Lipstick Apology

by Jennifer Jabaley

  She propped her Versace sunglasses on top of her blond hair and looked at me, a horrible fake smile plastered on her face. “What, babe?”

  I gestured to her neatly pressed white pants and bubble-g um-colored silk halter. “You’re all pink and artificially sweet.”

  Her smile faltered. “I’m just trying to make this easier on you.”

  “Don’t bother.” I rebuckled my seat belt. “I’m not going in there.” I nodded toward the sixteen-story glass and aluminum tower across the street. The early September sun bounced off the reflective building, shining more light than I had seen all summer. Well, except for the paparazzi flashbulbs that c aptured my grief-stricken hideousness and shared it with the tabloid reading world.

  I shook my head and pushed my sunglasses closer to my eyes. “I can’t do this. I can’t go in there.” I gestured with my chin across the street toward the entrance to her apartment. “Where’s the front lawn? The driveway? That thing doesn’t even have a stoop. It just has . . . rotating doors. And a doorman!” I reached over and tried to restart the car, but Jolie grabbed my hand.

  “I can’t live in New York City.” I concentrated on not hyper-ventilating. “I need to go back to Pennsylvania, where things are normal. People live in houses with NORMAL DOORS! What do you say we just hook a U-ie and head back home. I need to go home.”

  “Honey,” Jolie said in that sugary voice again. “This is your home now.”

  I looked at the contemporary building with its hard edges. It was even more formal than my father’s engineering firm in Philadelphia. Just behind us a parking spot feud was erupting between a Mercedes and an Escalade. Across the busy street, bikers sped along a harsh, wide river, the Hudson.

  “Can’t you just let me finish high school with Georgia in Pennsylvania?” I begged, knowing I’d be terrified to enter those halls again, but anything seemed better than this loud, unfamiliar place. “It’s only a couple years before I go off to college. I need her. We were going to be on the prom committee this year,” I said, my voice breaking slightly. I knew it sounded stupid, that I was rambling.

  Jolie gripped the steering wheel. “My job is here, Emily. My apartment is here. My life is here.”

  I wanted to say, What about my life? But that was the point, wasn’t it. I didn’t have a life anymore. Life as I had always known it was over.

  I was silent as we retrieved our bags from the trunk.

  We walked through the cold lobby and onto an elevator, which dinged several times, then spit us back out. Jolie walked at lightning speed down a long, doorless and windowless corridor and swung open the door at its end. “Welcome home,” she said.

  I remembered my mom telling me that Jolie’s apartment was amazing. Her makeup line, Jolie Jane Cosmetics, had really taken off, especially amongst the celebrities, allowing Jolie to live like her pampered clientele. As I stared into the immense apartment, I thought, Man, she must sell a lot of lipstick.

  The living room had soaring ceilings and an entire glass wall of windows that framed the Hudson River. A white leather couch and chair surrounded a plasma TV. There was a scattering of photographs: Jolie and a man standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. Jolie and a different man skiing. Jolie and a group of women singing into a microphone, cocktail glasses in their hands. Stacks of fashion and celebrity magazines filled baskets next to the fireplace, and a few wilting plants hung near the windows.

  I followed Jolie down a hallway as she rambled about asking Trent to fix the bedroom for me. She opened the door and sighed.

  “Jeez,” Jolie said, looking at the pink and purple bedspread covered with dragonflies and ladybugs. “Trent is obviously under the impression that you’re nine years old.”

  The room was long and rectangular with a cold, dark wood floor and wall panels of elaborate moldings. The room was even nicer than the one in the Hilton we’d stayed at two summers ago. I dropped my duffel bag by the bed.

  “Jolie,” I said, recognizing the cream upholstered head-board from photos, “is this your bedroom?”

  “Nah,” she said, “it’s your room now. I had Trent move my stuff into the office.”

  My throat constricted. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  She ignored me. “Don’t worry.” She tapped the bedspread. “This pink nightmare will be gone by tomorrow.”

  We heard a quick knock at the front door followed by shuffling feet.

  I had seen pictures of Jolie’s best friend, Trent, and had heard countless stories of his escapades, but I could honestly say that nothing prepared me for our first actual encounter. He was tall and sculpted, dressed head to toe in black, with spiky hair and kind, gray eyes. He paused at the bedroom door, and for a second, pain—or maybe pity—flickered over his face like a shadow when he looked at me. Then his eyes slowly moved upward and he whispered, “Virgin.” He inched toward me, hands outstretched, aimed at my head. “Vir-gin.”

  Jolie smacked him on the arm. “Leave her alone!”

  Oh my God. My face flamed with humiliation.

  “Never processed.” He inched closer. “Never colored.”

  Huh?

  He inched closer. “Never flat-ironed. Oh my God, do you not even blow-dry?” His voice was shrill.

  He was about to caress my head when Jolie pushed him away. “Don’t molest my niece’s hair!” She turned to me. “Ignore him; he’s over-caffeinated.”

  Trent backed away, mocked insult, and sat down on the bed. “It’s just so rare. You practically have to find an infant to get virgin hair around here.”

  Jolie rolled her eyes. “Emily, this nutcase is Trent. Unfortunately, you’ll be seeing a lot of him.”

  Trent stared at me again with his warm, gray eyes and shook his head as he pushed my half grown-out bangs out of my face. “Listen, honey. Trent doesn’t do trauma. Trend doesn’t do sad. Trent does hair. So when you need me,” he announced, standing up, “you’ll tell me, right, Goldilocks?”

  Jolie sighed. “Okay, that’s enough out of you. Let’s let Emily unpack and relax.”

  They walked out. And that, right there, summed up the vast difference between Jolie and my mother. My mother would never have left me alone.

  THE ROOM LOOKED SO BARREN. There were no knickknacks or photos on top of the dresser. The bookshelves just had a few artfully placed faux books with names of the classics printed on the front. The walls were empty. At first I thought Trent might have taken down decorations to allow me to put up my own things, but I didn’t see any nail holes. I sat on the rectangular Persian rug and unzipped my duffel bag. It felt odd, like I was unpacking at a hotel. I glanced up at the vast beige walls and hoped that when the movers brought the rest of my things, it would feel more like home.

  A few minutes later I heard laughter and followed the voices down the hall. The door was open, so I peered in. This room was slightly smaller than my bedroom but much more cluttered. A glass-shelved rolling cart was filled with black jars emblazed with a gold JJ logo. There was a full-length framed mirror in the corner. Atop a kidney-shaped desk was a pile of mail. Propped up behind the stack of envelopes was a document with a boldfaced heading that read: LEGAL GUARDIANSHIP. In all the empty slots my full name had been typed.

  Jolie and Trent were sitting on a small twin bed. They looked up at me.

  “Jolie, seriously, I don’t need the room with the big bed. I can sleep in here,” I said.

  “The sad truth is,” Trent said, “your auntie, here, doesn’t need the big bed either. As of late, her makeup brushes get more action than she does, if you get my drift.”

  Eeeewww. I wanted to plug my ears. I knew Jolie’s history was what my mom called serial dating. But I hadn’t heard of any love interests since her arrival in Pennsylvania three months ago.

  “Trent.” Jolie sounded exasperated. “Can we please not analyze my life right now?”

  Trent looked at me and mouthed, Touchy! He got up and we followed him into the living room. The setting sun was casting a soft spotlight thro
ugh the floor-to-ceiling windows. Maybe it was the three weeks of reporters camped out back in Pennsylvania, clicking cameras through our windows, but suddenly I felt like I was standing in a glass box—exposed to the world.

  “So,” I said. “You don’t have any blinds?”

  “Blinds?” Trent said like one would say cancer or cellulite. “On these windows?”

  Jolie looked at me, her eyes reading my unease. She walked over to the wall, pressed a button, and shades moved down, hiding the wall of glass.

  “I’m starving,” Trent said, walking into the enormous L-shaped kitchen. “Look at these sparkling black countertops,” Trent said to me. “So pristine. And that’s not a reflection of your aunt’s excellent housekeeping skills. No, no, it’s due to the fact that the only thing that’s ever been made in here is a small grease fire. And mad passionate love, maybe, if the mood was right.”

  “TRENT!” Jolie yelled.

  “Sorry.” Trent giggled. “Basically her kitchen is more like a closet for takeout menus and a coffeepot.”

  “I can cook,” Jolie said, a little too defensively, and then started to laugh because we all knew that was untrue. “Well, I definitely want to learn. But for tonight, how’s Chinese?”

  My eyes drifted to the corner of the kitchen. There was a familiar cotton apron hanging from a hook on the wall. I walked toward it confirming my suspicion. It was my mother’s. It was a retro-style apron that tied around the waist and had a border of white lace. I remembered the Christmas that Mom hinted she wanted that apron by leaving the catalog propped open for weeks. But Dad missed the hint and bought her a pearl necklace instead. Mom cried Christmas morning and my dad and I laughed that any woman would prefer an apron over pearls. Needless to say, Dad ordered the apron the next day. And now, for some reason, it was hanging in Jolie’s kitchen.

  Jolie read my mind. “Your mom gave me this apron after last year’s Fourth of July barbecue. Remember when everyone was teasing me because I put heavy cream in the French onion dip instead of sour cream?”

  “Good Lord,” Trent mocked.

  “Well, afterward your mom handed me her apron and said maybe it would bring me luck in the kitchen.” Jolie gazed at the silver reflections from the refrigerator.

  I reached out and touched the scratchy fabric of the apron, running my finger over a stain near the bottom. I suddenly needed to be alone. I excused myself and raced down the long corridor to my new bedroom. I braced myself against the windowpane and looked out at the million-dollar view—the maze of streets, the flutter of activity, and the vast waters of the Hudson River. Staring at the ripple of waves made me miss the serene, quiet Delaware River. Just a few miles from my old home a rickety, one-lane bridge marked where Washington had crossed the Delaware. The grassy banks with the trees arching over the water right near the bridge had always been my own private haven. But now this new river stretched on for miles, bordered not by trees but tall, gray buildings. And with its raging currents splashing below me, echoing my racing mind, it offered me no peace.

  Where am I? I thought. How did I get here? For the last three months I sat on our tan couch in a hazy blur watching E! True Hollywood Story. Georgia had hovered over me with talk of Ouija board and John Edward’s CrossingOver marathons as options to contact my mother and crack the code of her mystery apology. She’d sit next to me—for hours at a time—and rattle off plans: plans for the prom committee, for which colleges we’d apply to, where to go back-to-school shopping. She’d tried to keep me updated on the gossip about our other friends from school, but it had been hard to focus on any of that. The world seemed so fuzzy. She’d tried to get me to put on a bathing suit and leave the house, even buying me a pair of funky sandals that hid my toes. But when I refused, she finally went on without me. It was like the world for everyone else was still turning, but for me, it had stopped.

  Jolie had carted me off to shrink appointments and bought me books about grief. But all the voodoo and psychobabble in the world couldn’t help me understand my mother’s final words. Those words raced through my head for three months. Three endless summer months. And then we left. I was dragged from the only home I knew with no parents and no answers. And I still didn’t know what she meant.

  I leaned my head against the enormous cold windowpane and in the distance the Hudson flowed on, utterly indifferent.

  chapter two

  “EMILY,” JOLIE SAID. “I think school will be good for you, and you’ve already missed the first week.”

  “Can’t I just have a few more weeks to adjust? This is a big city . . .”

  “Well, you wouldn’t know,” Jolie said, pulling the cashmere afghan off my legs. “You haven’t left the apartment.”

  “We’ve only been here for a few days!” I grabbed the cover back.

  Jolie sat down on the edge of the shiny glass coffee table. “Look, we’re not doing this again. This hermit thing. You need to get out. Being back in school, around kids your own age, will help you . . .” She looked at the ceiling as if struggling to pick her words. “Help you move on. Obviously we need to try something different—the grief counselors were no help.”

  “They were all wack jobs,” I said.

  “They were all wack jobs?” Jolie challenged me.

  “Uh, YEAH. Dr. Manchester wore a bow tie and kept pushing freaky back-to-nature retreats. Dr. Rogers was a Jimmy Buffett wannabe sailor who insisted on calling his boat his little d inghy. Like, Sometimes the water splashes my little dinghy. And Dr. Frix was totally sports-obsessed. He needs to be a coach, not a shrink. If I had to hear, Tackle the issue, or, Rise to the challenge, one more time, I’d scream. It’s all just a big waste of time and money.”

  Jolie threw her hands up in the air. “Okay, no more shrinks, no more counselors. But you have to go to school.” She crossed her legs. “I was thinking it’s been a while since you’ve . . . cleaned up, so I’ve planned a weekend of fun and pampering. A real makeover to get you ready for your new school.”

  “You think it’ll take a whole weekend to make me over? Do I really look that bad?” I was trying to be funny, but Jolie’s lips puckered up like she was trying not to comment.

  “Okay,” I mumbled. “Make me presentable for school on Monday.” What did it matter, anyway?

  THE NEXT MORNING Jolie stood in my bedroom doorway with her hands on her tiny hips, looking tan and cheerful. “Today’s going to be so much fun!” She beamed. “First we’re going to Cornelia Day Spa for some much-needed pampering. I booked us this new ninety-minute algae body treatment that everyone keeps raving about.”

  “Ninety minutes? Doesn’t that seem a bit . . . excessive?”

  “Trust me. By the time we walk out of there, we’ll be as smooth as a baby’s butt.” She giggled and took a sip of her Starbucks. I wondered how long she’d been up. “Then I thought we’d finish up with some quick pedicures.”

  Pedicures?? As in someone touching my crooked toes?? I started to sweat.

  “After the spa, we’re going bra and underwear shopping!” She said this as if I just won a fabulous game show grand prize.

  “Okay!” I faked enthusiasm. This was going to be a total disaster.

  Jolie started for the hall, then spun around. “Oh! And I thought tomorrow I could help you with some makeup tricks and Trent could give you highlights. If you want them, I mean.”

  I looked down at the ends of my dark blond hair. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Awesome! We’ll leave in ten minutes. Just wear spa attire.” She left.

  I frantically dialed Georgia. “She’s making me display my deformed feet for the world to mock me!”

  “Huh?”

  “PEDICURES! She won’t let me back out. She called me a HERMIT!”

  “Okay, relax,” Georgia said. “First of all, they always shove this Styrofoam contraption between your toes, which will make them look less crooked. It’s not so bad. Think of Josie Leonard.” Josie Leonard was a girl in our class with a nub for her left index finger�
��some accident with a sharp knife. “Josie came back from camp with a smoking hot boyfriend—I saw them at the Coldstone Creamery on Thursday. If he could overlook the nubby finger, a random pedicurist can definitely ignore your weird toes.”

  I hung up feeling slightly less panicked and wondered exactly what spa attire meant. I decided on a pair of faded black yoga pants and a red T-shirt. I grabbed my Nikes and walked into the living room. Jolie was sitting on the floor tying her shoes. She was dressed in low-rider navy spandex pants and a fitted striped tank top that flaunted her toned arms. She looked straight out of an American Apparel ad.

  Jolie grabbed her Starbucks cup and we walked into the hall. As we rode the elevator down, I stared at my ragged reflection in the mirrored doors. My long hair, which usually lightened in the summer, was dull and shapeless. My skin was ashy pale and my eyes looked almost black in the fluorescent light. I looked like a horror movie version of myself. I tucked some flyaway hairs behind my ear and convinced myself I could survive this day. It’s not like Jolie knew that I would much prefer a chick flick and nachos. Mom would know. Georgia would know. I needed to find a way to make things normal again. But how?

  We walked a few blocks down tree-lined Perry Street, then turned onto Bleecker Street. The sidewalks were filled with Saturday morning shoppers carrying sleek handbags with impressive logos. The storefronts had large, glass display windows and signs hanging from wrought iron posts. Jolie stopped in front of Cynthia Rowley and gazed at the faceless mannequin sporting a flirty blue dress with metallic T-strap heels. She started walking again, her head craned toward a boutique shoe store display of towering strappy heels.

  “A lot of people assume I’m a Park Avenue kind of girl,” Jolie said, tossing her coffee cup in the trash. “An uptown girl,” she sang. “But I love the West Village. It’s the perfect escape from the flash and glitz.” She gestured toward the boutiques. “Everything is nicely balanced here—not so . . . fantastical. I feel like I belong. And I know you will too.”