. . . . . . .
“Are you still wearing your jelly?” Kenzie inquires in front of our PE locker. “You know . . . petroleum jelly.”
“Yep.”
“You’re insane,” she says. It’s true. Did you know that when you wear Vaseline on your eyelids, it smears onto your glasses and then melts so that it covers the entire lens? Try it some-time.
I pull off my pants and I hear a snarl of disgust behind me. I turn around to see Flor, the leader of the Goth Art Chicks, glaring at me. “Maya!” she yells. “Every time I turn my head I see your giant ass in my face! I don’t know what the hell you think it looks like, but it’s not pretty! So MOVE!”
She shoves past me to change on a different side of the room. Tears sting my eyes. But I steady myself and pull on my shorts.
Maya’s Popularity Tip
Never cry at school. Ever. Especially when it could smudge your Vaseline.
Friday, December 9
How do models deal with fading lipstick? Mine seems to disappear within ten minutes. Betty Cornell says to use a little powder on the lips before applying it and then blot any extra with a tissue. But that doesn’t work very well. Maybe it’s because I wear cheap grocery store makeup.
I spend two hours on a teen fashion website searching for answers. After taking seven or eight quizzes, I find out the following:
My skin is “super oily”
My “fave look” is “natural”
My “winter hairstyle” is “upswept bun”
My “celeb skin match” is Selena Gomez
My eye makeup should be “Sexy and Chic” (Like that’s going to happen!)
It is horrifying to realize how much time I’d wasted on the website. Normally I prefer reading classic works of literature. I don’t know what kept me looking at the stories and articles for so long. I guess it was kind of like that time my cousin and I looked at gossip magazines for an afternoon. It was more like a guilty fixation with something so otherworldly and unachievable.
Sunday, December 11
I wear makeup to church today. Every time I see Ethan, it hurts. As he passes, Dad grabs my wrist.
“What are you doing?” I ask, angry.
“Your pulse sped up when he walked by. You still like him.” He smiles, obviously thinking that he’s being clever. He’s not.
“It sped up because I was nervous because you grabbed me,” I babble. I lower my voice. “I don’t like him anymore, so leave me alone.”
“So who do you like? Dante?”
“No one, okay?”
He raises his eyebrows. “You can’t just not like anyone. When I was your age I had crushes on at least five girls at a time. And not one of them liked me back.”
He doesn’t understand what I feel. Whenever I have a crush on someone, it can last years, and it’s always just for one person.
The day I realized I had a crush on Ethan was when some of the girls at church locked me in a closet for the first time. They were mean. They tried to turn others against me, painted all over me at slumber parties, and lied about me to adults.
As I sat huddled in the corner of the dark closet, I heard Ethan telling off the girls for being awful to me. He shouted, “Go away. Leave her alone!” and he unlocked the door.
Then he smiled at me. My heart melted and my head turned to jelly, petroleum jelly. I knew that I liked him. A lot. Ever since that day he stood up for me, I’ve liked him. A lot. And as much as I try to convince Dad, Mom, and myself of the opposite, I still like him.
A lot.
Monday, December 12
“Come on, Brodie, I need you!” I shout down the stairs to my little brother.
“What do you want?!” he screams back.
“Come here and I’ll tell you!”
“FINE!”
He makes his way upstairs stomping his feet on every step.
“Can you help me do my fingernails?” I ask in my sweetest voice.
“No way!” He pretends to gag himself and heads back toward the stairs.
“If you do, you get to watch TV. I won’t tell Mom.”
He freezes. Then he turns and comes back to help me.
When your nails are filed and the cuticles softened, you are ready to put on the nail base . . . Cover the whole nail with the base and let it dry thoroughly before you start the polish. After the base has dried, the next step is to apply the first coat of polish. Cover the whole nail; it is easier than trying to describe an accurate curve around the moon.
Ten seconds later I’m explaining Betty Cornell’s nail regime, telling him I’ve already filed them into shape and applied a base coat. But I make a mess with the color and gloss layers and need some help. He nods sympathetically and begins applying the polish.
“Are you surprised that I’m doing so good?” he asks after a few minutes.
“Yep, you’re amazing.”
“I don’t like makeup, but I’m still really good.”
I was there when Mom got the ultrasound confirming that Brodie was a boy. I wigged. Hard. The only thing I wanted was an older sister or a puppy. The last thing I expected was a little brother. In fact, I didn’t even think it was possible and was convinced my parents were doing it just to spite me. So when Brodie was two or three years old, I dressed him up in my clothes and put all sorts of “pretty” stuff on him (thanks to my aunt’s gift of sparkly makeup). He’s had an irrational fear of lipstick or anything “girly” ever since.
“Maybe you can pay me,” he says, finishing the right hand and moving on to the left.
“Uhhh . . .”
“Oh, not a lot, you know, just a shiny penny.”
I agree. He does his best, but it turns out quite lumpy and goopy.
“Wow, I’m doing super good. And I just learned!”
“A regular professional,” I say, trying to make him feel good.
He’s silent for a while, and he finishes the red and goes on to the gloss. He’s very proud of how it looks. It makes me smile.
“Okay,” he says, as if asking me to listen up. “The key to a perfect nail job is making it look lush. The more color you do, the more lusher it is.”
“That’s nice.”
“So . . . how much are you going to pay me?”
Friday, December 16
It’s the last day of school before Christmas vacation, and I’ve applied a special coat of red lipstick. Kenzie and I sit next to each other on the bus ride home. She’s going to London over break to see her cousin. The perks of being the only child of gainfully employed parents, I guess.
“I’m so sad though, because I’m going to freeze my butt off,” she whines.
“Oh you poor baby. My heart weeps for you,” I say. “You’re going to LONDON! You don’t get pity.”
She smiles. “And Paris. So did anything interesting happen today?”
I nod. “Carlos Sanchez has become the new teacher’s pet in our reading class, because he was the first to answer a question about metaphors. The teacher told us that we ‘should all be more like Carlos Sanchez!’ I’m not kidding. It really happened!”
I sigh, “I’m so mad! You don’t come back till the Thursday after school starts again! I’m going to miss you, Kenzie.”
“You too, Lipstick Girl,” she says through a mouthful of cupcake she stole from the sixth grader behind us. It turns her teeth red. She wipes some frosting on my shoulder, so I wipe it back on her. The bus pulls up to my stop.
“Bye!” I shout as I get off and watch my best friend through the window.
She waves. Bye, Maya, she mouths.
Sunday, December 18
Piano recital tonight. And since Ethan and I have the same teacher, he’s going to be there too. As much as I hate myself for it, I still take extra time to make sure that my makeup is nice
. Putting on lipstick and powder has become almost second nature to me now. I don’t even think twice about it in the mornings anymore. It’s very interesting how I’ve changed.
I wear a red sweater, black slacks, and flats. Dad looks at me funny and raises his eyebrows, knowing that Ethan is going. I ignore him.
We have our recital at a little Unitarian Church downtown. It’s very pretty, but very small. There are only chairs set up for twenty people. When Ethan gets there, I feel my brain melt, and when he sits next to me, I know that it’s probably trickling out my ears.
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
He shrugs his shoulders. “A little.”
“You’ll do fine.” I try not to sound so devoted. “I, on the other hand, will suck.”
He laughs and shakes his head.
Was that funny? Oh damn, what’s wrong with me?
“I’ve heard you play the piano,” he says. “You’re going to do really well.”
“Am not! Look at my song!” I say, unfolding the four-page Mozart sonata.
His eyes widen. He’s only been playing for a month or two. Uh-oh, I didn’t mean to intimidate him. Crap!
But he smiles. “That’s impressive,” he says. Okay, my brains are officially a puddle on the floor. There’s nothing left in my skull. Completely vacant. I feel the need to click my tongue like Natalia does in a room with high ceilings just to hear the sound bounce around the far-off edges. Click, click. Click, click.
Then the piano teacher is moving everyone, so the students sit in the order of the program. Ethan is moved to a chair a few yards away. He shrugs at me and talks to the gorgeous girl next to him. She bats her mascara-coated eyelashes at him and smiles with perfect white teeth.
Click, click. Click, click.
Sunday, December 25
It’s four o’clock in the morning.
I wake up out of habit. Every Christmas Brodie runs screaming into my room right about now and tells me it’s time to get up. I’d throw something at him. He’d leave, but not before my sleep was ruined. I guess he’s finally grown out of it.
I’m almost disappointed.
It’s times like these when family traditions mean the most to you.
. . . . . . .
Three hours later Brodie and I jump on Mom and Dad’s bed. “Wake up, it’s Christmas!”
Dad grumbles something and rolls over. Brodie and I head downstairs.
The tree is lit, and even though the ornaments have been up for weeks, they seem especially gorgeous. Brodie and I go through our stockings (the only thing we can open until the whole family is present) and dump out our goodies.
Natalia comes down with Band-Aids all over her hands. Last night she somehow managed to break a framed picture of Jesus and was playing in the sharp fragments. There was blood all over. Fortunately after cleaning her off we could see that she only had cuts on her fingers, and they weren’t too deep. It was not fun to clean up her room after the whole ordeal. Imagine Jesus looking out at you through splinters of wood, broken glass, and smears of your little sister’s blood. Merry Freakin’ Christmas.
Finally Mom and Dad come downstairs. We gather together, read Christmas stories, sing carols, and then start opening presents. We take turns, one by one, so that we can savor this once-a-year experience. I get a ton of books, classical music CDs, and some clothes. Mom also pays for all my make-up expenses as a gift. We eat a brunch of French Toast Casserole, omelets, and Mexican hot chocolate around eleven o’clock.
Brodie has been begging us for months to have a Family Game Night, so as a Christmas gift to him, we all sit around the dining room table playing Clue. Brodie acts out his accusations using my game piece, Mrs. White (I always get stuck with the creepy maid).
“I believe it was Mrs. White with the wrench in the library,” he says, trying to rip off Mrs. White’s head with the miniature tool. He laughs hysterically.
We (minus Brodie) are all so bored that I pick up the little metal revolver and pantomime shooting myself in the head. For a murder mystery game, Clue is unnaturally dull. We finally guess and see who’s closest. Brodie wins.
“Let’s play Monopoly!” he shouts.
“NO!” We groan simultaneously. In comparison to Monopoly, Clue is Disneyland.
We end up playing Rummikub, which Dad wins. He does a victory dance which involves him pulling down the back of his pants to moon Mom. This would normally embarrass me, but Mom is sitting right in front of the open window, so that keeps everyone’s spirits high.
Maya’s Popularity Tip
Never invite friends over to Family Game Night, unless you have close contacts in the psychiatric profession. All in all, it’s been a wonderful Christmas.
Monday, December 26
Ethan’s parents invite us to their riverside cabin tonight for a barbecue and hot chocolate along with some other families. I’m so excited. And nervous.
I dress warmly and put on an extra layer of powder and lipstick to act as a shield against the cold. It’s forty degrees tonight and I’ve realized that makeup serves as a great insulator. I’m really starting to like wearing it. It makes me feel different. Not necessarily more attractive, but more confident. Like I’m a secret agent. I enjoy putting it on.
As we drive I feel my heart race. I’m determined to talk to him.
When we pull into the driveway we greet everyone: a kiss on the cheek for the women, and a hug for the men. It’s the way everyone says hello and good-bye down here. It makes you feel wonderfully close to perfect strangers.
I huddle in a chair and concentrate on staying warm. Dad sits next to me. All of a sudden, I feel a tap on my headband. I look up, ready to chastise Brodie for touching me, but instead he is there. Ethan.
Oh. My. Gosh.
I bite my lip and am pretty sure I get lipstick on my teeth.
“Hey there,” he says, sitting on the opposite side of me.
“Hi,” I say, trying to sound normal. I wipe my teeth with my sweater but the sleeve gets caught in my braces. I yank at it for a little while until the thread comes loose. I am so cool.
“Hi, Ethan,” says Dad from his seat next to me. Ugh! I forgot he was there. I try to will him silently to leave, but as always, Dad doesn’t (or won’t) take the hint.
We talk a little about school, but all I can think about is the smug look on Dad’s face. I glare at him. Oh, if looks could kill.
Finally, he gets up for an additional round of hugs and kisses as more friends arrive. Gratefully, his opportunity to ruin his daughter’s life through embarrassment is gone. For now, at least.
I don’t know if it’s the cold or the fact that Dad’s no longer watching me, but I suddenly find myself hardly able to control what I say. Tina Fey describes this phenomenon as “word vomit.” So when Ethan mentions that the hot chocolate burned his tongue, I feel words come up my throat in uncontrolled heaves.
“When I was ten, my best friend made me hot chocolate, and she put it in the microwave for five minutes and of course I took a big gulp. I couldn’t taste anything for a week. But she was nothing compared to the friend I had in fifth grade. She was the shyest girl in school. She had a wild home life. When I went over to her house, her uncle was slaughtering a porcupine on their front porch. There was so much blood and guts and it was disgusting—”
I clamp my hand over my mouth to prevent myself from continuing.
I swallow down the rest of the story (which goes something like this: When I got home that night I was really tired so I went straight to bed. Sometime after midnight my mom received a phone call from my friend’s mother who told her I should check my crotch area for porcupine ticks.).
Ethan mumbles a “See ya,” then gets up to go fishing. Feeling mortified by my oversharing, I watch him catch a shiny sheepshead. After he lets it go, it leaps into the air, and in the moonlight becomes th
e purest silver I’ve ever seen. With a swift kick of its tail, it falls into the black river where it disappears.
I get up to try and find some mint gum. I need something to get this acidic taste out of my mouth. Oh well. At least I didn’t mention the crotch ticks.
Maya’s Popularity Tip
If your mouth gets you in trouble, flail your way into the nearest body of water. I wish I had.
Wednesday, December 28
Brodie’s convinced us to go to the beach even though it’s too cold to swim. Instead of going out to South Padre Island, we make the longer drive along the Rio Grande down to Boca Chica Beach. The reason Brodie likes this beach so much is because, sooner or later, everything washes up here. We’ve found so many “interesting” things on past visits:
A gunflint from the U.S.–Mexico War
An orange oil rig helmet
A dying pelican
Lots and lots of shoes
A fossilized horse tooth
Several crusty bathing suits
An inner tube filled with empty plastic milk jugs used by an undocumented immigrant to cross the river
AND . . .
On one eventful day, a brick of marijuana wrapped in plastic
The beach extends all the way down to the mouth of the Rio Grande and you can wade across the shallow river over to Mexico. It is for this reason that we have to pass through a Border Patrol checkpoint. Our family’s beach trips come complete with drug dogs and scary federal officers asking, “Mind if we check your vehicle, ma’am?” Usually though, all they want to know is your citizenship. Whenever we come here we play a very special game in the car. It’s called, “What Not to Say When Asked ‘Are you a U.S. citizen?’”
Here are our top five answers that would most likely get you taken away in handcuffs.
Qué?
I plead the Fifth.
Is there a right answer?
The question is, are you?
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