Hope in a Jar

by Beth Harbison

  “Okay, are you trying to charm me into doing something? Is that what this is all about?”

  “I wish.” He rubbed his bleary eyes. “That would be so easy.”

  “I’m such a soft touch.”

  He looked over at her. It was only for a moment, but something about the way he raked his gaze across her quickened her pulse.

  “So,” she said, erasing the moment even while she wanted to examine it. “Are you going to talk or do I have to keep guessing?”

  “Have a drink.” He raised his bottle to her, and took a long swig himself. “Really, Al.” He nodded in her direction and looked sober for the first time in almost an hour. “You’re gonna need it.”

  Her chest tightened. “You’re not sick, right? Because all this lead-up sounds like one of those movies where the guy with a heart of gold is dying, and if something bad like terminal illness is coming I wish you’d just—”

  “I’m getting married.”

  “—tell me.” She stopped.

  Rewound the words in her head.

  Couldn’t believe them.

  “You’re kidding.”

  He shook his head. “I’m getting married,” he said again, like he was just trying on the words himself and they didn’t quite fit.

  How long was it? Five seconds? Five minutes? It felt like five hours before she could wrap her mouth around the question to which she already knew the horrible answer. “To whom?”

  “Tori,” he said, and again he raised his beer. “Tori and I are getting married. So . . . how about a toast?”

  She drank.

  Twelve

  Tenth Grade

  Sensual, but not too far from innocence . . .

  —ad for Jontue perfume

  “Sit still.”

  “It stings!”

  Allie kept going, impatient. “You have to go through a little pain to get gorgeous.”

  “That’s stupid. And it’s not true.”

  “It is true. There’s a reason people use that cliché, you know. Clichés have to come from some truth.”

  “Let me wash it off.”

  “I haven’t even finished putting it on.” Allie scooped her fingers into the pot of Queen Helene Mint Julep face mask and patted it onto Olivia’s forehead. “There. Now you just have to wait for like ten minutes. Honestly, Liv, this stuff has done wonders for my skin.”

  It was true that Allie’s skin had cleared up quite a bit, but Olivia also knew she’d been to a dermatologist who had put her on tetracycline and that was probably what had helped more than anything.

  Olivia raised a hand to her face, then drew it back and looked at the green sludge on her fingertips. It wasn’t like any color she’d ever seen in nature. She almost couldn’t call it green. “I don’t think I can stand it.”

  “It gets better,” Allie assured her. “Not worse. Well, it gets better, then it dries and you can’t talk or laugh or your face will crack and that is excruciating. But it won’t sting anymore.”

  How was this green crap going to give her skin the dewy glow Allie had promised? It seemed like all it was going to do was make her blotchy and red from the sting.

  But Allie had been so confident, so enthusiastic, about this makeover day she was having for Olivia that Olivia didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

  Besides, it had been fun having someone devote an entire afternoon to her. Everything they did tonight was for her. Allie had even made sure they had her favorite frozen pepperoni pizza for dinner before they went to the school’s December Teen Club dance at eight.

  From Allie’s brother’s room, they could hear Foreigner on the stereo, singing “Cold as Ice.”

  They were going stag to the dance, together, and they’d decided to act like they were confident with that.

  But they had to keep reminding each other that they were confident with that.

  The truth was they’d just started high school in the fall, and suddenly they were mixed in with kids from other schools, kids who were older and some who were even about to go to college. There was a lot to feel insecure about, and though Allie was beginning to adapt, when Olivia finally admitted to her that she was insecure—about her looks, about her wardrobe, about the fact that no guy had ever asked her out—Allie had taken matters in hand.

  She’d decided to fix Olivia.

  It was easy for her to be charitable, she’d already had three boyfriends and she’d broken up with Chris McClure two or three weeks ago without any concern at all that the holiday dance was coming—that the holidays in general were coming—and she would be boyfriendless for it.

  “Is the sting going away?” Allie asked, turning on her radio. The Carpenters were singing about Christmas cards and lights on the tree.

  “Kind of.” It was better than the Miracle Whip mask Allie had made her use first with the idea that it would “roll off the dead skin,” which was a completely gross thought.

  And even grosser when it worked.

  “Now use this. The cotton balls are in the drawer.” She handed Olivia a bottle of Bonne Bell Ten-O-Six lotion. There was no point in warning her it would sting, too—it would just stop her from using it and everyone knew it did awesome things to your skin.

  “Ouch!” Olivia cried as soon as it hit her skin.

  “It feels better in a second.”

  “It better.” Olivia waved her hands in front of her face.

  “See?” Allie hummed along with the song as she opened her closet doors and took out several shirts, including the dark emerald wrap top that had been her favorite throughout ninth grade. “I told you it wouldn’t hurt for long.”

  Olivia thought Allie was probably too big in the chest to wear it now, but she decided not to say anything unless it was so bad she had to stop Allie from flat-out embarrassing herself.

  Allie came over and stood in front of where Olivia was sitting at her vanity. “Now. I have another suggestion. And I really, really want you to trust me.”

  Olivia tried to frown but her skin pulled under what remained of the mask and it hurt. “With what?” she asked through barely parted lips.

  “I think you should let me cut your hair.”

  “What?” Ouch!

  “Calm down, you’re cracking. But listen, I’m serious. You haven’t had your hair cut into a style in, like, forever. You’ve never had it styled. I think you’d look really good with bangs and my mom’s friend is a hairdresser and she told me how to do it.”

  It was a coincidence, because Olivia had seen a picture of Cindy Harrell on the cover of Seventeen with stick-straight hair, just like Olivia’s, cut into nice, even bangs. But what if Allie screwed up? What if she cut them too short and she looked like a second-grader?

  “One minute,” she tried to say, holding up her finger. She got up and went to the bathroom to rinse her face.

  This was a conversation that required facial mobility.

  She splashed and rubbed and rinsed and when she was through, sure enough, her skin had taken on a nice, pink bloom.

  “Put some of this on,” Allie said, seemingly having come out of nowhere. She handed Olivia a bottle of Milk + 6 lotion.

  Obediently, Olivia smoothed the lotion on. Where this kind of thing was concerned, Allie was, by far, the expert. There was no denying it.

  The lotion disappeared into her skin and she still looked good.

  It felt kind of like a miracle.

  Except, that is, for the plastic bag she had on her head to cover the Clairol Condition cream Allie had also made her slather on. It smelled great but felt like slime.

  “Looks good,” Allie commented expectantly.

  “It does.” Still looking in the mirror, Olivia touched her cheek. It felt soft. Not dry, like paper, the way it usually did.

  “So what do you say? About the bangs?”

  She’d trusted Allie this far, she might as well trust her the rest of the way.

  “Okay.” She swallowed. “Just make sure you don’t cut them too short.”
>
  “I won’t. Come on, I’m not stupid.” She went to the tub and turned on the shower. “Rinse and I’ll go get the scissors.”

  Olivia got into the shower, closed the jungle-themed shower curtain, and tipped her head back in the hot water. It felt great. It smelled great. This was turning out to be a really fun day. She’d been nervous for a week about the dance, changing her mind about going over and over again, but today for the first time she felt hopeful.

  When the water ran clear and there were no more soapy bubbles collecting at the drain, Olivia turned the shower off, reached for the plush towel hanging on the wall, and wrapped it around herself before stepping out.

  Allie wasn’t back yet, so Olivia rubbed the fog off the mirror and brushed the tangles from her wet hair, trying to look objectively at the reflection that looked back at her.

  She wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t ugly, either, but she wasn’t pretty. She was just plain. Plain pale eyes, plain pale skin, an ugly sprinkling of freckles, and bony shoulders. She couldn’t see the rest of her body, but it was bony, too. Not in a good way. Not in a I just eat and eat but I can’t gain weight way, but in a gangly, coltish way that made her look like a twelve-year-old boy.

  So there was nothing to lose, if she thought about it. Maybe Allie’s haircutting skills would turn out to be pretty good and it would work after all. But if they weren’t . . . well . . . would she really be any worse off?

  “Sorry,” Allie said, coming in the door with a shocking blast of cold air from the hall. “I couldn’t find them. My mother was using them to wrap presents.” She rolled her eyes. “I paid a lot of money for these.”

  She probably had. Allie seemed to spend all of her allowance on beauty-related products.

  Maybe Olivia should do the same. Allie was definitely prettier than she was.

  She was also happier.

  To say nothing of bossier.

  “Sit.” Allie pointed at the toilet.

  Olivia put the seat down and sat.

  “You’re going to have to be perfectly still while I do this.” Allie took a comb from the drawer and carefully started combing Olivia’s hair into its usual center part. “No flinching or freaking out unexpectedly. I am not responsible if you do that and the scissors hit your eye.”

  “I’ll try not to.” But privately Olivia knew she wasn’t going to freak out. Deep in her chest, an excitement was building, thrumming away like the drums on Men at Work’s “Down Under.”

  Which, at the moment, would have been way better than the Carpenters.

  Allie combed her hair forward over Olivia’s face. It was longer than her chin. In fact, it almost hit her chest. It had probably been growing since the last time she’d had bangs, in elementary school.

  With great care, Allie combed the section so it was perfectly even on each side. She knelt in front of Olivia, looking at her hair with tremendous concentration, her pool-blue eyes shifting from one side to the other. Then she held the hair between the index and middle finger of her left hand, drew it down to the middle of Olivia’s nose, and put the scissors up.

  “Count to three,” she instructed.

  Olivia took a deep breath. “One . . . two—”

  Snip!

  “Hey!” Olivia drew back sharply. “You said to count to three!”

  “I know, but you would have freaked if you’d known it was coming. This had to be done like pulling a tooth. Fast and unexpected.” She held up the hair she’d just cut off. “Kiss it good-bye.” She dropped it into the trash can.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Olivia asked, although obviously she knew it was too late to do anything about it.

  Allie began brushing her new haircut into place, and smiled. “Oh, yeah. It’s a good idea.” She made a few more snips here and there, always drawing back to look and make sure it was even.

  “Let me see.” Olivia started to stand, but Allie pushed her back down.

  “No, you have to wait. Let me blow-dry it and do your makeup so you can get the whole effect at once.”

  “I don’t think I can wait.”

  “Sure you can.” With one hand on Olivia’s shoulder, holding her down, Allie reached for the blow-dryer that was always plugged in and ready to go on her bathroom counter. She turned it on and began drying Olivia’s new bangs. “I bet Mark Grudberg asks you to dance tonight.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “I’m serious, you’re going to go in there with so much confidence. In fact, maybe you should ask him to dance.”

  “There is no way.”

  “I dare you.”

  “I don’t care, there’s no way I’m going to ask him to dance. He’d think I was a total freak.”

  Allie smiled and shook her head. “I don’t think so. But you just wait and see, okay?” She looked so giddy as she worked on Olivia that Olivia couldn’t help starting to get really excited herself.

  What if this worked?

  Once the blow-drying was done, Allie got out her makeup box, which consisted of a bunch of plastic and glass containers jumbled together in a Thom McAn shoe box.

  “You just won’t even believe how great you look,” Allie trilled, shaking a bottle of Cover Girl foundation, then unscrewing the top. “Jeez, Louise.” She got out a small, triangular makeup sponge—she said all the professional makeup artists were using them—and dabbed the medicinal-smelling liquid onto Olivia’s skin.

  “Don’t make me look like a clown.”

  “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

  Olivia waited a moment before saying, “I really do appreciate this, you know.”

  “Not half as much as you’re about to.”

  There was powder blush, liquid eyeliner, a big puff-powder finish, and, last of all, Cover Girl Professional Mascara, with the new curved application brush.

  “No way,” Olivia said as soon as she saw it. “I can’t stand having stuff on my eyes.”

  “It’s going to look amazing,” Allie assured her. “Look at the wall behind me. And up. Higher. Look behind me at where the wall meets the ceiling.”

  Olivia did, making a tremendous effort not to blink while Allie brought the brush in close to her eyes, one at a time, and lightly feathered it onto her lashes.

  “Oh, my God.” Allie took a sharp breath in. “Oh, my God, you look so amazing.”

  “Let me see.” Olivia tried to get up again, and, again, Allie pushed her back down.

  “One more thing. Then you can look. Okay?”

  “What is it?”

  “I have to go get it. Promise me you won’t peek while I’m gone.”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Liv. Please? Just play along a little bit more.” She was genuinely pleading. “I’ll be back in ten seconds.”

  Olivia grimaced. “Okay, I’m counting. One . . .”

  Allie jumped up and thundered into the hallway.

  “Two . . .”

  She wanted to look but she knew Allie would be crushed if she cheated, so instead she reached up to feel her hair.

  It felt short.

  “Three . . .”

  What if Allie ended up with some guy tonight and Olivia ended up alone?

  “Four . . .”

  There was that possibility. Allie had gotten really popular with guys this year. All the kids from Herbert Hoover Junior High and Potomac Junior High were strangers and so when they saw Allie they saw blond hair, big boobs, pretty blue eyes . . .

  “Five . . .”

  There was no point in thinking about that. A moment ago she’d been feeling optimistic. She needed to regain that.

  “Six . . .”

  Mark Grudberg. He’d probably be there. What if he noticed her? What if there was a miracle and suddenly he noticed her? Maybe he wouldn’t ask her to dance, but a word or two would be enough.

  “Seven . . .”

  Actually eye contact would be enough. She’d stared a hole through him a couple of times when they’d passed each other in the
hall but he didn’t notice her at all. Maybe—just maybe—things would change tonight.

  “Eight . . .”

  Her heart began to pound. It was almost time to go.

  “Nine!” she shouted, just as Allie rounded the corner and hopped back into the bathroom, holding the emerald wrap top.

  “I’m here, I’m here. You didn’t look, did you?”

  “I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

  “Good.” Allie held the shirt out to Olivia. “I think this would look really good on you. I want you to have it.”

  Olivia was speechless.

  “I mean, unless you don’t want hand-me-downs. I’m not, like, saying you should only have seconds.” She drew the shirt back, uncertainty painting her features into regret.

  “Do you mean it?” Olivia said. “I can have it? But it’s your favorite shirt.”

  “I seriously doubt it would even fit anymore. But besides that, I think this color would look really pretty on you. And you haven’t ever worn anything like this. You know, with a little bit of a v-neck. You’ve got to be tired of plain old T-shirts and polo shirts.”

  “I am.” Olivia took the shirt in her hands. It was soft, like silk. It was probably polyester, but still it was really nice quality. She could already picture herself wearing it, like, every day this week.

  She dropped the towel she was wearing down to her waist and slipped the shirt over her head.

  Allie’s face broke into a wide, appreciative smile. “It’s perfect!”

  “Is it?”

  “See for yourself.” Allie grabbed her wrist and pulled her in front of the mirror.

  The girl that looked back at Olivia was, for a moment, literally unfamiliar. With her coppery hair (“Not red,” Allie had corrected) framing her face, her eyes looked huge. And, somehow, not so bland, but a bright, vivid blue. The dark lashes were a huge improvement, she had to admit with awe, over the strawberry-blond lashes that came naturally to her.

  She looked like a completely different person.