Lipstick Apology

by Jennifer Jabaley

  The lunchroom didn’t have long lunchroom tables like I was accustomed to. Instead, there were café-style circular tables made from more of that mahogany wood. It was a much more intimate setting and therefore all the more intimidating. I scanned around hoping to find Anthony, the only person I had really talked to. But I didn’t see him.

  “Hey,” I heard someone call out.

  I turned around and saw two girls sitting at a table, water-falls of shiny hair cascading down their backs. The blond was fair-skinned with ocean blue eyes and invisible blond eyebrows that made her eyes seem exaggerated and wide. Despite her look of perpetual surprise, it was her popping eyes that gave her a unique, alluring look. She had a spray of freckles across her nose and was very petite, almost frail. She waved at me. “Come here.”

  I walked over to the table and the two girls motioned for me to sit.

  The brunette was taller than the blond, with an angular, sculpted face. She seemed athletic and toned, which next to the daintiness of the blond made her seem almost big. But I guessed she couldn’t be more than a size four. She twirled her mini diamond earrings.

  “You’re new here?” the blond asked.

  “I’m Emily,” I said.

  They nodded as if this was no surprise.

  “I’m Andi,” said the blond.

  “I’m Lindsey,” the brunette said. “So how’s your first day going?”

  “Oh my God!” Andi interrupted, her bright blue eyes widening. “Did they not tell you about the soup?” She grabbed at her chest like she was in pain. “I know soup is supposed to be healthy and all, but it is a total fact that the cream of chowder from this kitchen has twenty-eight grams of fat. TWENTY-EIGHT! Can you believe that? They might as well shove a Whopper in a blender and call it a light snack.”

  I stared at my bowl of soup, obviously the wrong choice. I looked over at their salads with small cups of dressing on the side. I was hungry, but I felt strangely obligated not to eat the soup.

  Andi held out her tube of hand lotion. “Want some?”

  I shook my head no.

  “It’s weird, but I noticed my hands get so dry after a shoot.” Andi rubbed the lotion over her hands.

  “Shoot?” I asked.

  Andi looked down at her hands. “Yeah, I did this little Guess shoot over the weekend. I don’t model that much anymore, though, too busy.”

  I thought I saw Lindsey roll her eyes.

  “Andi used to be an American Girl model. Like four years ago,” Lindsey informed me. Andi punched her in the arm. “What? It’s true! So how do you like it here so far?” Lindsey asked, turning back to me.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s an adjustment.”

  Lindsey leaned in, her dark hair falling around her face. She whispered, “How are you handling everything?”

  Andi gasped, her hand flying up to her mouth.

  “I know we’re not supposed to say anything—” Lindsey said quickly.

  Andi cut her off. “It was totally forbidden.”

  “That’s insane,” I said. “Why is it forbidden to ask me a question? That’s so messed up.”

  Andi answered with a deep impersonating voice. “You’ve been badgered enough. Here at Darlington, we will show you the respect you deserve.”

  I was thinking that maybe that was a decent point when Lindsey said, “It’s such a load of crap. I wouldn’t be surprised if down the road, we read a big article in the paper about how Darlington handled such a sticky situation with grace and dignity. The administration will use this for publicity, which totally goes against everything they’re preaching.”

  So I was no longer a national headline, but a “sticky situation.” I stared at my soup and played with the strand of pearls around my neck.

  “That’s such a pretty necklace,” Lindsey said, releasing her finger from her square diamond earring and pointing to the pearls. “Where did you get it?”

  I took a deep breath and willed myself to loosen my grip on the necklace. “These were my mom’s.”

  Lindsey cocked her head, her brown hair falling over her cheek. “They’re beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, looking down again at my soup.

  Andi dipped a carrot stick in dressing. “So, have you met any guys of interest?”

  “Well,” I said, “there was this really sweet guy I met this morning.”

  They leaned in with anticipation.

  “His name is Anthony,” I said.

  Andi’s brow furrowed with confusion. “Do we have an Anthony in our class?” she asked, tucking a blond strand behind her ear.

  “Dark, curly hair?” I said.

  Lindsey nodded. “Anthony Rucelli.”

  Andi crinkled her blond eyebrows like she still wasn’t sure. “Wait, is that the guy who eats lunch in the library every day?” She nodded to herself. “That’s right. I know who you’re talking about. Aidan sat next to him in trig and he texts his mother like fifty times a day. And he chews his pencils. Whatever.” She sliced her hand through the air as if dismissing the thought of him.

  “He seemed nice,” I said. I felt like I made some kind of mistake, like with the soup.

  “He may be nice,” Andi said. “But he’s never at any parties, and at school he just kind of fades into the background.” She stood up with determination. I noticed her take on the school uniform included a cute khaki skirt rather than pants and that her hunter green top with tiny detail on the cap sleeves was unbuttoned at the bottom like she’d just thrown it on one second ago. She really did look like a Guess model. I felt a little awed just to be in her presence. “Come on, after everything you’ve been through, you deserve to meet the real guys.”

  We walked across the room toward a table near the patio doors. As we crossed the cafeteria, Andi’s hand flew left and right, like a flight attendant pointing out the exit doors.

  “That’s Walker Montgomery—his dad works at NBC studios. Travis Martin—his parents are the defense attorney team from that huge murder-dismember-mob case last year. Helena Lender—as in the bagel. Lucas Bailey—his dad runs a hedge fund downtown—incredibly rich.”

  We stopped in front of the patio doors. “And these,” Andi did the flight attendant hands again, “are the guys.” She looked around. “Where’s Owen?” she asked no one in particular.

  Two guys sat at the table, casually joking and eating burgers. Both had perfect faces with shiny white teeth.

  Note to self: Get some Crest Whitestrips.

  The guy with shaggy brown hair jumped up and pecked Andi on the cheek.

  Andi turned to me. “Emily, this is my boyfriend, Aidan.”

  He nodded. “Hey.” He pushed his hair away from his eyes.

  Lindsey put her hand on my shoulder. “This is Emily’s first day.”

  The lanky guy stood up, reached over for a few napkins, and balled them up. He flexed his wrist and shot the napkin wad halfway across the room into the garbage can.

  “Swish,” Aidan said, giving the beanpole a high five.

  “That’s Ethan,” Andi said. “Our resident basketball star. He’s being recruited by every college in the country. Even the NBA has contacted him.”

  Ethan did an exaggerated bow before sitting back down.

  Then, out of the blue, like flowers stirring in the breeze, all heads in the cafeteria turned. Through the doors walked a guy. And even in this room of flawlessness, he transcended perfection. It wasn’t his short, blond hair, or his intense, jade green eyes. It was some imperceptible quality that made all eyes just linger and swoon. As he breezed through the lunchroom toward us, my breath caught.

  Andi’s flight attendant hand shot out toward Mr. Perfect. “This is Owen.”

  O-wen. Even his name had a singsong quality that made me breathy.

  He smiled at me, and crash boom—it was like someone pressed two paddles to my chest and shocked the life back into me.

  “Hi,” I squeaked out.

  “Hi,” Owen said, holding his gaze a lit
tle longer than necessary.

  The electricity coursed through my veins with rapid fire. There was no doubt in my mind that if I reached out and touched him, just the slightest contact, there would be a spark.

  Owen pulled out a wooden lunchroom chair and motioned for me to sit down. “So,” he said. “Where are you from?”

  “Cut the crap,” Lindsey interjected, sitting down next to me. “She knows that we know about her situation.”

  “I’m so sorry about your parents,” Owen said, resting his hand lightly on my knee.

  Spark, spark, spark. I looked down for steam coming off my khakis. His forearms were tan and muscular, and I wondered if maybe he played tennis like me.

  “So,” Owen continued. “Tell me how, after such a tragedy, do you look so amazing?”

  Oh my God. Thank you, Jolie, for the body massage and cleavage-enhancing bra. Thank you, Trent, for the highlights and layers.

  I was still struggling to respond when Aidan released his grip on Andi and made a motion with his hand.

  Owen looked at the time on his cell phone. “Gotta go. See ya.” He smiled at me. As he followed Aidan and Ethan, the sun from the big bay windows cast a pale glow on his short golden hair.

  The rest of the day, I floated on clouds. Owen thought I looked amazing. Owen, the most perfect, beautiful guy I’d ever met, thought I looked amazing. Who cared if everyone was being nice to me just because the principal instructed them to?

  For the first time since my move to New York, the constant visions of airplanes and tray tables were replaced by a thirty-second conversation with a hot boy.

  chapter four

  “SO, HOW WAS YOUR FIRST DAY?” Jolie chirped as she came through the apartment door later that night.

  “It was,” I looked up from my homework and thought for a minute,“different.”

  Jolie nodded as if that was exactly what she expected me to say.

  Trent barged in right behind her, juggling several Thai food cartons. He set the boxes down on the oval table on the far side of the kitchen bar.

  “Do you live in this building too?” I asked. He always seemed to be two minutes away.

  “Oh, honey. I’m rich, but not this rich.” Trent winked.

  Jolie sat down at the table. “He lives in a brownstone a few blocks away.”

  “Right near where the Sex and the City tour bus stops. My home may not be as posh, but it’s trendy.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. “How was your first day? What’d I miss?”

  “Nothing, I just said it was different.” I walked toward the steaming food.

  “Oh, no,” Trent moaned. “Different, like all the guys have tattoos that say MOM and insist on teaching you how to hock a loogie?”

  Jolie rolled her eyes and mouthed, His college years, under her breath.

  Trent snarled toward Jolie. “Don’t dismiss my awful, damaging experiences.”

  I smiled.

  Jolie opened a carton of pad Thai. “That was twenty years ago; will you let it go?”

  Trent quivered. “I still have nightmares about my freshman roommate, Bobby Joe, and his obsession with tractors.”

  Jolie rolled her eyes, then opened the plastic silverware from the wrappings.

  I set the paper plates out. “No tattoos and no loogies,” I said. “Just . . . different.”

  Jolie raised her eyebrows at me.

  It was so hard to pinpoint. Darlington seemed like a whole other universe. At my old high school our girls didn’t carry Prada bags and have modeling jobs on the side. Our lunchroom didn’t have a fireplace and Starbucks Frappuccinos in glass bottles. No one knew parental employment histories or compared whose apartment had the best view of the river.

  I looked at Jolie and Trent’s eager eyes and decided to narrow my focus to something they could relate to: appearances. “They all looked effortless,” I said, scooping up some rice.

  “But Em,” Jolie said, setting her spoon of tom ka ga back in her bowl. “Look at you. You look effortless too.”

  “It took a whole TEAM of people to make me look this way,” I protested.

  “Life is about teamwork,” Trent said, slurping up a rice noodle.

  “Yeah, okay, but today was my first day. I was aiming high, trying to make a good impression. These people just showed up on an ordinary day looking . . . perfect.”

  Blank stares.

  “You mean I have to do this EVERY DAY?”

  “It’s all about maintenance, sweetheart.” Trent reached for a summer roll. “Like, when a chestnut brown comes in waving a picture of Gwyneth Paltrow, I say platinum blond is all about commitment. Either you do it religiously, or you don’t venture there in the first place.”

  I sighed and looked out the window toward the river.

  “Did you meet anyone nice?” Jolie asked, looking anxious, like she was afraid I’d say I was shoved into my locker or tripped in the hall.

  I tried to act relaxed. I didn’t want her to be more stressed about my transition than I already was. “I met two girls, Andi and Lindsey,” I said casually. “And I met some guys: Aidan, Ethan and Owen.” I felt myself get a little flustered remembering Owen’s deep green eyes. “It’s so weird, I mean, all the boys’ names start with vowels. It’s like a big vowel cluster,” I blabbered.

  “Your name starts with a vowel,” Jolie said, her forehead crinkled in a look of suspicion.

  “You’re blushing,” Trent said, pointing his fork at me. “Why are you blushing?”

  “I’m not blushing; it’s just, um, the food’s a little spicy.” I fanned myself with a napkin.

  “You talk about some boys and suddenly you’re all giddy.” Trent’s eyes narrowed on me. “Spill.”

  “Well, there was this one guy . . .” I confessed.

  Trent’s ears perked up. “Do tell,” he said.

  “His name is Owen . . .”

  “Owen is a hot-boy name,” Trent interjected.

  I bit my lip.

  “Knew it,” Trent said, shaking his head.

  “Yes, he’s . . .” I sighed.

  “Stop swooning,” Trent said, “and describe.”

  “Tall, athletic, blondish hair with really green eyes and this amazing smile . . . But it’s more than just that,” I said. “It’s like, I don’t know, he’s just—I can’t put my finger on it. He has this magnetism. Like he just lights up a room and everyone wants to be near him.”

  Trent held up his hand to stop me. “No, honey, sorry,” he said. “Stay away.”

  “Away? Why?” I asked.

  “I can smell his charm from here and that charisma means one thing. PLAYER. PLAY-ER. You know what Stevie Nicks says: Thunder only happens when it’s raining. Players only love you when they’re playing. You’re too innocent; he’ll have you swinging from the rafters in a matter of weeks.”

  “Emily would not be swinging from the rafters,” Jolie said.

  “Trust me,” Trent continued, “he’s dangerous.”

  “Really?” I asked, and wondered if it could be true.

  “PLAY-ER. Ask Jolie,” Trent said, pointing to Jolie, who was cracking open a fortune cookie. “She has plenty of experience with PLAYERS, don’t ya?”

  “Trent,” Jolie said with exasperation. “This is my niece. We’re not at The Odeon discussing my love life.” She collected our paper plates and headed into the kitchen.

  “Come on,” Trent teased Jolie. “Maybe Emily can learn from all your mistakes. Tell us about Leo. Ooh, or what about, who was that financial guy? Parker! Or how about Honey Buns? Tell us about Honey Buns!”

  “Trent!” Jolie stomped around the bar into the main part of the kitchen. I didn’t know if she was upset with Trent for bringing up all her failed relationships or whether she was just uneasy discussing my crush.

  Trent waved his hand through the air. Touchy, he mouthed behind her back.

  I smiled and collected my books. “I’m going to my room to finish my homework.”

  Every year, after the fi
rst day of school, my parents and I would sit around and make predictions: Which class would be the hardest? Which teacher would become my favorite? It felt strange that with Jolie and Trent we discussed none of this, only boys.

  I looked out my bedroom window. A red light flickered on the dark water. I looked up and saw an airplane flying. Maybe it was descending toward Newark Airport or maybe it was an optical illusion from the waves, but either way, to me the plane looked like it was going down. I turned away from that dreadful river, the haunting image making my heart thump. I collapsed on my bed and started talking.

  Hi, Mom and Dad. It’s me, Emily, I whispered. I’m sure you know that, butI just wanted to clarify in case you’re, like, getting vibes from elsewhere. Anyway, I miss you guys. I miss you guys so much. You don’t even know what it’s like. It’s like a whole different life now. I know I’ll make new friends, but everyone seems so different here. I miss my old school. I miss our house. I miss real dinners with metal utensils. Mom, I really wish I understood what your apology meant. What were you sorry about? You were the perfect mother. You never did a single thing wrong. The only thing I hate you for is being gone. At this my voice choked up, and I couldn’t keep my whisper rant going.

  But I wanted to know they heard me. “Mom, Dad, move something!” I demanded. I searched my room for any evidence of their presence. I pointed to a picture frame. “If you can hear me, move this frame! Come on, you’ve seen Ghost!” But the frame remained immobile.

  I flopped my head back down on the bed, the soft fibers of the new cream-colored comforter (Jolie had gotten rid of the pink one already) caressing my cheek.

  I felt the familiar tingly sensation I’d felt all summer. Like my body was full of pins and needles, and pretty soon I knew it would be impossible to move my body at all. I’d be paralyzed, like I’d been for months, unable to get up from the couch for hours, even days.

  I rolled over quickly and picked up my cell and looked at all the missed calls from Georgia. I decided not to call her. It was too late anyway.