”
I tip my head up. It’s Joshua Win
er. Oh my God. With all that curly hair. He’s big. He looks like a football player, which is a stupid thought because he is a football player. I feel suddenly small. I swallow. “Fine.”
“You know, I was wondering about you just the other day.”
He was? I don’t think we’ve spoken since fifth grade. But we have a history, actually. We were friends that year, fifth grade. The very first week of school Mrs. Sutton taught us all about adventure novels and put us in pairs to write survival stories. Joshua and I were paired together. We hit it off, and after that we chose each other for anything that required a partner. He was my best friend in fifth grade, except for Devin, of course—but Devin wasn’t in my class that year. Then middle school came, and boys and girls couldn’t be just friends anymore. If you talked to a guy, you were going with him. I couldn’t even walk home with Owen, it got so bad. And Joshua got popular and I didn’t. So we stopped talking. For a while I thought about him as Mr. Cool. Then I just stopped thinking about him altogether.
He smiles. “What’s with the thermos?”
Good grief, I’m still holding it in front of my mouth. How much lipstick is gone? It can’t be that much, right? I lower the thermos. “Nothing.”
He nods affably. “So how’re your classes?”
“I only had Bio and English so far.” God, can he smell the parmigiano? I shut my mouth tight.
“AP, huh? Both of them?”
“Just Bio. I’ve never been that good at English.”
“But you’re good at everything else. So, did you have a good summer?”
I nod.
“I heard there’s something going on at Becca’s on Friday.”
I nod.
“You going?”
I nod.
“So maybe I’ll see you there.” He smiles and waves and walks on.
I’m staring after him. No, I’m not allowed to do that—that is totally unacceptable behavior, loser behavior—no, bad girl! I look down.
Joshua Winer talked to me. Mr. Cool. And all I could do was gape. There are nine hundred things I could have said. I mean, I know the guy. He’s just Joshua. How much could he have changed since fifth grade, after all? Well, a lot. But some things don’t change. I could have asked how his big sisters are. We could have complained about our siblings, like we used to do.
I am not a person who counts on luck. But, hey, I deserve better luck than this. I am a great talker. Usually. Please let him remember that.
I go to the bathroom. Only a few hints of white show near the corners of my mouth. I reapply this sticky pink.
Then I stop in the library and check Google. Mr. Dupris is not a big fat liar: swifts eat and mate and sleep in the air.
Life on the wing.
It sounds hard. And dangerous. If you’re asleep, you could fly right into a cat or an owl, mouths open wide. You could fly into the trunk of a tree and brain yourself and fall dead on the ground. And with all the windmills that are going up now, ugh, you could be sliced to smithereens. If I were a swift, I’d probably become an insomniac.
Life shouldn’t be like that. Everyone should have a chance to act smart and avoid dangers—so then if you don’t, well, it’s your own fault.
But maybe that’s the point. Maybe Mr. Dupris is telling us life is like that—it isn’t a matter of should or shouldn’t. We can’t count on fair. Some of us wind up with white lips, after all.
I SUPPOSE DRUGSTORE LIPSTICK is cheaper. And I’m usually thrifty. So I don’t really know why I’m in this department store. Maybe I’m pampering myself. I feel the blues coming on.
That’s dumb. I can’t really be worried. Dr. Ratner isn’t a moron. If this was serious, he would have made me come in right away instead of waiting till Thursday.
But just to be sure, I stopped back in the library after school and Googled “white lips.” Sites came up about little white bumps on your lips. Herpes. My lips are smooth. Besides, there’s no way I could have herpes. You get herpes from kissing someone who has it. I haven’t kissed anyone since Raul last spring—and that hardly counted, and, anyway, I would have shown symptoms long before now if he’d been infected.
I think.
Another site was in Chinese. So much for that. Another site was about musical taste, and suggestions for what to listen to. Nope. Then there were sites about CO2 training. I don’t know what that is, but it can’t be relevant.
So I gave up. If white lips are a symptom of something, it’s probably not anything dangerous, or those things would have come up at the very head of the list. Right?
My job is to cover up and forget about it till Thursday. Easy. Sure. Like not thinking of an elephant when people say, “Don’t think of an elephant.”
Whatever. I’m anxious. But maybe the real reason I’m pampering myself, the real source of my impending gloom, is Joshua Winer. I want him to like me. That is a terrible realization. Our friendship in elementary school was sort of like a crush. We never kissed, of course, or even held hands. But it was special in that preteen boy-girl way. Maybe I never got over it.
I swallow. Could I be that dumb? I’m a realistic person. When groups formed in middle school, the social hierarchy quickly became clear. I’m not popular or pretty—so I’m not on Mr. Cool’s tier. People from different tiers don’t mix.
And that means I don’t like the fact that I can’t get him out of my head now.
I need a picker-upper, all right.
I have set my sights on lipstick. After all, lipstick saved the day today. Lipstick is the best short-term solution. And shiny pink, while it seemed pretty to me when I was ten, is totally ridiculous now. So here I stand, at the cosmetics counter in this fancy department store, looking at shades.
“Can I help you?” The clerk has very black, very dyed hair. Her lips are purple. She’s young, and both hair and lips look good on her. Slinky, that’s a name to fit her.
“Do you have lip color?”
“This is a cosmetics counter; we have lots of lipstick.”
“I mean lipstick in lip color—the color of lips.”
“Oh, you mean clear? You want lip gloss, then.”
“No, not clear. I mean the natural color of lips.”
“Everybody’s got different colored lips.”
“I want my color.”
“What’s your color?”
I was hoping she could tell from the rest of me. Oh, dear. I’m trying to remember. It isn’t actually that easy. It’s not like you list it on forms all the time, after color of hair and color of eyes. I know it’s darker than my cheeks. “Brown.”
“You want brown lipstick?” She makes it sound as though I’m demented.
“I just want to look natural.”
“Then don’t wear lipstick.”
“Do you want to sell me lipstick or not?”
“I don’t care. I get paid by the hour. What, did you think this was a commission job?”
Attitude. Everyone has attitude. I’m used to it. High school is the definition of attitude. But right now it makes me feel defeated. “I need help,” I say, and my voice sounds pathetic even to me.
Slinky softens. She puts her elbows on the counter, rests her chin in her palms, and studies my face. “Did you choose that pink you’re wearing?”
“Yes. But I was only ten then.”
“Good. Do you want me to choose a shade for you?”
“Yes. Please.” Then I add, “Thank you.”
Her fingers run over the dozens of glossy tubes. “Here.”
“That’s purple.”
“It’s burgundy. A wine color. It’s more sophisticated than that cotton-candy pink. It’ll look good on you. Give me your hand.”
I stretch my hand out.
She draws a heart on the back of my hand in purple lipstick. “See? Isn’t that nice?”
“I’ll take it.”
“Apply it lightly. Not gobbed on like that.”
My lipstick is gobbed on? “Lightly does it,” I say.
“Do
you want mascara, too?”
“No.”
“Yeah, you don’t really need it, with those black lashes. How about some tweezers?” She’s eyeing my brows.
Does she want to totally remake me? But this is her job—right. “Tweezing hurts.” I remember well from middle school.
“What’s a little pain for beauty?”
“It just grows back anyway.”
Slinky laughs, but in the nicest way.
I pay and half-run all the way home. Purple lipstick. What did I just do? Do I even like purple? I feel a strong need for the privacy of my bedroom. I sneak in the front door.
“Slut’s home.”
“Don’t call her that.” Mamma comes running out to me. “Why are you so late? How are you feeling?”
“No vomiting. No fever. What else did you ask this morning? Oh yeah, no bleeding.”
“Unless you count her period,” yells Dante from the living room.
I don’t have my period. But it’s coming. I can feel it in the heavy blumpiness of my belly. How did Dante know?
I stand in the hall and look at Dante. He’s on the floor in front of Nonno’s chair. Nonno was Mamma’s father. He’s been dead over a year. Still, no one sits in the soft fake leather that used to hold his indentation.
Except Rattle. Who isn’t there now.
When Mamma’s cooking, Rattle’s in the kitchen—and Mamma’s clearly been cooking. Her hands are garlic. Rattle is undoubtedly under the table, nose lifted hopefully toward the stove, since his sense of smell is great, even if he’s too blind to see anything.
Rattle came from the SPCA when he was only a year old. An overgrown mutt puppy with a broken tail. He thumps it on the floor, and immediately you know it’s separate pieces inside. Without all that hair, it would rattle. But there is all that hair. So how did Dante know enough to name him that, and when he was only five?
Does my brother have unknown powers?
Mamma’s been looking me over this whole while. “You seem healthy. Go wash off that lipstick and let’s take a peek.” She clasps her hands in front of her waist.
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