I should tell her about the lipstick coming off at lunch and the little wispy white spots that showed. But I can’t bring myself to, her face is so hopeful. And now I’m suddenly mad at her. I managed to keep a good perspective all day long and now she’s ruined it. “You’re making this into some big thing!”
“Me? No, I’m not.” Her face falls.
She’s hurt? This is so unfair. I’m the one with the white lips. “Forget it. Soap and water?”
“Cold cream. I have some.”
We go to the bathroom off her and Dad’s bedroom. She opens a cold cream jar. I dip in a finger and smear it over my lips. White everywhere. Then I wipe with a tissue.
The pink is gone.
My lips are white.
“It must be a character flaw,” I say. “Probably fatal.”
“Dr. Ratner said—”
“I was kidding, Mamma.” Permanently disfiguring. Not fatal.
THE GRAPH OF Y=X2 is a nice deep bowl of a curve with the lowest point at the origin. The sides are mirror images of each other—symmetrical. All these graphs on our calculus homework are familiar to me from ninth-grade geometry, but they’re fun to do again. Symmetries galore.
I touch my lips. They are symmetrical across a vertical axis. Symmetry is part of beauty. Experiments prove that; when presented with pictures of faces, people invariably find the symmetrical ones most attractive. I read about that in sixth grade, for a school project on birds.
Animals turn out to care about symmetry, too. Female zebra finches choose mates with symmetrically colored leg bands. And beauty has a halo effect: attractive people are also judged to be more intelligent and better-adjusted. They’re more popular.
So beauty matters. At least in most people’s eyes. Undoubtedly in Joshua Winer’s eyes.
I’m getting blue again.
None of that—back to graphs.
I like asymptotes. I don’t remember if we learned that word in ninth grade. If we did, we didn’t make a big deal out of it. But Ms. Brame made a big deal out of it today in class.
An asymptote is a line which a curve moves toward as it tends toward infinity but will never reach. I like that idea, though I guess it could be thought of as sad—a poor curve striving to meet a line.
I’m graphing our homework functions while I watch TV. Some CSI thing. My laptop is open beside me. I’m not doing anything with it—Devin and I already IM-ed each other. But it’s just good to be logged on. Ready.
“Pina, phone,” Mamma calls from the kitchen.
I heard it ring, but I never figured it would be for me. A friend would text me. So I’m jangly now. And I don’t like it that whoever is on that phone heard Mamma call me Pina. I run up the basement steps and take the receiver from her. “Hello?”
“Oh, hello, it’s Mrs. Harrison.”
“Hi.”
She wants me to babysit. I love Sarah, her daughter, but I feel suddenly tired. The last time I sat for Sarah, she painted her face with chocolate. Only it wasn’t chocolate. She just thought it was chocolate. It was some kind of chocolate-flavored laxative. And she kept licking it off her hands and I didn’t know how much she had eaten, so I had to call Mamma and we gave her ipecac and she vomited the rest of the night. And had diarrhea, as well. That was a normal night for Sarah.
“How was your first day of school?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“I was wondering if you could babysit Friday night. We’re going out around seven, and I guess we’ll be back by midnight.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Oh.” Silence for a moment. “Well, you know, you’re in eleventh grade now and you have so much experience sitting, we’ve decided to raise your pay an extra dollar an hour. How does that sound?”
“That’s nice. But I can’t, Mrs. Harrison.”
“Did I say ‘dollar’? I meant two dollars.”
“I’m already doing something Friday.”
“You have a date?” She’s not good at hiding her surprise.
I’m almost insulted. Except the people I’m friends with don’t usually date. We hang out together. It’s different. “A party. Anyway, I’m busy.”
“How about a bonus of five dollars at the end of the evening? That’s on top of the raise.”
“It’s not the money, Mrs. Harrison.”
“Please, Pina.”
Whining is unfair. And it’s horrible that she calls me Pina. I hope that’s not her new name for me. “I really can’t. You’ll find someone else.”
“Of course. Of course I will. Good-bye.” Her voice is so sad. “Enjoy your party. Good night, dear.”
I hang up.
Mrs. Harrison called me dear, but she must want to kill me now. Or maybe she wants to kill Sarah.
I go back down into the basement. There’s a message for me on my cell. I blink in disbelief: it’s Joshua Winer.
I’ve texted with Joshua Winer only once before, in fifth grade. We did it just to figure out how texting worked. This feels different. Well, it is different. I stare at his question:
“hey, Sep. hows homework?”
I type: “fine.” That’s lame. That’s what I always say. I delete and type: “normal.”
“what r u doing?”
I type: “learning about asymptotes.” Then I look at it. What if he doesn’t know the word? I delete. I type: “not much.”
“im reading physics.”
I type: “i have physics next semester.”
“2 bad. U could have coached me.”
What do I say to that? I type: “Ha.” But what if he thinks I’m laughing at him? Even when we were little, he didn’t like science so much. Except the part on weather. I remember him getting all excited about precipitation and air pressure and wind and everything. He was cute. I delete and type: “i have to translate a ton of Latin.”
“u should take Spanish. its easy.”
I type: “MayB next semester.”
“then i can coach u.”
I swallow. I type: “that would B fine.” Then I delete fine and type nice.
“i liked ur lipstick today.”
I remember the clerk in the department store. I type: “u didnt think it looked like candy?”
“i like candy. it tastes good.”
Oh… my… God. Joshua Winer is flirting with me. And he’s bad at it. My cheeks are so hot, it feels like a fever. I type: “have to finish my homework. see u.”
“at the party friday. gnite.”
I lower myself to the floor and lie on my back and stare at the pipes that run across our basement ceiling. I close my eyes.
Yes, it is quite clear that my luck sucks: a popular guy notices me just when my lips have turned white and who knows what’s wrong with me. And this particular popular guy is the grown-up version of a guy I used to know well, a guy I used to really like. And he liked my lipstick. A lot. He likes a façade that isn’t me at all. Maybe he doesn’t remember the me I was in fifth grade. Maybe he can’t see the real me past the lipstick. Maybe once my lips turn back to whatever color they really are, and I stop with the lipstick, he’ll walk off without another glance.
“What’s the matter, Slut?”
“I’m dead. That’s why my lips are white. All the blood has drained out of me.”
“Don’t joke around.”
I open my eyes.
Dante’s on his knees beside me. His face is actually concerned. And this morning he was nice to me. Is the whole world changing?
“I just decided to lie down.”
Dante sits on the couch. “That what eleventh grade does to you?”
“How was your first day of high school?”
“You heard at dinner.”
“Yeah, but that was the version you told the parents. How was it really?”
“I only got lost once.”
“Good.”
“I only got punched once.”
“Excellent.”
“I don’t think Ms. LeHiste is as bad an
English teacher as you said.”
“To each his own.”
Dante picks up my cell. “Looks like you have a boyfriend.”
I jump up and grab it. There’s a message—but it’s just from Owen. “That’s Owen, idiot.”
“He’s a guy.”
“Guys and girls are friends in high school. Start texting girls. You’ll see. It’s a lot better than the stupid stuff that happens in middle school.”
“Oh yeah? Friends? Look at his message.”
I look at it again. Owen wrote: “the answer to sex this year.”
“There’s a nonromantic explanation for it, I assure you,” I say.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t asked him yet.”
“Yeah,” says Dante, knowingly.
“Come off it. It’s just Owen, idiot.”
“Sure. That’s how it starts. With Owen Idiot. Then he becomes Owen Not So Dumb. Then Owen Smart. Then you’re in love.”
“Good night, Squirt.” I take my computer and cell and go upstairs.
“Good night, Slut,” he calls up after me.
I go into my bedroom, close the door, drape myself across the bed, and type: “whats the answer to sex?”
“Yes, please.”
Yes, please. I grin at the words. This is infantile. But I like it anyway. I type: “ur the best.” And he is; he never fails to make me laugh.
I already filled out all the school registration information and cards they handed out in homeroom today. In pen. Too bad. I hate to be messy. But sometimes you have to make concessions.
I take all the forms and cards out of my backpack and search for the ‘sex’ slots. They usually come right after ‘name.’ I cross out F and write yes, but there isn’t enough room to add please. Owen must have said that just for my benefit. It sounds better.
Poor Mr. Eberly. I wonder if he gets a headache or if he just thinks we’re all pathetic or if he actually laughs now and then. I would never want to be head counselor at a high school. Kids can be jerks. I’m being a jerk.
When I look back at the cell, Owen’s words greet me: “so r u”
I type: “Latin then bed. see u tomorrow.” I sit up and translate Latin. Usually I like nothing better than unpacking the information in a long, Latin verb, but tonight I find myself falling asleep.
I go to the kitchen and make my lunch for tomorrow. Same as what I had today. What’s the use of changing when what you have is good?
I HIT THE ALARM clock and run to the bathroom mirror.
My lips are still white.
Tears come in an instant.
Was it ridiculous to hope that they’d turn back to lip color overnight? They turned white overnight, after all. What’s to say the whole thing couldn’t reverse itself?
But it didn’t. And that’s that. Cover it up and forget about it.
That elephant again. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think.
I finish my routine, then get dressed. When I go back to the bathroom to put on my new lipstick, Dante’s in there.
I have the urge to pound on the door with the side of my fist. He’d do it to me.
But I’m better than him.
I go to my room and look in the full-length mirror inside my closet door. I open the lipstick.
I can hear Slinky in my head. I apply it lightly. This color doesn’t look as good on me as it looked on her, but at least I now have colored lips.
Mamma’s eyes take in my lipstick and quickly go back to the kitchen counter. “Would you like an omelet? Broccoli and Asiago?” She is not the breakfast maker. Dad is. But she’s good at omelets, and she’s offering my favorite. She feels sorry for me.
I can ride the pity train. “Sure, thanks.” I pour a glass of milk, put it on the table, and stand beside Mamma to watch her cook.
“Is that for me?” Dante comes in, sniffs loudly, and drops into a chair.
Mamma slides the omelet onto a plate and hands it to me. I’m always surprised at the speed of omelets. They taste too good to be that fast. “I’ll make you the same, Dante,” she says. “Pour yourself something to drink.”
“Already got that covered.” Dante drinks my milk.
I keep my plate in one hand and with the other I get down another glass and fill it with milk and go to the table, both hands full.
“You didn’t yell at me.” Dante looks at me with a milk mustache I know he made on purpose.
“What’s the use?”
“You’re learning,” says Dante.
“And you never learn, Squirt. So, really truly, what’s the use?”
“Wait!” Dad puts down his coffee. It’s in a glass. I bought him a set of four glasses for his birthday. They’re double-sided, with air between the two layers, so you can see the coffee, but your hands don’t get burned holding the outside. They’re all Dad uses now. So the design isn’t just clever, it’s better. And I can tell from the dopey look Dad has whenever he uses one of those glasses that he feels loved drinking from them—loved by me.
I smile. “Wait for what?”
Dad runs to the living room. Pretty soon I hear a CD. Dad comes back in. “Louis Jordan. Listen to the song ‘What’s the Use of Getting Sober (When You’re Gonna Get Drunk Again)’ It’s great. And wait till you hear ‘Ain’t Nobody Here But Us Chickens.’” He walks around the kitchen twitching and knocking his elbows around. I think he thinks he’s dancing. And I can’t tell if it’s supposed to be to this song or to the song about chickens.
My father is a tall, gangly mix of Swedish and Norwegian. Mamma calls him il mio vichingo, which means “my Viking” in Italian. It is not a pleasant sight to watch him dance. Still, I’m grinning now. He’s Daddy, after all.
I finish breakfast and race to meet Devin outside her house.
Devin looks annoyed. “You didn’t answer my message.”
“You wrote again? I went to bed early.”
“I figured. You probably finished everything fast. Did you understand the Ovid poem?”
“It was just the first twenty lines.”
“Twenty lines too many,” says Devin. “What was it about?”
“The usual invocation of the gods, to help the poet tell the story. Then stuff about what it was like before there was earth and sea and sky. The big chaos.”
“Yeah, I got that. But what was all that at the end? It felt like a bunch of contradictions.”
“It was. Cold and hot, wet and dry, soft and hard. The world was a mess in the beginning. Or that’s what Ovid thought.”
Devin frowns. “Latin III is going to be boring. Maybe I’ll drop it.”
Latin III is the only class we have together. And it’s the first time we’ve had a class together since we started high school.
“Come on, Devin, don’t drop. We can struggle through it together.”
“I read on the Internet that Ovid would be fun. He’s known for his erotic poems. We could use erotic poems. But there goes Mrs. Reynolds, picking his mythology poems, instead. The woman is juiceless.”
“It’ll get better.”
“Spanish is easier.”
I think of Joshua Winer. Juicy Mr. Cool. “We could do Spanish next semester.”
“All the popular kids are in Spanish now.”
“I hate to break it to you, Devin: Spanish won’t make us popular.”
“It could. If the popular guys liked us. If they recognized how hot we really are.”
I laugh. “Sure, Devin.”
“Are you saying I’m not hot?” She pretends to be insulted.
Devin has long strawberry blond hair, thick and wavy. She’s fleshy, but in a good way, and, no matter what she says, she knows how to dress to make the best of it. Her skin is clear—I don’t think she ever breaks out, even when she gets her period. She has great teeth, icy blue eyes, a nice nose. I’ve always known it, but never quite so clearly; I’m stunned. “You’re beautiful, Devin.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I mean
it. Any guy could like you. But no one would notice me.”
“What do you mean? You’re totally juicy. And it really could happen, ’cause lots of couples split up over the summer.”
That’s been on my mind. Last year Joshua Winer was a couple with Sharon Parker. “Like who?”
“Luke and Corina. Jed and Suzanne. Lots.”
“Anyone else?”
“Are you fishing?”
“Why would I be fishing?”
“You just sound like you’re fishing. You’re not supposed to fish with friends. You’re supposed to tell me.”
I can’t tell her about Joshua Winer. No one in their right mind would believe Joshua Winer was interested in me. Not in that way. Maybe he isn’t. Probably he isn’t. “Do you think I jump to conclusions?”
“Never.”
“Really?”
“You’re the last person in the world to jump to conclusions.” She looks me over. “If I ask you a question are you going to bite off my head?”
I stare at her.
“Why are you wearing lipstick again?”
I’ve been waiting for the chance to tell Devin. I decided this morning, in the shower, that I need to tell her. ’Cause I really am worried now. But all at once I panic. “Did you write yes for sex?”
“The whole eleventh grade did, I think. I never saw a message pass that fast.” Devin lowers her head and talks out of the side of her mouth, like we did when we were little and pretended to be detectives. “You’re avoiding my question.”
“Which question?”
Devin laughs. “Are you trying to get someone with that lipstick? Who?”
“I’m trying to have color in my lips.”
“I noticed. Purple.” Her tone is not appreciative.
“It’s burgundy.”
“Next thing I know, you’ll be wearing all black.”
“Hey, Devin. Hey, Sep.” It’s Becca.
And my chance to talk seriously with Devin is gone. I half want to scream. But only half.
“So,” Becca says to Devin, “have you figured out what you’re wearing Friday night?”
It’s Wednesday. Two more days till Becca’s party.
A lot can happen in two days.
Mamma made an appointment for me with Dr. Ratner for after school tomorrow. There’s still time for things to turn right again.
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