Glitter Gets Everywhere

by Yvette Clark

  “Here’s the color I used last time,” Henry says, passing me a box.

  “Blue Steel?” I laugh, reading the front.

  “I didn’t choose it based on the name, Kitty. Come on, help me look for green.”

  “Why green?”

  “It’s almost Christmas. I always do green at Christmas.”

  “How festive,” I say, perusing the boxes of green. Unsurprisingly, there’s a limited selection. I examine colors called Emerald City and Appletini before handing him Enchanted Forest.

  “Nice,” he says. “Thanks, Kitty.”

  “They should give the colors better names,” I tell him.

  “What would you call this one?”

  “Frog’s Brow.”

  Henry laughs and shakes his head.

  “And I’m the dork?” he says.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Imogen’s Ice Cream

  By the end of the following week, Imogen is still in a foul mood and only managed a small smile when I presented her with the Ponytail Girl comic strip. She pushes food mournfully around her plate, sighs over her homework, and every night when I sneak into her room to turn off her light, she’s holding a different comfort book in her hand.

  “I want to go home,” she announces over dinner.

  “That’s supposed to be Kitty’s line,” says Dad, looking concerned. “I thought you loved New York, Imogen.”

  “I did, but I’ve had enough. I’m ready to go back to London.”

  “Don’t let Josh spoil the last few weeks for you,” Dad says.

  Imogen puts down her fork, pushes back her chair, and stands up.

  “It’s not about Josh. He’s a total loser anyway.”

  “We all agree with that,” I say to her back as she stalks off to her room.

  I hate Josh. How dare he treat my sister this way? How dare he make her feel bad about herself? She’s worth a hundred of him. He’s lucky she ever even bothered to speak to him, let alone go out with him.

  “Dad, I want to do something nice for Imogen to cheer her up.”

  “What are you thinking of, love?”

  “Well, I know you said we couldn’t paint the apartment, but how about I paint just one wall of Imogen’s room? I promise I’ll help paint it white again when it’s time to go.”

  Dad looks dubious. “It’s a nice idea, Kitty, but it’s not very practical. We’re only here for another few weeks. How about you get her some chocolates or flowers?”

  “But I want to do this,” I say stubbornly. “I want to make Imogen a special color of her own. I read about this place where you can make your own paint. You take in a swatch of fabric or something, and they can match the color.”

  Dad looks thoughtful. I wonder if he’s pondering what Mum would do. “Okay, why not? What color are you going to make for her?”

  I close my eyes and think back to one of my earliest memories of my sister. She and I are standing on a pebbly beach eating ice cream out of cones, probably somewhere in Dorset. The wind is whipping Imogen’s ponytail into the vanilla ice cream that I’m clutching in my chubby hand. Her ice cream is ponytail free. I used to think about colors even then, and I remember noticing how the creamy vanilla treat was the same color as the palest blond streaks in my sister’s ponytail.

  “You know the lightest part of Imogen’s hair. The strands that are the same color as vanilla ice cream?”

  “I can’t say that I do,” Dad says.

  “Well, that’s the color.”

  “You can’t snip off a piece of her hair,” Dad says. “She’s upset enough as it is. What are you going to do? Take a tub of vanilla ice cream to the paint store?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” I tell him, grinning. “I’m going to turn ice cream into paint.”

  As it turns out, making your own paint is extraordinarily simple. The DIY store has an ingenious device called a spectrophotometer that’s about the size of a shoebox and measures color electronically. The guy operating it, whose name tag reads Mike, shines a light onto the ice cream we brought with us in a cooler to stop it from melting.

  “The machine takes a reading of each wavelength of light reflected off the object,” Mike explains. “I’ve never matched ice cream before. I hope it doesn’t melt and mess up my equipment.”

  “What do people usually bring in for you to match?” Dad asks.

  “All sorts of things. The woman before you had a Tiffany jewelry box. Someone once brought in their dog.”

  “Really? Did you match it?” I ask. What an amazing discovery! I assume Kate knows all about the spectrophotometer, but I’ll tell her about it just in case she doesn’t.

  “Yes.” Mike nods. “It works about ninety percent of the time.”

  “What about the other ten percent?” Dad asks, looking at me nervously. He knows we’ll be here until the color is perfect.

  “Easy, if it looks a bit off, we just add some blue, red, white, whatever is needed, until it’s right.”

  Thirty minutes later and after learning about visible light being measured in nanometers, one of which is equal to a billionth of a meter, the color is a perfect match for the now gloopy ice cream.

  “I can save the formula on file for you in case you need to order more. I just need a name for it,” says Mike.

  “Imogen’s Ice Cream, Kitty’s Color, Number One,” I say. “Each word capitalized, please.”

  “We usually just do the last name of the person ordering it,” Mike says, but dutifully types in the name of my very first paint. Would you believe, creating a bespoke color with the spectrophotometer costs the same as buying regular, ready-mixed paint?

  “Why wouldn’t everyone do this?” I ask Dad as we lug the paint home.

  “Kitty, did you see how many color paints they had in there? Hundreds, maybe thousands. I think most people assume that someone else has already invented the perfect shade.”

  Well, most people are wrong. There are so many more colors than anyone could ever invent. Exact shades exist only because that person sees it in that way on that particular day. A lifetime of experiences, a million different types of light, their mood when they see it, all swirl together to create a unique color that may only exist for a split second, just like Imogen and the ice cream. Now that color is captured for eternity, thanks to Mike and his marvelous spectrophotometer.

  I decided it best not to consult my sister before painting her wall, in case she said no. She has a two-night school trip to Washington, DC, this week, and Dad agrees that’s the best time to paint. After much pleading, he agrees that I can miss a day of school, just this once. I put on a pair of old jeans and one of Dad’s T-shirts, tie my hair back into what is a slightly less stubby ponytail now that it’s grown out, and we begin. We moved the furniture away from the wall, wiped it down, and put on the primer last night, so we’re ready to go. I pop open the tin of paint using a palette knife, and it makes the most satisfying sound as it opens, revealing the buttery interior. Dipping the broad paintbrush into the velvety paint feels delicious. It even smells like ice cream, but that could be my imagination. Dad says it smells like paint and that I have to stop sniffing it. The wall comes to life as with each stroke of glossy paint, a gentle beam of sunshine appears in its place. We finish just as the sun is beginning to dip, and the pale vanilla takes on a golden sheen.

  The final touch is an enlarged copy of the photo of Imogen and me on the Dorset beach, which I’ve put into a frame and placed on her desk. I look at our faces—Imogen is smiling straight into the camera, and I’m looking at my ice cream, anxious to keep it safe from the ponytail.

  “What if she doesn’t like it, Dad?” I ask, examining the wall nervously.

  “She’ll love it,” he says.

  When Imogen gets back from her trip, we are in the kitchen waiting for her.

  “Kitty’s got a surprise for you, Imogen. Lead the way, Kitty,” says Dad.

  I open the door to Imogen’s room and step aside to let her
walk in first.

  “I invented this color for you. I hope you like it. It’s called Imogen’s Ice Cream.”

  Imogen stares at the wall, then heads to her desk and picks up the photo of us on the beach.

  “Imogen’s Ice Cream,” I repeat stupidly.

  “Kitty, I love it,” she says, rushing over to where I’m standing in the doorway and pulling me into a hug. After a few seconds, I break free, blushing.

  “It’s perfect,” she says. “Did I ever tell you that you’re a fab sister?” she asks, grinning at me.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, you are.”

  Imogen gives me another hug, and as she steps away, she flicks her ponytail with some of her old flair. I leave the room, my cheeks warm with pride. I can see my sister’s powers returning with every swing of her ponytail. You can’t keep a good superhero down.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Glitter Everywhere

  Overnight the storeowners of Manhattan replace their giant turkey and pumpkin window displays with stars, trees, Santas, and Menorahs. Henry was right; the glitter on the decorations that appear in the school’s hallways does seem to get everywhere. Ava’s mum is once again in charge of decorations. Ava says that the other parents find it annoying that her mum always runs the show, but they probably think it’s easier to fall in her mom’s decorating wake than to try to start their own tide.

  “It’s time for her to get a job. It’s been fifteen years since she stopped working at the magazine when my brother was born,” Ava complains. “Then maybe she’d stop interfering in my life.”

  The PTA team quickly transforms hallways, the gym, and classrooms into snow-filled palaces. Winter Wonderland is the theme of this year’s Winterfest, and Ava’s mum tells me that Narnia is her inspiration.

  “Isn’t that going to be a bit frightening for the younger kids?” I ask her.

  “It’s not a literal interpretation, Kitty. There isn’t going to be a White Witch trying to kill children and hobbits.”

  “I think you mean fauns. Mr. Tumnus is half man, half goat. The hobbits are in Lord of the Rings.” Even as I say this, I know that I sound like a brat. I’m still mad at her for saying we lost Mum.

  “Anyway,” she says, ignoring me, “Narnia is the inspiration. The most direct reference to it is the streetlamp we’ve installed outside Principal Carter’s office.”

  She hands me a bag of fake snow, which she instructs me to scatter around the base of the lamppost.

  The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe was one of my favorite books to read with Mum. On the cover of the copy I have, there’s a picture of Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy pushing their way through huge fur coats in the wardrobe. The idea of a normal world behind me and an enchanted one in front was mesmerizing, and I spent many happy afternoons recreating this scene in Mum’s wardrobe. Obviously, she didn’t have any fur coats, but some of her longer dresses felt nice to burrow through before I bumped into the oak back of the cupboard.

  As I pile the snow carefully around the base of the tree, I find one of those secret piles of grief glitter Gran told me about when I remember an illustration from the book. The lion, Aslan, was tied to a stone table, his magnificent mane shorn. Mum’s hair had started falling out in clumps when she began chemo, so she’d asked Dad to shave it all off one day. She had the most beautifully shaped head, and Dad used to kiss it whenever he walked past her. Some days she wore scarves or hats when we went out, but mostly she would walk around the neighborhood with her bald head held high. People used to give us sad, sympathetic looks, and told their children not to stare. Mum would wave at the kids, her smile as radiant as the therapy that was making her feel so ill.

  “They think I’m one of them, Kitty!” she said delightedly. “An oversize baby with a bald head.” She waved at a baby sitting in his stroller, who gave her a gummy grin in return and opened and closed his chubby hand back at her. He seemed delighted with his ability to control his hand movements and got distracted, waving at himself.

  In the story, of course, Aslan doesn’t die. His golden mane grows back, and with a roar to wake the spring, he breaks the chains holding him to the stone table and leaps off it to freedom. Mum’s golden hair never grew back, and the cancer chains holding her were unbreakable. Spring never came. But still, when I think of this, I see Mum giggling as she waves at the baby, and that makes me smile a bit too. Maybe the glitter can hide flecks of happiness as well as sadness. I turn to the supply box and pull out a jar of gold glitter, sprinkling it carefully onto the snow.

  The day of the Winterfest is my last ever day at school in New York. It never felt real to me that I was a student here—more as if I had come for a day’s visit to experience a completely different school and then got stuck. Ava has organized a goodbye party for me during homeroom. She has clearly inherited her mum’s event planning skills and has decorated my desk with Union Jacks and Stars and Stripes. There are cupcakes with little flags stuck into the frosting and a big card that everyone has signed, even Principal Carter. Ava has put her hair into a bun today and pushed the mini flags into her shiny hair, making it look a bit like she has stuck a cupcake on top of her head. Surely even she can’t have planned that? I decide not to ask her.

  I had volunteered to work at the carnival in the gym at the Winterfest. Henry is doing the same shift as me on the hook-a-duck stall. I can’t say this is a coincidence considering I had carefully checked the sign-up sheet for his name before surreptitiously adding my own with a blush. It has crossed my mind more than once that I might miss Henry when I leave New York.

  “This is my regular gig,” he says. “Third year in a row.”

  “You must enjoy it.”

  “Not really, I just can’t be bothered to try anything else. Mom gave me a T-shirt for my birthday that says ‘APATHY . . . I can take it or leave it.’”

  “That’s pretty funny. I wish I could be so laid-back. My godmother, Kate, once sent me a card that said ‘Today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday’ on the front. The problem is that when you know the absolute worst thing can happen, then it’s hard not to imagine everything else going wrong.” I realize it’s the first time I’ve said that out loud.

  Henry nods as if he understands.

  Principal Carter walks past the stall and waves at us. He’s wearing a Santa hat and beard. I try and fail to imagine Mrs. Brooks dressed as Father Christmas.

  “Ho, ho, ho, very festive!” Principal Carter says, pointing at Henry’s hair, which is now Enchanted Forest green, a brighter version of his green-bean-colored eyes.

  “Thanks,” says Henry. “Nice beard.”

  As Principal Carter passes, Dad, Jen, Imogen, and Dash appear in front of the stall.

  “Hi,” I say, hoping they’ll move on before I need to introduce Henry.

  “Can I have a ducky, please,” asks Dash, holding out a token in payment.

  “I’ll take one too, Kitty,” says Dad.

  “Me three,” says Imogen.

  Oh, great!

  “Here you go,” says Henry, appearing at my shoulder like an unsummoned genie, proffering ducks. “I’m Henry.”

  “Henry,” says Imogen knowingly, “how nice to meet you. I’m Kitty’s sister, Imogen. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Oh, really?” Henry looks surprised. “I guess I’ve heard a lot about you too, Ponytail Girl.”

  It’s Imogen’s turn to look surprised.

  “The comic strip,” Henry explains. “I did the drawings.”

  Dad and Jen say hi, and I notice Jen looking around furtively, presumably to see if James Davenport is anywhere nearby. Imogen has three more turns on the hook-a-duck stall to annoy me before I tell her that the game is really for the under-tens, and she flounces off, swinging her glossy mane.

  “Ponytail Girl was pretty good at hooking ducks,” Henry says.

  “Oh, Imogen’s good at everything,” I say, scowling after her.

  “You’re pretty good at everything
too, except state capitals. When are you going back to London?”

  “New Year’s Day.”

  “Too bad you won’t be here next semester,” he says. “I guess you’re looking forward to getting home.”

  “I guess. It’s like I pressed pause on my life in London, wandered off for a bit, and am about to hit play again.”

  Henry laughs. “Well, if you’re ever back in New York, maybe you can stop by school and say hi?”

  “You should come to London on holiday,” I say. “Perhaps your dad will have a movie premiere there, and you can take Imogen with you as your date. She’s always wanted to go on the red carpet.”

  “Thanks, Kitty. Your sister’s cute but not my type,” Henry says, studying me closely.

  I blush and fumble with the duck I’m trying to unhook. Maybe I’m supposed to ask what his type is? Instead, I change the subject to his hair color—apparently, next up is pink for Valentine’s Day. Once we’ve finished packing away the ducks, we drop the takings from the stall at the secretary’s office.

  “You headed for the subway?” Henry asks.

  “No. I’m meeting Dad and Imo at Jen’s house for a goodbye dinner with her and Dash.” I roll my eyes and sigh theatrically. Henry knows I am not a fan of Jen or Dash.

  “Well, see you, then.”

  Henry pulls me into a soft, clumsy hug and places the whisper of a kiss on my cheek.

  “Bye, Kitty.”

  “Bye, Henry.”

  I smile a small secret smile all the way to Jen’s house, my warm cheek tingling softly where Henry’s kiss had fallen. Does a kiss on the cheek count as a first kiss from a boy? I’ll have to ask Jess. Not that she’d know. I’d like to ask Imogen, but she’d laugh at me. The best person to ask would be Mum. As it is, I’ll hug the secret to myself all the way back to London and my old/new life.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A Very White Christmas