Addie Bell's Shortcut to Growing Up

by Jessica Brody

  When my screen is finally clear of notifications, I start exploring the phone. This day has been so crazy and confusing I haven’t even had a chance to look closely at it until now.

  I swipe through page after page of apps. There are so many, I start to get dizzy.

  Do I actually use all these?

  I can’t even figure out what most of them are.

  After searching for what feels like hours, I finally locate my photos folder. I click on it and start scrolling through countless rows of pictures.

  This is what I should have been doing from the very beginning! This has all the answers! My sixteen-year-old self takes at least ten pictures a day. It’s like my entire life is documented right here. Everything I’ve missed.

  Most of the pictures are selfies of Clementine and me. Making bored faces in the hallway at school, laughing in the cafeteria, hanging out at the mall, drinking coffee at the Human Bean (I knew it! I do hang out there!), filming our beauty tutorials. Some pictures have other people in them, too. People I sort of recognize from today.

  As I scroll through the photos, I get that same pang of sadness that hit me earlier today when I thought about missing my sister’s graduation. It’s obvious from these pictures that I have a pretty amazing life at age sixteen. I wear cute clothes, my makeup always looks good, I’m constantly smiling or laughing, and it appears I have tons of friends. But as hard as I try, and for as long as I stare at the pictures, I still can’t remember any of these moments. It’s like they all happened without me. Even though I’m in all of them.

  It’s like I just skipped over everything.

  A shortcut right through my life.

  But the most disheartening part is I can’t find one picture with Grace in it.

  I scroll and scroll and scroll, all the way back to the very beginning. To the first photo I took, which is dated around the time I would have started high school. When my parents finally bought me a cell phone. There are thousands of pictures. Of me, of Clementine, of Rory, of Buttercup as an adorable, fluffy little puppy.

  But Grace isn’t in any of them.

  It doesn’t make sense! Grace and I are best friends. At least, we were. When we were twelve.

  Discouraged, I toss the phone aside. As enlightening as it was, I still have so many questions.

  Like why don’t Grace and I hang out anymore? And how did I become friends with Clementine? From the looks of those photos, we’ve been friends since at least freshman year.

  Which means something happened between the end of middle school and the beginning of high school. Something that flipped my entire life upside down and turned my best friend into my enemy.

  Something I can’t, for the life of me, remember.

  My mom doesn’t get home from work until after seven o’clock. I was too hungry to wait for her to make dinner—does she even still make dinner anymore?—and I don’t know how to cook, so I just ate peanut butter off a spoon because I couldn’t find any bread or jelly to make sandwiches.

  When she walks through the garage door, I’m so happy to see a friendly, familiar face that I jump out of my chair at the kitchen table, letting my peanut butter spoon clank to the floor, and throw my arms around her.

  She startles but eventually hugs me back.

  “Adeline?” she says cautiously. “Are you okay?”

  I sniffle, feeling tears start to form in my eyes. “I had a weird day,” I say, knowing that I can’t tell her what really happened. I’m not sure I can tell anyone. Not without risking being thrown into a mental institution.

  But then I realize, with another punch of sorrow, that there is one person I could have told.

  Grace.

  She might not have believed me right away—she’s way too logical and scientific for that—but maybe she would have believed me eventually. At the very least, she would have listened. And she would have tried to help.

  That is, if we were still friends.

  And that’s when I start crying. Like uncontrollable, messy sobs, complete with rivers of snot and floods of tears. Right into my mother’s crisp black suit, which unfortunately looks pretty expensive.

  “Hey, hey,” she coos. “What happened? Do you want to talk about it? Did you and Clementine get into a fight?”

  I shake my head. “No. It’s just…” I pause to sniffle. “High school isn’t exactly what I thought it would be.”

  I exhale a raspy breath. It’s the truth. And it feels so good to say aloud.

  My mom chuckles knowingly and pulls back to kiss my forehead. “Nothing ever is.”

  It’s right then, being so close to her and looking into her eyes, that I notice how much older she looks. There are lines on her face that weren’t there before, and new streaks of gray in her hair.

  “Mom?” I ask, stepping back and rubbing my nose with the palm of my hand.

  She smiles and sets her stuff down on the table. “Yeah?”

  There’s so much I want to ask her. Why did she go back to work? Why did Rory choose a college halfway across the country? What happened between Grace and me? But I know all those questions will just make me sound crazy. So I stick to something safe and normal. “How was work?”

  She breathes out a heavy sigh as she walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge. “Oh, you know, the usual. Same thing, different day.”

  I bite my lip in frustration and try again. “Do you like your job?”

  She peers at me from around the side of the refrigerator door, her eyebrows pinched together, and I fear that I might have asked the wrong question. But then she simply smiles and says, “It’s a whole lot better than sitting around here all day doing nothing.”

  For some reason her answer makes me feel defensive. “But you didn’t sit around here all day doing nothing. You were a mom. You did things around the house. You took care of us.”

  Mom gives me another bewildered look and then chuckles softly. “Sure, when you were younger there was more to do. But now with Rory off at school and you with your own car and all of your friends, it doesn’t make a lot of sense for me to stay home. It’s not like you need me here anymore.”

  My fists clench at my sides. I’m not sure why this makes me so angry. I want to argue that it does make sense. That I do still need her here. But I quickly realize that it may not be the truth.

  I’m still figuring out this new life of mine. I’m still putting all the pieces together. Maybe she’s right. Maybe now that I’m sixteen, I don’t need her anymore.

  I admit the idea makes me feel strangely excited and completely alone at the same time.

  She goes back to searching through the fridge. I think about offering her my peanut butter, but then I remember I dropped my spoon, and when I bend down to look for it, I see Buttercup pushing it around the kitchen floor with her nose, trying to lick off the last bits of food.

  “Mom?” I ask.

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you know what happened to my trumpet?”

  She closes the fridge and places an armful of ingredients for what looks like an omelet on the counter. “I’m pretty sure it’s in the basement.”

  “What’s it doing in the basement?” I ask, confused. That seems like a pretty inconvenient place to keep it.

  Mom retrieves a small frying pan from a cabinet and places it on the stove. “We put it there after you quit.”

  “I quit?” I screech without thinking. Mom shoots me a weird look. I try to erase the shock from my face and remind myself to play it cool. Act natural. “Oh, yeah. That’s right.” I pause, chewing pensively on my bottom lip. “So, um, I’m totally blanking, but when did I quit, again?”

  Mom turns on the burner. “What is this about?”

  “Nothing. I was just, you know, thinking about life and the choices we make.”

  Mom laughs like this is the funniest thing she’s heard in years. “You were just thinking about life?” she mocks.

  I cross my arms, slightly offended. “Yes.”

  She throw
s a slab of butter into the pan and tilts it, coating the bottom. “Okay. Well, I’m pretty sure it was seventh grade. Shortly after your twelfth birthday. Do you want an omelet?”

  I dig my nails into my palms, trying to hide the frustration in my voice. “No thanks. I already ate. I’m just going to go upstairs and…” But then suddenly my mind goes blank. Truthfully, I have no idea what I’m going to do next. I want answers and I still don’t know where to find them. “Get a head start on my homework, I guess.”

  Mom raises her eyebrows skeptically. “Don’t you have plans tonight?”

  “Probably,” I mumble as I head up the stairs. Then, under my breath, I add, “Not that I’d remember if I did.”

  I pace anxiously around my room, trying to sort through these jumbled pieces of information in my head. But they still don’t seem to want to fit together in any way that makes sense. There are far too many holes.

  Grace hates me.

  Clementine is my best friend.

  I pretended to bomb a math test to impress Cute Connor.

  My sister goes to a school named after a side dish.

  I run a beauty vlog.

  I quit playing the trumpet.

  I can’t believe I quit! I mean, sure, I was never really that good at it, but it was one of our things. Grace’s and mine. We started lessons together when we were seven. My mom would drop me off at Grace’s house every Wednesday and the teacher would come over and we’d play together. We used to drive Grace’s little sister, Lily, crazy with all our loud honking and off-key scales. She would walk around the house in noise-canceling headphones that were way too big for her tiny head.

  I think back to the hallway after English class today. When Grace laughed in my face and said, “You? In marching band? Now, that would be uproarious.”

  I grab my phone and type uproarious into a search.

  The definition doesn’t make me feel any better.

  up-roar-i-ous: provoking loud laughter, hysterical.

  Well, that’s pretty rude. She thinks the very idea of me in the marching band is funny? I could be in marching band. I can walk and play an instrument at the same time. What does she know?

  Obviously a lot more than I do. I didn’t even know that I’d quit.

  My phone vibrates in my hand. It’s another one of those stupid reminders.

  Don’t forget your costume!

  “What does that mean?” I yell at the phone.

  “What?” I hear my mom call from downstairs.

  “Nothing!” I call back and throw the phone onto my bed. Then I collapse next to it, burying my face in the chic fuchsia throw pillows.

  I wanted to be sixteen so badly, but so far, it’s nothing like I thought. None of it makes any sense. I don’t understand how one life can change so much in only four short years. I just wanted to be older so I could have a cell phone and wear makeup and not shop in the kids’ department.

  I didn’t think I’d have to trade in my best friend to get those things.

  My phone vibrates again. I sigh and swipe at the screen to find another text message from Clementine. This one says:

  Clementine: Pick you up for the dance at 9?

  WHAT????

  I grip the phone tightly in my hand, staring at the screen with my mouth hanging open and my heart banging against my rib cage. Is this what everyone was referring to when they were talking about something happening tonight?

  “There’s a dance?” I shriek, leaping to my feet. I start jumping up and down on my bed, all my anger and worries and unanswered questions instantly forgotten.

  My mom, having evidently heard all the commotion, comes running into my room a moment later, still gripping her spatula. She stops short in the doorway when she sees me bouncing like I’m on a trampoline. “Are you okay?” she asks warily.

  “There’s a dance tonight!” I shout back.

  “I guess that means you’re feeling better?” Mom confirms.

  “There’s a dance toniiiiight!!!!” I sing at the top of my lungs, laughing giddily before doing a seat drop and landing on my feet.

  Mom shakes her head and laughs. Then, right before turning around to go back to the kitchen, I hear her mutter to herself, “Oh, to be a teenager again.”

  My first high school dance! My first high school dance! All those years watching Rory get ready for dances—dresses, shoes, makeup, jewelry, perfume!—and now it’s finally, finally my turn!

  I spend the next five minutes buzzing around my room like a bee on a sugar high, until I finally catch a glimpse of my clock.

  Clementine said she’d pick me up at nine and it’s already quarter after eight! I have less than an hour to get ready. Okay, time to focus.

  First, I need to find something to wear. Which shouldn’t be hard, given that my closet is full of awesome clothes that most definitely did not come from the kids’ department.

  Except it is hard. Because all those awesome clothes are either still in a heap on my floor or messily hung up in my closet in no particular order. Why is my sixteen-year-old self such a slob? Why doesn’t she take better care of her stuff? It’s like she doesn’t appreciate it at all.

  After ransacking the piles and piles of fabric on the floor, I finally find something I love. It’s a strapless knee-length dress with a silver sequin top and flowy turquoise skirt that’s short in front and long in the back. It looks like something a Greek goddess would wear. You know, if a Greek goddess were going to an awesome high school dance!

  I find a stunning pair of sparkly silver high heels in the back of my closet. They’re a little hard to walk in because they’re so high, but I’m a quick learner. I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it by the time Clementine arrives. Besides, they’re too gorgeous not to wear. And when I slip them on, it’s like I’ve magically grown three inches.

  How tall am I now, anyway?

  I slide out of the heels, grab a pencil, and run over to the doorframe. With my back pressed firmly against the wood, I run the pencil back and forth across the top of my head. Then I turn around and nearly faint.

  I’ve grown almost a foot!

  I’m five foot four inches tall now!

  I’m practically a supermodel!

  I guess Mom was right. My preteen growth spurt came after all.

  After finding a beautiful matching silver necklace, bracelet, earrings, and a sequined clutch to top it all off, I take a deep breath and pull open the magic makeup drawer. A huge grin spreads across my face. I’d almost forgotten how incredible it is. Lip glosses in every shade. Eye shadow palettes lined up like books on a shelf. More eyeliner pens and pencils than I have regular pens and pencils in my desk!

  I reach for a pressed-powder compact and pop it open, ready to cover my face in the silky cream-colored pigment. But suddenly I flash back on Clementine’s expression this morning when she witnessed my last makeup attempt, and my smile collapses.

  Because of that four-year memory gap, I really have no idea what I’m doing with this makeup business. My sixteen-year-old self may be a professional beauty vlogger with tons of eager followers, but I’m completely clueless.

  And then it hits me.

  I’m a professional beauty vlogger! Clementine and I have a successful beauty vlog on YouTube! My skills are all documented!

  I grab my phone, open up the YouTube app, and type “Shimmer and Shine” into the search box. The results come back instantly, with hundreds of videos each with tons of views and comments. I scroll through them in complete awe.

  We’re practically celebrities!

  I click on one called “Date Night Prep” and prop the phone up against the mirror of my dresser. A few seconds later, my own face comes onto the screen.

  It’s obviously the sixteen-year-old face I have now (which I still haven’t completely gotten used to) and my makeup looks incredible.

  “Hi! It’s Adeline here for Shimmer and Shine,” YouTube Me says gleefully to the camera. “Today I’m going to show you how to get this smoking-hot d
ate night look.”

  Whoa. I sound so mature and sophisticated.

  The scene changes and suddenly I’m looking at a close-up shot of my own face. The camera pans from my eyes—which are expertly painted with shimmery golds and browns—across my highlighted cheekbones, and down to my lips, which look full and sparkly.

  “Isn’t this look divine?” YouTube Me says. “It’s super-easy, you guys. Here’s how I did it.”

  The scene changes again and now I’m looking at myself with a clean face. I’m standing in front of a bathroom mirror with a bunch of makeup and brushes spread out on the counter in front of me.

  “I’m going to start with my cream foundation in the shade of Tauptastic and my number-seventeen concealer brush,” YouTube Me explains.

  I watch in awe as the girl in the video skillfully brushes foundation onto her face in quick circular strokes, smoothing out her skin and covering the scattering of freckles on her cheeks. I locate the exact same foundation she’s using and the matching brush, and attempt to copy the technique. It’s a lot harder than she makes it look.

  Following the rest of the tutorial, I apply bronzer, eye shadows, eyeliner, mascara, lip liner, lip gloss, and blush. There are a lot of steps involved, and so many tools. More than I ever imagined. It takes me three times as long as it does on the video because I have to keep pausing and rewinding to figure out what the heck she’s doing. Plus, I still can’t get over how weird it is to be watching myself do all these things I don’t remember doing and then attempting to do the exact same thing on the exact same face…with much-less-impressive results.

  When I’m finished, it certainly doesn’t look as good as it does on YouTube Me’s face, but I can already see a vast improvement from this morning. I suppose the rest of it will just take practice. YouTube Me has had a lot more experience than I have.

  It takes me a few minutes to navigate the stairs in these heels—and I nearly bite the dust twice—but I finally get downstairs a little after nine, my heels making loud clopping noises on each step. My parents are watching television in the family room. I stop in the doorway and stare at my dad. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since I woke up in this new life. It’s so weird! He’s literally aged four years overnight. He looks mostly the same, but the hair around his temples is grayer and he has a few more wrinkles around his eyes.