She shut her eyes as he spun her chair around to face the mirror. She opened one, then the other. Her jaw dropped in horror. “I can’t believe I let you do this!” Angel had rouged her cheeks and applied false eyelashes, bright red lipstick, and glittery purple eye shadow, so that her makeup was identical to Moon’s. But that’s not what freaked her out right now.
“I’m bald! Hovno!”
Moon walked over and met Natalia’s eyes in the mirror.
“On you, dear FLOTUS, even a bald head is beautiful.”
“Hovno,” she said quietly. “It better not be forever.”
“And it’s perfect for beautiful wigs.” Moon reached into the garment bag and pulled out a shoulder-length ash-blonde wig. “Especially this one.” She positioned it on Natalia’s bald head. Natalia realized that the wig was the exact shade and style of her own hair, before…
“Or we could swap,” said Moon, removing Natalia’s “FLOTUS wig.” Moon took off her own pink-streaked black wig, revealing her own bald head. She put on the FLOTUS wig, then positioned the pink-streaked black wig on Natalia’s bald head. “See?” She straightened the wig’s bangs until Natalia looked exactly like Moon had looked moments ago.
In shock, Natalia studied her weirdo-trans image in the mirror. What the hell have I done? she thought. She looked down wistfully at the pile of her shorn locks on the floor. “Hovno,” she whispered.
“Yo, never do that!” Angel hastily swept up the hair with a broom. “Never look at what was.” He swept the pile of hair clippings into a dustpan and emptied it into a plastic garbage bag. “Focus on what will be.”
She nervously bit her lip. “But…what will be?”
“Your freedom!”
Unconvinced, she gnawed at a red-polished nail. The acrylic was too tough to crack.
He pushed her hand away from her mouth. “You wanna break a tooth?”
She folded her hands in her lap. “I haven’t bitten my nails since I was fourteen!”
“No problemo. They’re coming off next.” He opened a drawer below the counter and grabbed a bottle of a polish remover and nail clippers. “I’m gonna make them look like Moon’s.”
“I’ll do it!” Moon barged in and took Natalia’s right hand. She held out her own right hand—short nails, no polish—and compared it to Natalia’s. “Girlfriend, it will be my pleasure!”
“You wear eye shadow and rouge,” said Natalia. “Why no nail polish?”
“When I’m not being you, I’m a hospice nurse.”
“Seriously?”
“You’re surprised I’m an RN, or surprised I work with dying patients?” Moon set to clipping Natalia’s nails.
“Both, I guess,” she said. “I’m sorry. I mean, I never thought—”
“Hospice patients are very accepting. They love me for who I am, not what I am.” Moon nodded toward the pink-streaked black wig on Natalia’s head. “They love my crazy, out-there style. It cheers them up!” She finished trimming the nails on Natalia’s right hand and started on her left. “Anyway, at the hospital I live in latex gloves.”
“What do latex gloves have to with fingernails?”
“Acrylic fingernails. Latex and acrylic nails don’t mix.”
“They don’t?”
“You wear latex gloves over acrylic nails, girlfriend, your nails break.”
“So that’s why mine break when I have sex with Rex,” she said. She saw the confusion on Moon and Angel’s faces. “Long story.”
Angel swept up the fingernail clippings on the floor and added them to the garbage bag. “We gotta dispose of the evidence.” He removed a few of the dresses from the garment bag and shoved the plastic bag of hair and nail clippings into it. “This comes with us.”
Natalia stared at herself in the mirror. She had metal studs on her ears and nose, like Moon’s. They looked like they were piercing her skin, but Moon had glued them on. “I can’t have permanent holes on my body if I’m going to play you on weekends,” Moon explained, gluing on the last stud. “It would be an insult to your perfection.”
“What about that?” Natalia nodded toward the red-gold-and-black Buddha tattoo on Moon’s arm.
“Also fake.” Moon laughed. “Like every word out of your two-faced husband’s mouth.” She dabbed cleansing cream on her “tattoo” and wiped it off with Kleenex. “Anyway, I could never have a real tattoo. A Jewish person with a tattoo cannot be buried in a Jewish cemetery.”
“You’re Jewish?”
“My mother was Jewish. From Russia. She named me ‘Sasha.’ It means ‘protector of mankind.’ Maybe that’s why I became a nurse. Anyway, after we emigrated to the U.S. when I was eight, I started getting this urge to dress up in girls’ clothes. Other Jewish mothers would have freaked out, but not mine. She was totally cool with it. She took me shopping for dresses.”
“You were lucky to have a mother who let you do what you felt was right.”
“At my high-school graduation, I gave this awesome valedictorian speech. My mom didn’t blink an eye when I announced that from now on I wanted to be called ‘Moon.’”
“Why ‘Moon?’”
“Throughout history, many cultures have considered the moon feminine, maybe because it’s associated with women’s monthly menstrual cycles. But if you think about it, the moon is a planetary satellite that orbits the earth. Why should an astronomical body made of rocks and minerals be considered masculine or feminine? No reason, right? But it is. So, I figured, why can’t a person who was born male be considered female if that’s what he/she wants?”
“You’re absolutely right.”
Moon reached into the file of photos and brought out a sheet of plastic with a Buddha tattoo like hers. “A damp rag, and your arm will look just like mine.” She positioned the plastic design on Natalia’s arm. She pressed it with a damp washcloth, then rubbed gently and counted to ten.
“Ta da!” Moon peeled off the plastic, revealing the Buddha tattoo on Natalia’s arm. “Buddha is part of my heritage too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at my eyes, girlfriend. They’re almond-shaped, like yours. That’s why I can impersonate you so perfectly.”
Natalia compared their similarly slanted eyes in the mirror. “Mine came from a Tartar barbarian who porked one of my mother’s great-great-or-whatever grandmas.”
“Mine came from a Japanese businessman my mother met in Moscow,” said Moon. “At least that’s what she told me. It’s hard to picture. She was almost six feet tall, like me, a real ball-buster. I can’t imagine her with a tiny Japanese dude.”
“Were they married?”
Moon shook her head. “Once, when she was drunk—my mom had that Russian thing for vodka—she admitted that before I was born she was a model-slash-hooker. Maybe that’s why I got so obsessed with you.”
Natalia gasped. “What?”
“Not the hooker part,” Moon added hastily. “But, like, you were a model, like my mom. And Slavic, like her, right?”
“Slovak.”
“Slovak, Slavic. Same thing, right?”
“Uh…kind of.”
“My mom died when she was about your age. Breast cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She blamed it on the tacky Soviet-era implants she got in Volgograd, before she moved to Moscow to become a model-slash—”
“Escort.”
“Right.” Moon put the fake Buddha tattoo scraps in the garbage bag, sealed it, and stuffed it among the dresses in the garment bag. “I made my nose like yours last year.”
“Your nose?”
Moon put her face next to Natalia’s and pointed at their two noses in the mirror. “Look.”
“At what?”
“Our noses. They’re identical.”
Natalia studied their reflections, amazed. “They are! How’s that possible?”
Moon ran her finger down Natalia’s perfect nose. “I brought your photo to the plastic surgeon. I told him, ‘Dude, make mine loo
k just like Natalia Funck’s nose job.’”
“Hey, did I say I got a nose job?”
“Girlfriend, we’re twins now! No secrets! The plastic surgeon did my chin reduction, cheek implants, and tits and ass jobs just like yours too.” Moon pulled back her shoulders and thrust out her breasts.
“Okay, no secrets! Now what?”
“Something else to make you look like Moon.” Angel walked over with a hypodermic needle. “And this one’s not fake.” He squirted excess liquid from the needle.
Natalia’s eyes widened. “What is that?”
Moon placed her face beside Natalia’s and pointed to her own brow. “See how my forehead is kinda heavy and low over my eyes? That’s natural for men. Some scientists say it’s because back in caveman days, guys needed strong foreheads to hold up jaws big enough to chomp on tough mastodon meat. Women didn’t need big jaws because their cavemen sweeties chewed the meat into tiny pieces and then gave it to them and the kids to eat. That’s why women’s foreheads are flatter, like yours. Anyway, when I get the big bucks, I’m gonna have my forehead smoothed down. They call it ‘facial feminization.’ Y’see, first the doc cuts near the hairline and peels back the skin, kind of like removing a mask. Then he buffs down the brow-ridge bone with this electric sander thing—”
“TMI! Too much info!” Angel nudged her aside.
She pulled off the yellow bandana wrapped around her neck. “I’ll have him sand down my Adam’s-fucking-apple too.” She pointed to the bony protuberance on her throat. “I’m sick of hiding my golf ball.”
“Moon, okay, like, dude, she gets it! It’s tough being trans!” Angel removed Natalia’s pink-streaked black wig. “You trust me to do better Botox than a plastic surgeon?”
“I trust you not to hurt me,” she said. “Plastic surgeons are closet sadists.”
“Tell me about it,” said Moon.
Angel positioned the needle over Natalia’s forehead, just above the center spot between her eyebrows. “So, y’know how when I do your forehead, I, like, give you just enough to smooth the wrinkles? And I joke that if I inject too much, you’ll look like a pinche caveman?”
Natalia grimaced. “It’s caveman time?”
Angel nodded. “Frown,” he commanded her. She frowned. “Now relax.” She relaxed. “You’ll feel a little pinch.” He smiled. “A pinche pinch!”
Angel moved the needle closer to her forehead. Natalia shut her eyes and thought of Vaclav.
Chapter 14
The White House
December 17, 10:30 a.m.
Natalia stared at herself in the mirror: She was wearing Moon’s wife-beater T-shirt with the yellow bandana around her neck, along with her tight jeans and studded motorcycle boots. She sized up her pink-streaked, bob-and-bangs black wig; Buddha arm tattoo; nose and ear studs; outrageous makeup job; and her new caveman forehead. After injecting the Botox, Angel had pressed his fingers down on her eyebrows to the count of 1000 to help the drug make them drop. To her amazement, it had worked.
Except for her 15-karat diamond engagement ring, matching diamond wedding band, and two Cartier LOVE bracelets, she had to admit that she looked strikingly like the trans woman who had walked into her bedroom with Angel only a few hours earlier. She threw on Moon’s pink parka and patted her bulging crotch, proud of her creative ingenuity: She had used a wadded-up Frette Egyptian-cotton washcloth to create what Moon dubbed “the illusion of a hidden purple-headed warrior.”
“Ready or not, here I come!” Moon swept in from the walk-in closet, with Angel in tow.
Natalia felt as if she were looking into a mirror: Moon’s ash-blonde wig and makeup were identical to what she considered her best First Lady image. She was wearing the red tulle-and-satin Valentino gown with the beaded butterflies and Natalia’s red-satin Manolo stilettos. Her long acrylic fingernails were painted a matching red. Natalia’s eyes fell on her red-satin choker. “Adam’s apple concealer?”
“If anyone asks, I saw it in Vogue,” said Moon. “How’s this?” She evocatively narrowed her eyes, combined a fish-gape pout with a smile, and gracefully brushed her hair from her face.
Natalia squirmed, recognizing the mannerism that photographers had captured in her public appearances. “Do I look like that?”
“Only when you’re having fun!” Angel joked.
Moon twirled around, to give Natalia the whole 360-degree view.
“The Valentino fits you better than it fits me!”
“I wear a corset from hell to create feminine curves.”
“How do you hide your…uh…masculine bump?” She nodded toward the smooth spot at Moon’s crotch.
“A tucking gaff.”
“A what?”
“A tucking gaff. Think ‘thong from hell,’” said Moon. “But I’m a perfectionist. I do the whole taping thing first.”
“Taping?”
Moon hesitated. “Girlfriend, you really want to know?”
“Unless it’s a trade secret.”
“Okay, like, first you coax your acorns up into your nut sack,” she said, pointing to her private parts. “Works best if you’re lying down. Then you pull ‘Mr. Happy’ down and around between your legs, tuck him into your ass crack, and secure him in place with what looks like duct tape. Mr. Happy’s not very happy, but it works.”
“Definitely more info than I wanna know,” said Angel. “Chica, give Moon your bling.”
Natalia tugged at her diamond rings, but they wouldn’t come off.
“Hormone bloat. It’s the worst.” Moon grabbed Natalia’s ring finger and sucked on it.
Natalia grimaced. “Gross!”
“Almost got it,” Moon mumbled, her mouth full. She sucked noisily, then stopped suddenly, her eyes bulging. She pulled Natalia’s ring-less finger out of her mouth. “Shit! I swallowed them!”
“You what?” gasped Natalia.
Angel ran over. “Dude, stick your finger down your throat! Puke them out! Or…I’ll get MiraLAX to shit them out!”
Moon winked. “Just kidding!” She spit the rings into her hand.
Natalia breathed a sigh of relief.
“Smart ass!” Angel playfully punched Moon.
Moon pushed the rings onto her own finger and admired them. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod!”
“Leave them here on the counter before you split tonight,” said Angel. “If you’re caught with them, they’ll bust you for theft.” He tapped Natalia’s Cartier LOVE bracelets. “Next.”
“Uh-oh. I gave my mother the screwdriver that unlocks them.”
“Anything in here that’ll do the job?”
Natalia scanned the room. She spotted the white roses in the service alcove. “Hilda was clipping roses…” She walked into the service alcove and returned with the clippers.
“That’ll get the bracelets off you,” said Angel. “But, like, we can’t put them back together for Moon.”
“No worries. I’ve got plenty more.” She handed the rose clippers to Angel. He cut first one, then the second Cartier LOVE bracelet off her wrist. They tumbled to the floor.
She impulsively grabbed the clippers and picked up the bracelets. Using all her strength, she cut the bejeweled bands into little pieces.
“What are you pinche doing, chica?”
“Imagining these are Rex’s pinche balls!”
Angel gathered the scraps of gold and pavé diamonds from the floor. “Where can we hide these?”
She headed toward the walk-in closet, motioning for Moon and Angel to follow her. Inside, she slid back a full-length wall mirror. Behind it was a tall ebony jewelry safe. She pressed her right index finger on a small fingerprint-scanning screen on the door. The lock clicked open. Inside the safe were rows of drawers, each with an ornate rose-gold handle.
Moon shook her head, disbelieving. “Seriously?”
“Custom-made in Italy,” said Natalia. “Rex wanted a jewelry safe like the one he saw at the house…make that the mansion…of one of his Russian oligarch golf bud
dies.”
She slid open the bottom drawer. It was filled with dozens of Cartier LOVE Bracelets.
“Obscene!” said Moon.
“Guilt gifts,” she said. “$10,000 to $40,000 apiece, depending on how much guilt Rex was feeling that day, or pretending to feel.” She burrowed the scraps of the ruined Cartier bracelets underneath the pile.
Angel spotted a couple of gold mini-screwdrivers in the drawer. “You could have used these to get off the bracelets.”
“Cutting them off was a lot more fun.” She motioned to Moon. “Go ahead, choose a couple.”
While Moon sifted through the bracelets, she pulled open a jewelry drawer near the top of the safe and another just below it. Their contents quickly diverted Moon’s attention. One was filled with diamond earrings and matching necklaces, the other with ruby-and-diamond earrings and necklaces, each glittering treasure nestled in its own blue-velvet-lined compartment.
“I would wear only diamonds with the red Valentino, but since you’re FLOTUS today, you decide.”
“Wow, wow, wow!” Humming “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend,” Moon studied the jewelry in both drawers, gently picking up each item and fondling it, before returning it to its compartment.
“Yo, dude, c’mon!” said Angel, checking his Rolex.
Moon stopped humming, as if annoyed that she didn’t have all day. She settled on a pair of ruby-and-diamond earrings and a matching pendant. “Rubies will make the red pop and take eyes off the choker.” She scooped up the earrings and noticed that they were pierced. “Got a clean hypodermic, Angel?”
“I forgot,” said Natalia. “You don’t have pierced ears.”
“Not yet.” Moon handed the jewelry to her. “Don’t drop them.”
Angel walked into the salon and rummaged in his satchel under the counter. He returned with an alcohol pad and a plastic-wrapped hypodermic needle. “Want me to do it?”
“Who’s the RN around here?” Moon wiped her ear lobes with the alcohol pad, unwrapped the needle, looked at herself in the mirror, and took aim. Stone-faced, she pierced first one, then the other ear lobe.
“Didn’t that hurt?” Natalia said in amazement.
The First Lady Escapes Page 8