Kiss n Tell

by Suzy McCoppin

  Anais slept soundly next to me. She was such a pretty sleeper. I was always jealous of that.

  I basically slept over at Anais’s every weekend. The night of Xander’s party was no exception, thank God. The last thing I needed was to go home and face my lame-ass family after the diarrhea incident and feel even more pathetic than I already did. Pam, on the other hand, handled the situation perfectly. A sensible pep talk followed by an offering of sweets, and then she left us the eff alone to wallow in peace.

  Anais stirred, turning away from the window, and groaned. A half-eaten log of cookie dough rolled off the edge of the bed, landing on the wall-to-wall carpet with a dull thud. Anais jerked upright at the sound.

  “What happened?” she asked groggily.

  Without taking my eyes off the television, I pointed feebly to the cookie dough. Anais sighed. “Jesus,” she said.

  “A-men,” I seconded bitterly.

  Anais propped herself up, wiping her eyes. She nodded to the TV. “My Best Friend’s Wedding,” she chirped. I shrugged. We watched in silence for about ten minutes, until we heard a light rapping on the door.

  “Come in!” we called.

  “Hi girls,” Pam said carefully, poking her head inside.

  “Hi,” we said in unison.

  “I heard the TV and figured you were finally up,” she said, creeping across the threshold and taking a seat at the very edge of the bed. “It’s 1 o’clock!” she marveled softly. I grudgingly muted the movie at my favorite part: when Rupert Everett bursts into song at the rehearsal dinner. “Anyway, I’m sorry you’re still groggy, it’s just that we’ve been waiting so long, I had to—”

  “We?” Anais interjected, quizzical.

  Pam smiled nervously and pulled a strand of hair behind her ear. “I know you’re really upset,” she stared carefully. “And, I just—I’m a mom. You probably won’t trust anything I say because obviously, I’m biased. So I invited over a friend to talk to you.”

  We frowned. There, in the doorway, an immaculately-coiffed sliver of a man with deep, olive skin and platinum-dyed, close-cropped hair sidestepped into Anais’s turquoise den of gloom. It was as inapt as a pink pony grazing in her underwear drawer.

  “This is Raven,” Pam said. “He works with me at the salon. In fact, I was once his assistant, when you two were really little.”

  “Don’t you dare tell them how many years we’ve known each other, Pamela, or I’ll lose all credibility,” he scolded, chuckling. Pam playfully slapped him on the shoulder. I shot Anais some what the hell is going on eyes, which were met by a beats me shrug.

  Pam worked as a colorist at the Neil George salon in Beverly Hills, where loads of celebrities get their hair done. It was mainly C- and D-list stars, but it was still pretty awesome. We always begged Pam for all the dirty details—who’s a bitch, who’s cool, who’s hair is secretly dull and lifeless, who looks way too skinny in person—but she didn’t like to gossip.

  She also just so happened to do Stella Beldon’s highlights, but she never said a word about that. I always pictured Stella waltzing in and never taking her eyes off her iPhone while multiple professionals fawned over her precious mane. I guess getting snubbed like that by a teenager would be pretty humiliating. I don’t blame Pam for not wanting to dish about it.

  Raven settled in, propping himself against Anais’s desk, which we assembled ourselves in a junk food stupor after a particularly raucous trip to Ikea. It creaked a little under his weight and a screw popped out, cartwheeling across her sky blue carpet, landing inches from the cookie dough log. Raven instantly straightened himself out and opted to stand instead, casting a quick, derisive glance at the Pillsbury wrapper before returning his attention to us, his face arranged in a smile.

  “I hope you heard what I told you last night in the car,” Pam started, “about people like those girls.” We nodded. “I brought Raven here,” she said, smiling at him, “because he thinks he can help.” She nodded at him, his cue to launch into some after school special, I was sure of it.

  He smiled at Anais. “I have heard so much about you, sweetheart, this is a trip, meeting you. You are even lovelier than your mom says.”

  “Thank you,” Anais murmured shyly, pulling the duvet nearly up to her chin.

  “I don’t know these ladies personally—well, aside from Stella Beldon,” he added, turning to Pam swiftly. Pam avoided his look. “But I certainly know the type,” he finished, shaking his head once. “Working at the salon you encounter many, uh, shall we say characters…” Raven laughed, trailing off.

  “That’s a generous way of putting it,” I muttered bitterly.

  “Listen to me,” Raven said, meeting our eyes. “Those girls are hiding behind a very slick veneer; the designer clothes, the name-brand makeup, the hair. That’s a lot of armor that you don’t have, so I get why you feel defeated by them. But pretty girls like you don’t need a dollar to look like that. You just need a few tricks.”

  I looked to Anais, my cynical touchstone. Shockingly, she didn’t appear suspicious. So this Raven guy did hair, possibly celebrity hair. He was carrying a duffel from Marc Jacobs’s last season. I recognized it from a back issue of Elle with Emily Blunt on the cover I’d basically memorized. He was sinewy, like he did a lot of yoga. This guy was pretty with it. But there was something else about him … maybe his voice, which sounded shaky even though he was clearly trying to seem confident and command the room … it made me think he could relate to us. He unzipped his duffel and pulled out a hair dryer, some brushes, a few bottles of product, and a professional makeup palette.

  “Now, this isn’t a makeover,” he warned. “This is a lesson. It’s not going to be fast and easy. You should treat it like school.”

  We nodded, stunned. He motioned for Anais to sit in the desk chair. He wet her long, thick reddish-blonde hair and, using a razor, sliced layers into her one-length cut. He explained that this added lightness, shape, and body, so it wasn’t just a long wall of hair. Then he moved on to makeup, using a light base of tinted moisturizer on her face, topped with shimmery powder to set it. He used a blush that I thought looked way too dark to contour her cheeks, but it actually turned out really pretty. He lined her green eyes with plum-colored pencil and brushed on tons of mascara. The whole look was completed with some raspberry-colored lip gloss.

  Anais leaned her face really close to the mirror, studying herself. Her skin was creamy and even, her hair bouncy and vibrant, her lips full and dewy, and her eyes enormous, framed with sexy midnight lashes. When she squinted a little, cocking her head to the right, I could tell she recognized something truly beautiful in herself. It was her Sabrina moment!

  She shook her head. “I look … older,” she said, astounded. Raven nodded, ushering Anais out of the chair and onto the bed. She moved like a zombie, stunned by her own beauty.

  “But still fresh and youthful,” he said.

  “Let me see you,” Pam said, stepping around Raven to get a closer look at her daughter.

  She took Anais’s hands and gasped. “Gorgeous!” she exclaimed.

  Raven nodded. “After I do your friend, we’ll discuss wardrobe options. ‘Cause it’s all about looking like you’re not even trying.” He patted the seat of the desk chair three times, beckoning me.

  It all happened so fast. I often try to recall the slow-motion version of that morning— the morning before we would have to go back to school to face the people who poisoned us— but no matter what, it always comes out in vignettes, like a montage. Pam was pretty awesome at makeup, but this guy was a borderline miracle-worker. It’s not that I didn’t think Anais was totally hot before—I did—it’s just that, when he was done with her, her whole face, her whole beauty, enhanced, like she was this super version of herself. I was so exhausted my brain couldn’t even process excitement or anticipation as I lowered myself into the chair. A chill ran up my back and I crossed my arms over my chest. I guess I was a little bit scared.

  “Girl, who in the he
ll did this to your hair?” Raven scolded, picking at the overgrown strands of my bowl cut.

  “My mother,” I groaned, feeling my face flush.

  Raven laughed. “Lucky for you, I’m a goddamn visionary,” he bragged.

  He spritzed my hair until it was damp and went to town, shaving layers and long, side- swept bangs so it was more like a shaggy bob. He cocked his head to the left, his brow furrowed, as he blew me out. I looked in the mirror when he was done and it was just … weird. Like someone Photoshopped Victoria Beckham’s hair onto my head.

  “You have to see it with the makeup,” Raven said, fingertips grazing the palette. Always the perfect student, Anais peered over his shoulder as Raven painted my face, scrutinizing his every move.

  “So that’s for her crease,” she confirmed, pointing to a metallic eye shadow. “Yes, the darker color goes in the crease. The neutral goes all over.”

  “Is that lip gloss?” she asked as Raven squeezed some rose-colored cream onto his index. “No, honey, it’s liquid blush. It’s not great for your skin but someone like your friend here, who’s fair but has a bit of olive in her skin tone, can benefit from something a bit heavier than the powder stuff. Look how this makes her glow,” he said, applying it to the apples of my cheeks and the length of my nose. He put the finishing touches on me and stood back, admiring his work.

  “Wow,” Anais exclaimed.

  “Right?” Raven said.

  “Gorgeous. Just gorgeous,” Pam marveled.

  “Really?”

  I turned to the mirror.

  I swear to God, for a split, fraction of a second, I didn’t recognize myself. So much so that I was jealous of the girl in the mirror who was clearly elegant and classy, with fantastic bone structure. I was in awe of her. I hated her. I wanted to be her. And then I came to my senses and realized I was her. And it was magical. It was the most empowering thing I’d ever felt.

  The thing about my face is that it’s not necessarily unattractive, like I don’t have a massive nose or debilitating acne or bad teeth or anything, it’s just that there’s nothing too special about it, either. I have light brown hair that pretty much always looks stringy unless I put it up in a ponytail or little chignon or something. I have smallish brown eyes that don’t make much of a statement on their own, but with makeup look basically normal, maybe even pretty. I have a long, narrow nose and a wide, thin-lipped mouth kind of like Gwyneth Paltrow’s. It’s the type of face that, combined with my string bean frame, can look a bit “Brothers Grimm.” But gazing in the mirror after Raven did his number on me, I looked like one of the avant garde girls in the Miu Miu ads from the pages of Harper’s BAZAAR: waifish, glamorous, and elusive, which was at least as cool as the Shrew Crew could ever be.

  “I’m like them,” I murmured, amazed.

  Raven nodded, leaning over my shoulder. “But you’re not them. You’re you. That’s the real beauty of it. You see?”

  Oh, I saw.

  I saw someone just as good as the Shrew Crew. I looked as good as them, but in fact I was better, because I didn’t happen to be a total wench from hell.

  I know what Pam hoped I’d take away from this experience was somewhere along the lines of what Anais’s motto had forever been: work hard, keep your head down, try to ignore them, and you’ll be better off—soon enough. Keep your dignity. Well, that wasn’t good enough for me. I needed something I could sink my teeth into. If it’s true that underneath the perfect black-and-white Chanel “C” emblazoned on their quilted leather book bags, underneath their tiny, Kate Somerville-pampered pores, their Smashbox lips, J Brand-clad legs and Louboutin soles, there was nothing but misery, I could beat them at their own game. I practiced arching one eyebrow in the mirror demonically, like I’d always wanted to do. It needed work, but I wasn’t worried. I was going to take those bitches down.

  8.

  BACK TO HELL

  Anais

  I wouldn’t say I was ready to face my fellow Cranbrook students, but when Monday morning rolled around, I was resigned to it. The truth of the matter: this day wasn’t much different from every other day. The stomach flips, the uncertainty, the wall of shame that kept me from really connecting with any of my classmates besides Vaughn—these were all regular elements of my everyday life. It’s hard to explain but I could already sense that this makeover thing really changed me.

  For one, it made me want to spend more time in front of the mirror. The second Raven ushered me out of the chair, I felt a magnetic pull, calling me back to my reflection. I was already fifteen minutes behind schedule, and I hadn’t even started my makeup yet. I was fussing with my hair, smoothing out flyaways and fluffing it at the root. I had taken copious notes and compiled a list of steps for my face, starting with a primer and finishing it off with lip gloss and a spritz of lavender water. I executed the whole process with near-militaristic order and precision.

  Vaughn, on the other hand, was wide awake and firing off hectic messages before dawn:

  My hair’s not right.

  I look like a lesbian who looks like Justin Bieber.

  After Raven had transformed us, we’d piled into his Saab 93 convertible and headed west on Ventura toward Target, where we loaded up on budget supplies to maintain our new looks. Vaughn was pretty cocky in the store, flitting about the aisles, not giving Raven her full attention, and that morning, it seemed like she was choking.

  WTF

  Did I take home your eyeliner by mistake??

  I look like a transvestite!

  My mom dropped a bowl of Fruit Loops on my desk as I sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the mirror, carefully applying blush to my cheeks. She crouched over my shoulder.

  “Very nice!” she exclaimed. “You’re a quick study.” She squeezed my shoulder and kissed me on the head. I smiled lamely, grateful she didn’t nag me for running late. When I finished my makeup, I grabbed my phone just as it vibrated for the nineteenth time that hour.

  Vaughn was legitimately freaking out. I didn’t necessarily blame her. Raven’s expertise improved my confidence, but I was still nobody’s fool. I knew no amount of makeup could distract from the shame and humiliation of Saturday night’s events. In fact, a small part of me was concerned it could make it worse. The Shrew Crew wasn’t the brightest bunch, but they could smell desperation a mile off. They’d see right through our flimsy makeovers to the squishy core of our insecurity, and they’d tear us to shreds.

  My Blackberry blared again.

  SAY SOMETHING!!

  I sighed, typing with one hand as I tossed some notebooks into my bag. You’re gonna look gorgeous, I wrote, shoveling soggy Fruit Loops into my mouth. I tried to think of something else encouraging, but all I could come up with was:

  But if I’m late for French, I will spit on you, compris?

  I doubted she appreciated that, but it must have been a decent motivator because just as I approached the bus stop, I heard the sound of her flip-flops clapping furiously against the pavement behind me. She was panting like a dog, her shoulder bag flailing, her pleated uniform skirt flapping in the breeze, hurdling toward me desperately, but she looked incredible. Her face glowed and the new anti-bowl cut really made a difference.

  “Wow,” I said, as she collapsed on the bench, catching her breath.

  “Despite the meltdown, I came through for you,” she breathed.

  “No, I mean—well, yeah, but—”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “Vaughn, you look great!” I exclaimed.

  She grinned. “For reals? I had no idea what I was doing.”

  “Seriously. Amazing,” I nodded.

  She sighed, suddenly relaxed.

  * * *

  Sprinklers misted the kelly green lawn of Cranbrook Academy as Range Rovers, BMWs, and Porsches filed into the parking lot blaring Lady Gaga, Kanye and Nas. Every day, we were separated from the rest of them right off the bat as we tentatively approached the picturesque campus on foot while they hung out of cars, laug
hing and greeting one another.

  Vaughn and I paused before joining the throngs making their way to lockers and classrooms. We watched as Stella held her hand on the horn, startling Miller Toff, Xander Carrington, and Ellis Leachman as they unloaded water polo gear from the trunk of Miller’s Hummer, Odette laughing by her side. The guys moaned and groaned except for Xander, who bum rushed their vehicle, threw open the passenger side door, and kissed Odette passionately. She shied away at first but ultimately fell into the kiss like it was the prelude to the best sex of her life. Vaughn faux dry-heaved next to me. I rubbed her back.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” I said, even though it was nothing out of the ordinary.

  The two of them had been in a lip-lock since late 2011. “Let’s just get this over with,” she muttered.

  We proceeded to the main building. I kept my head down, as usual, but I could sense Vaughn seething by my side. She looked fed up, finally, marching toward our lockers, as though each snap of her Havaianas on the hardwood floors brought her one step closer to vengeance. It worried me. I unloaded a few books into my locker and shut it, regarding Vaughn. She scowled, picking at a High School Musical sticker on the door of her locker we defaced long ago, but could never completely remove.

  “Fucking Zac Efron,” she muttered.

  “You used to love him,” I offered. She kept mum and continued to scratch mercilessly.

  As I regarded her, a shadow crossed her face and I felt a dark presence lurking behind me. I turned slowly, hoping to find an overweight school administrator and not the Shrew Crew coming to torture us.

  “Well, if it isn’t Vag and Anus,” said Stella, flanked by Odette and Ava. Vaughn froze, wide-eyed. Stella gave us each a once-over, appraising our new looks. “And they seem … different.”

  Odette cocked her head slightly. “Huh. What the hell did you do to your faces?” she snapped, her brow knitted.