by Emily Asad
* * * * *
The only bright spot in my day was fifth period, when Mrs. Putnam announced that she was entering one of my stories into a Young Writer’s contest.
It was a complete surprise to me. I had never thought about entering contests, and I certainly would never have done it on my own. Mrs. Putnam was a surprise to me, too. None of my teachers had ever taken my grade so personally before. I would have gotten an A in her class anyway, but she spent a good deal of extra time ‘developing’ my writing talents. She assigned me extra homework, like keeping a journal every night or having me describe the way a tree would react if a squirrel bit it. Bizarre little assignments like that. They were like chocolate to me – I couldn’t get enough of them. When I wasn’t juggling or riding Charlie, I was writing.
I haunted the school halls like a depressed spirit until five o’clock. I juggled for an hour or so but even that could not shake my fears that Erika had forgotten me. I had not told her where to meet me, or when the concert started. I stayed in front of the choir room, hoping she would look for me there.
Mrs. Crofton arrived promptly at six. “You’re early. Did you leave your dress in the room?”
“No, it’s on its way,” I said with false confidence. “I’m just waiting for it.”
She nodded and passed into her room.
Moments later, right before I grew really panicky, Erika sauntered toward me. She stopped several yards away. “Let’s go to the bathroom,” she called. “I’ve got everything set up in there.”
Curious, I rose to my feet. What had she set up? I hoped that she didn’t want me to wear her silver Pentagram earrings to match the devil dress, I wouldn’t offend her by rejecting them. She was bailing me out of a desperate situation, after all.
“It wasn’t in my closet, or I’d have been here sooner,” she said once we were together. “Mom packed it away in a box. It took me a while to find it. What do you think? Here, step into it, like this.”
It was gorgeous! It had black in it, yes, but only as trim. It was made of a vibrant royal purple material. The neck was cut deeply in a V, and the waist was tight and clung to the upper part of my derriere. Then the skirt flared out gracefully, stopping just above the ground.
The V-neck dipped low. I had never seen myself so plainly before. I covered my chest with my hands. “I can’t wear this. It’s immodest. Mom would kill me.”
“It’s charming. You have a nice figure. You shouldn’t hide it behind those bulky sweaters you always wear.” She had to forcefully tug my arms down so that she could adjust the gown properly. “Stop being such a prude. It’s not immodest. Besides, this dress doesn’t show half of what the other girls are gonna show tonight.” She clucked her tongue. “Oh, man! I forgot to bring you shoes. Do you have any? Other than tennis shoes?”
Mercifully, I had a pair of black pumps. I knew everyone else would be wearing high heels, but I also knew that I would fall flat on my face if I even tried them.
I twisted around to catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror, but Erika caught me. “Oh, no, you don’t. We’re not done yet.”
My eyebrows furrowed in suspicion. Here came the Pentagram earrings.
“Sit down right there. Let’s see, you look like an autumn. Let’s try browns and greens, then…” Humming to herself, Erika rummaged through a huge makeup kit. I had never seen so much makeup. She had brushes, nail polish, nail files, eyeliner, mascara, and numerous lipsticks. She also had several magazines. She pulled out a magazine and handed to me. “Is there any particular style you see yourself in? Dark and sultry, or light and waiflike?”
I raised an eyebrow at the magazine. “I… uh… I’m not really good at makeup. You’re probably better at it than me. You decide what to do.” I flipped it open and saw a woman who could have doubled for a Hollywood prostitute. “On second thought, don’t make it too dramatic. My mom still might come to this, you know.”
She noticed my absorbed interest in the magazine. “You don’t read these much, do you.” It was more of a statement than a question, and she already knew the answer.
I chuckled. “Nope. I try not to. I mean, the women in here are so beautiful, and I’m so… Well… I always feel kind of inadequate after reading them. Look at this one. She’s flawless – perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect taste in clothes, perfect figure…”
“Perfect airbrush job,” muttered Erika. “They don’t look like that in real life.”
“But they make me feel like I should.”
She tilted my chin toward the ceiling, so the light could strike my face at a better angle. “You have a different kind of beauty. Red hair and green eyes aren’t that common, you know. And you have a nice figure. Slender but full.” She fumbled in her bag and withdrew a dark brown eyeliner. “This should be good.”
“I love being a redhead,” I confessed, “but my eyes are so small. And I’m always pink. Nobody else is pink – they’re nice and tan. I hate being pink. And I always feel fat.”
“Everyone feels fat,” she mumbled. Her hand flew to her own belly for a minute. She squeezed it subconsciously, then steadied my head. “Hold still. This may feel funny if you’re not used to it.”
It felt like she was taking a pin to the outside of my eyes. I tried hard to not blink. It was awkward to let her apply so much paint, but the gown was so lovely that I didn’t dare dishonor it by having a naked face. I hoped she wouldn’t paint too strongly - but if she did, I would be gracious about it. “I really appreciate this, Erika.”
“Shh.” She was the picture of absolute concentration as she switched to my other eye. When she was done, she withdrew a small compact and some face lotion. “You said you don’t like being pink. That’s what makeup is for – to cover up your bad features and to enhance the good ones. Your hair, lips, and eyes are good. Your skin needs some work.” She smeared the lotion onto my face.
I was chagrined to realize that she was touching my zits, but I didn’t stop her.
“When you go shopping next, I’ll show you some good creams to clear up your acne. Um… nope… here we go...” She muttered as she rummaged through that huge makeup kit. “I didn’t know I had a foundation so pale! I wonder where it came from…” She continued to talk to herself as she applied the pale foundation to my skin. It felt nothing like the pancake makeup I had worn in abundance for the play. This, combined with the lotion underneath, felt airy and almost nonexistent, and I could tell it was moisturizing my dry skin.
“Won’t it cause more zits?”
“Nah. It’s comodogenic. You really haven’t ever done this before? Not even at slumber parties?”
“I never get invited to slumber parties.”
She was quiet for several minutes. I could tell by the way she looked at me that she felt sorry for me. Her own mother probably taught her how to do her makeup when she was ten. Mine always threatened that I would look like a slut if I ever tried it.
I flinched when she smeared the eye shadow onto my lids with the hard little brush. She applied some blush and lined my lips with the same brown liner she had used for my eyes. Then she filled the outline with liquid lipstick, followed by some sort of a lip moisturizer.
“You seem like an expert,” I joked.
“You could learn to do this, you know,” she said presently. “It just takes practice. How long did it take you to learn to put your contacts in?”
“A few weeks,” I groaned.
“And don’t you like them better than wearing glasses? Makeup is much easier. Trust me. Tell you what. You look through that magazine while I do your hair. Do you want it up or down?”
“Whatever’s easiest. I don’t care, really. It never behaves anyway.”
“You’re hilarious. That’s what hair spray and mousse are for.”
She reached for my hair, but I grabbed her wrist. I looked up into her eyes, searching. “Erika, why are you being so nice to me?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I’m a nice perso
n, you know. I don’t have anything against you. It’s just your mom that I hate.” She grinned at me.
I smiled back. “Sometimes I feel that way, too,” I muttered. “Divorce sucks.”
“Yeah, it does. The worst part is, they don’t seem to notice. They think it’s all about them, you know?”
While she worked, she explained each item to me as if I were a little kid. It would have sounded condescending, except for my pitiful ignorance. I actually needed her to explain the function of mousse to me.
At six-thirty she finally put her tools away. “Okay. What do you think?”
She gestured toward the mirror. I walked over with my eyes closed, and then opened them.
It wasn’t me. The stranger in the mirror was elegant and sophisticated. It took a few seconds for me to adjust to the change. The first thing I noticed was my figure. The dress clung to my every curve. I was embarrassed, but at the same time very proud of my womanliness. My hair had been arranged in such a way that several loose, wispy strands framed my face, drawing attention to my eyes. They were the highlight of the whole makeover. My yellow eyelashes had been coated in auburn mascara, which made them even longer and fuller than before. Plus, the dark lashes fringed my eyes, which were not as small and beady as I thought. The choice of shadowing Erika had used made the emerald color more vibrant, and emphasized the orange and gold flecks that surrounded my pupils. Not to sound snobbish or anything, but I had no idea that my eyes could be so exquisite.
“Do I really look like that?” I gasped.
“Everyone can, with a little help. Keep that magazine. It has some great pointers.”
“Oh, Erika! Thanks. You don’t know what this means to me.”
She hugged me, a compassionate, motherly hug. “I think I do. Good luck tonight.”
She gathered her brushes, makeup, and sprays. “Oh! I forgot. One last thing.” She tossed me a miniature sample of Champs Elysees, an expensive French perfume. “I picked that up at the mall. Every true lady has a signature scent. I thought that one was perfect for you.” She lowered her voice. “You’re supposed to put a dab every place you want to be kissed.”
I smelled it, liked it, and dabbed my wrists and behind my ears. I wasn’t ready to put it anywhere else.
She laughed at me. “That’s a start, at least. Okay. Well. Good night.”
“You’re not staying for the concert?”
“I have a date with Jason.” Her hand flew to her belly again. “We have some things to discuss.”
“Thanks again. I really appreciate this.”
We parted ways, she to her date and I to the choir room. Everyone was supposed to be there at six-twenty, so I was a few minutes late. Mrs. Crofton was busy reminding everyone of how she wanted us to lift our eyebrows, smile, and stand with good posture.
I tried to sneak in as unobtrusively as possible, and was relieved to notice that I wasn’t the only late arrival. We were still missing two altos and a few tenors.
I took my place next to Naomi for some warm-ups.
“What did you do, rob a bank?” she smirked. “You can’t possibly afford a dress like that. Even if you were on welfare.”
I heard the jealousy in her voice. It made me confident enough to look at her, smile, and say, “Good luck tonight with your solo.”
It was not the answer she had been expecting. She snickered at me and turned her attention to the warm-ups.
At six-fifty we lined up in the hallway to make our entrance onto the stage.
Mrs. Crofton paced back and forth. “Remember, gentlemen, stay on the right. Ladies, take their arms. Try to walk in unison if you can. Get onstage as quietly as possible and…”
Luke, dressed in a black tuxedo with a lavender cummerbund, offered his arm. “You look great,” he said. “All the other guys are staring at you.”
“No, they’re not,” I protested, but it was true. Actually, everyone had stared at me at one point during the last twenty minutes. My transformation had been complete and amazing. I felt like Cinderella. I just hoped I wouldn’t blush or trip over anything!
He looked down at me. “I got lucky to have the prettiest girl in the whole choir as my partner.”
I looked up into his brown eyes, which I noticed were staring at me in a way I'd never seen before. I felt it coming, but I was unable to control that darned blush. I had to break away from his gaze, so I smoothed away an imaginary wrinkle in my gown.
He was so close! And tall and handsome in his tuxedo. Still blushing, I sneaked a look at him again. He had combed and gelled his normally shaggy brown hair, though some curls still poked out in random wisps at the back of his neck. I noticed that his cummerbund matched my gown, and I marveled at our stroke of luck. It seemed like we belonged together.
I suspected that he had feelings for me. Ever since the night when I missed my two cues, he had taken deliberate steps to talk to me or stand near me in choir. He was a wonderful person, too – athletic, intelligent, musical… He had many of the qualities on my List.
The way he looked at me that night made me reconsider my List. Did I really want to wait until I was out of college to start dating? Was I going to stick to my resolution of observing and analyzing before developing a crush? Could love really be handled in such a scientific manner?
I didn’t get a chance to dwell on my questions. It was time. We filed into the auditorium and took our places on stage. And then we began to sing.
We only sang a few songs before retreating to the back room to wait for the other choirs. The lesser choirs, as we called them. They were comprised of the students who had auditioned for A Cappella and failed, but still wanted to sing. They looked up to us, actually. It always made us feel slightly smug.
While they were singing, I haunted the curtained wings, searching the audience for my mother. There was nobody in the balcony, so she couldn’t be up there – and since I didn’t see her in the audience, it was safe to assume she hadn’t come at all.
You’re going to think I’m a certifiable loon when I tell you this, but I always play a sick, twisted little game with myself. I set myself up for failure. I know she won’t show, and yet I talk myself into believing that she just might. And when it turns out that I’m right, then I hate myself for giving her the benefit of the doubt. Each event, year after year, I hope and am disappointed but always hope again. Tonight it occurred to me that I should grow up and learn to not expect anything from her.
I did see Roger, however, and wondered why he was there. His own Margaret was in the middle-school choir, but this was a high-school performance. Her performance was tomorrow. I wondered if he accidentally came to the wrong concert.
I stayed in my own little corner, trying hard to not move because the dress was so tight and I felt uncomfortable, especially when the breeze from the ventilation system tickled my exposed skin. Erika had been right, however, when she said that my dress was modest in comparison to some of the others.
Naomi and her little clique kept glancing my way. I knew they were talking about me, but I didn’t care. She couldn’t touch me tonight.
Luke decided to get chatty and struck up a conversation about the economic state in Morocco. It wasn’t a subject I was fluent in, but he explained it so well that I told him he should become a professor someday.
Finally, our turn arrived again. We danced. We did our Christmas carols even though they were a few weeks early. Naomi even brought the audience to tears with her solo, she was so bad. Just kidding. She had a gorgeous voice. We all wondered why the record companies hadn’t snatched her up yet, but nobody ever gets scouted in small towns in Minnesota.
Anyway, my song was the finale. I carefully stepped onto the podium beside Mrs. Crofton and began to lead my peers in the sign language movements we had learned. I was nervous, and I think I went too quickly, but nobody noticed. They were too involved in their own movements to worry about me. When it was over, I curtsied to the audience and accepted my applause like a pr
o before returning to my place.
It was over.
Mom had missed another milestone in my life.
At least Roger was there, so I could get a ride home immediately instead of having to wait for Mom to drive into town whenever it was convenient.
Parents and friends flooded the stage, congratulating my choir on a job well done. Many of them had roses for their daughters and compliments for their sons. I saw Roger make his way to the front as well. He tried to catch my attention, but I ignored him. Deliberately. Other parents told me what a nice job I had done with the sign language portion, but I did not want to talk to Roger.
When the crowd had dwindled to only a few adults, I stiffly approached Roger, who had taken the hint and sat down in a front row seat.
“Where’s Mom?”
He stood. “She couldn’t come, honey. She had a really bad migraine. She sent me in her place.”
I could not control myself. I may have looked beautiful in my gown and makeup, but my heart was ugly. “You don’t count! How could you possibly take her place? You’re not my real parent.” I knew my words sliced him, but I continued to rant and rave for several minutes before storming out to the car.
It was bitterly cold. Although the snow was not falling, the wind blew hard. I refused to put my coat on, hoping to catch pneumonia and die. It was easy to find our car, since the parking lot was now semi-deserted. I stood and waited for him to unlock the car.
I was surprised when he opened my door for me first. It was something a gentleman might have done. I was not used to receiving good manners, and I’m afraid I slammed the door before he could close it himself.
