“I’m borrowing some of this,” she says. “You’re putting blue in my hair.”
“And you’re bleaching it?”
She rolls her eyes. “You know nothing of fashiony ways, Padawan. You can’t just dye black hair blue. You have to strip the color out first.”
I nod, mentally filing that away for a blog post later. I still haven’t written the dreaded flirting advice, because let’s face it, that attempt was the worst thing anyone has ever tried to do. But I’ve had a couple of other requests come through. At the moment, my focus is highlighting hair at home, as well as something … more painful.
“Okay, I also bought this.” I throw a box at her and hide my face.
“This is—this is a bikini waxing kit.”
“I’m aware.”
“You want me to help you wax your vagina?”
I steal a small cover from her bed and hide my face in it. “Oh my gosh.” I peek out from the cover to see her eyes shoot wide open.
“Is this because you’re gonna show it to someone?”
“No!” I shout, and I fling myself back on her bed. I’m immediately consumed by pillows. She has so many pillows of ridiculous shapes and sizes, most of the time, you can’t even see her bed.
She cackles when my face turns the color of a blood orange and rips open the package. I snatch it back from her. “We are not doing this first. Get the bleach, you sadist.”
She’s still cackling when she opens the package of dye and pulls out the flimsy plastic gloves that come with the kit.
“Hold on a sec,” I say. “I need to go wash my hair.”
“No!” she yells, and I jump. “You don’t wash before you bleach. You have to leave it gross and oily, or it’ll get all screwed up and fry your hair.”
I stay seated between a giant frog and even more giant Tootsie Roll pillow, fiddling with the fabric at the end of it. I’m starting to question if this tutorial was totally worth it, but I only need five people to pay for the answer to break even—and a few more if I manage to screw this up royally and need to pay for therapy.
“Okay,” April says, steepling her fingers and grinning psychotically, “get in ze chair.”
I get up slowly and slink over, like someone walking the green mile.
“Do not fear, my child. Zis will be painless.” She laughs maniacally again, throwing her head back. I am not reassured.
I snatch the box from the vanity and dump out the contents.
“I need a bowl to mix this stuff in.”
She prances out of the room and down to the kitchen, and I rifle through the supplies. This could be, well, a disaster. Really, this whole thing could fail, and I’d be stuck here and not in New York, and then April would shrivel and die. That would be the worst-case scenario.
I only have seven months left to get three grand, and so far I’ve made … twenty bucks. I’m pretty sure some of that is because Drew pays for answers to everything I post. But even so, I know I have a few other followers out there. I mean, I have more than a few now. Just not many who’ve been enticed into paying for answers. Which is why I have to go full-throttle. Capitalize on the few now. And no one ever got anything worth having without taking a risk, right? (In this case, those risks being my hair and my bikini line.)
April returns with a small mixing bowl and I pour in the solution and stir it around, then let it sit. I lean back in the chair and spin it slowly while we wait. April flips on her docking station and something loud blares through the speakers. Something punk I don’t recognize.
Within thirty seconds, an even louder country song blasts through the walls. April’s eyes narrow and she pushes the door open. Keith casually walks out of the room next door and grins at her.
“What are you doing?” she asks. More like accuses, but you can’t really accuse a question.
“Listening to music.”
“Well stop playing that crap so loud right next to me.”
“This is crap? I don’t even know what to call whatever’s coming through your speakers.”
“Just turn it down,” she says, a sigh in her voice.
“Turn yours down.” He laughs when she just stands there, arms crossed. “Well, whatever. I’m going downstairs to get a Satan-cookie.”
He turns his back and starts down the stairs and April turns just a fraction toward his door.
“Don’t go in my room while I’m gone. There will be consequences,” he calls from the stairwell.
“UGGGHHH, KEITH. I HATE YOU SO MUCH,” she yells. She won’t go in there. Keith’s justice is swift and merciless, and not worth a country music reprieve. She rolls her eyes and sighs about as loudly as anyone is capable of sighing but then she runs back over to the bannister and yells, “I’m just kidding; I love you, please don’t leave for college next year and never come back!”
Keith took a few years off after graduation to pursue a career in comic book art. That hasn’t exactly panned out yet, so I guess his parents are pressuring him to figure something out. College, maybe? Which makes me laugh. I just can’t think of Keith as a college man.
I hear his resonant laugh from all the way downstairs. Sometimes, when I see Keith and April, I wonder what it would be like to have a sibling. But she hates him half the time, so maybe it wouldn’t be so awesome.
April sits back on her pillow-bed and stares venomously at the docking station. After minutes of deliberating, she finally rolls her eyes at nothing and turns the thing off. Seconds later, the country music comes to a mysterious end as well. She makes an exasperated huff-noise.
“This dye should be pretty much done now.”
“Oh. Yeah.” The annoyance is still swimming across her face, but it’s somewhat dulled. In two minutes she will have forgotten it completely.
She grabs some clips and pins up my hair in haphazard lumps. The foil crinkles in my ear as she lays it around my hair. I start shaking my leg. The closer she gets to applying the bleach, the more nervous I am.
“Relax,” she says. “I’ve done this ten thousand times. You think my hair naturally changes colors every couple months?”
That reminder does relax me a little. After several minutes, the bleach is applied and my head is so foily, I’m pretty sure I can pick up the local radio station.
“Now me.” April whips the chair around and flings me out of it. I am glad, for once, for the mountain of pillows separating the mattress and me, and land in a giant cloud of fat, stuffed things. She sits and hands me the bleach. I just sit there, holding the brush and the bleach, not blinking. She should not trust me with this.
“Stop being a wuss. Just paint it here”—she gestures to the tips of her blunt bangs—“and then down here”—she moves her fingers in stripes down from her bangs to the ends of her hair at her shoulders—“and then connect them together at the back.” She spins around and moves both her fingers across the bottom back edge of her hair, until they meet in the middle.
“So, you want, like, a bleach outline of your hair. Like, if someone took a Sharpie and drew around it, or you were a cartoon or something.”
“Yes. But it’s not gonna be bleach forever. After, I’m dying it aqua blue. Look at it!”
She rummages through the top drawer of her vanity and pulls out a dented box, then throws it at me. It is extremely aqua blue. Which, to me, just seems bizarre. And on me, that’s how it would look. Probably on April, though, it will look like punk-rock Barbie.
I take a deep breath and start to paint.
“What if I kill your hair?”
“Hair is already dead. So you can’t possibly kill it. Plus, I put a crap ton of olive oil in it last night and again before you came over. So my hair will be fry-free and beautiful.”
Olive oil hair. Gross. But also, store that away for the blog.
I dutifully continue to outline her hair and foil it. By the end, she looks a little like a character from an eighties cyberpunk movie.
“So,” she says, “while we wait for that to work, w
e might as well wax your vag.”
“Ugh, forget I said anything about it. This is stupid and ridiculous.”
“Fine, but you brought it up.”
I sit on her bed, fiddling with various fluffy things, then look up at her.
“So, Keith’s going to college next fall? I thought he wanted to be a Marine or something.”
Her face falls immediately, and I wish I hadn’t said anything.
“I don’t even know right now. He was all set to be, like, an accountant. Then, he met this stupid recruiter and freaking rocked his ASVAB and now he can’t stop talking about it.”
I’m not sure exactly how to respond. “Well, I mean, it’s a noble thing.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s noble and honorable and great. I just don’t want Keith to do it. I don’t want him to get …” She looks at nothing, over my shoulder.
“I—” I start. But she puts on a giant, plastic smile and bounces up.
“I saw Cash again last night.”
So that’s the end of that conversation.
“How’d it go?”
She grins. “Let’s just say, guys love making out with a girl with a lip ring.”
I have no idea how it would make much of a difference; it’s in her upper lip. But, sure. I smile. “Lucky.”
“Are you still not making out with your super-hot neighbor?”
“No,” I say firmly.
“I don’t get that. At. All. If I had a neighbor like that who worshipped the ground I walked on, I’d be over there all the time.”
“I am over there all the time.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, exactly. You’re over there all the time, cuddling, sleeping in his bed, and who knows what else, and you’re not even making out?”
I start playing with my hands. “It’s complicated.”
“Not from where I’m sitting.”
And, because we’re hitting on a topic that I am not excited to talk about or think about, I change the subject with the only thing I know will do it: “Okay, let’s wax this.”
She laughs and opens the kit. “What do you want? A landing strip? A heart? Or ooooh! A star!”
There are seriously stencils for this? I immediately regret my decision and back away.
“Oh come on,” she says, seeing me inch backward. “It doesn’t even hurt.”
I raise an eyebrow. “It doesn’t?”
“No. It comes with this numbing stuff that works super well. It’s like plucking your eyebrows.”
I screw up my mouth and eye her. “Then why don’t you do it with me?”
“Because I did it two weeks ago.”
“Oh.”
She starts to heat the wax strips in her hands. I decide not to go with a stencil. I don’t want to look like a stripper. I shouldn’t do this. It isn’t worth the money. But yes, yes it is. Because April will die if I don’t go to New York with her. And really, it’s not just about her. Now that I’ve basically already experienced the sting of my mom rejecting me, I want to go. I would kill to go.
She hands me the numbing stuff. “Okay, woman. Get naked.”
I hop over to the other side of the bed, just out of her line of sight, and half strip. Then I apply the numbing stuff. This better work. She hands me the strips.
“Um … are you …” my heartbeat is in my throat. I can feel it. Major pain is coming, I know it. “Are you sure this isn’t going to hurt?”
“Positive. I seriously just did this. It’s not bad at all.”
I let out a somewhat relieved sigh and take the strips from her.
“Put them where you want them,” she commands.
I take a deep breath and stick.
“Wait a minute. You want the wax to totally adhere.”
Oh man, I’m gonna die. But there’s nothing I can do now.
“On the count of three. Take two of them. And when I say three, pull.”
I am about to hyperventilate. I know it’s ridiculous. April said it wouldn’t even hurt. She said—
“One …”
I roll my shoulders and crack my neck, like I’m prepping for a boxing match.
“Two …”
And grab the strips.
“Three.”
Pull.
I scream.
“April, you slut-whore lady douchebag!” I am in so much pain I can’t even think of more awful things to call her. She actually falls out of her chair, she’s laughing so hard.
“Why?” I gasp, between bouts of tearing up. “Why would you tell me that? This is worse than CHILDBIRTH.”
She can’t even breathe, she’s laughing so hard. But between her chortles, she manages, “Get the others out! You can’t just walk around with wax strips stuck to your lady bits!”
I can. Yes, I can. I look down. No, I freaking can’t. So, I rip out the other four. Quick and painful. “Seriously, April, you just did this two weeks ago? There’s no way you forgot this level of pain.”
“No, dude. I did one strip and it hurt so bad I just cut the rest out.” And then she’s giggling that evil witch giggle again.
I have never hated someone so much in my life. I hope she dies of laughter-induced oxygen deprivation. If she did, I wouldn’t even take the foil out of her hair. She could just go to the afterlife looking like a cyborg. I don’t even care.
I collapse onto the floor, clutching everything, and fuming and trying not to cry, because that’s stupid. And then she says, “Oh! Time to take out your bleach!”
I don’t want her near my hair. But also, I do. So I lie there for another minute or two and get up. “Fine. Do it. I’m not touching yours.”
She laughs again and takes the foil out. Then I head to the shower. I’m not in there long, just long enough to rinse out the bleach and attempt to soothe my on-fire vag. But by the time I get out, I’m ready to at least look at April. Honestly, I’m charging more for this answer than any of the others so far, so her douchebaggery was kind of helpful. Still.
I avoid looking too pleased while she dries my hair. She has me spun around so I can’t see myself in the mirror. Then, she smiles, obviously impressed with herself. “Alright, my newly groomed friend. No more moping. Look.”
She spins me around and my jaw drops. I look … amazing.
8. How to Be Awesome
I spend the rest of the weekend holed up in my room, which is a bit of a shame, considering the new perfect hair. But it just makes the following Monday that much more awesome.
I head out the door and over to Drew’s, running a hand through my hair and fluffing it a little for good measure. I knock, only because I’m about ten minutes early. After a few seconds, he opens the door and just stands there. His gaze travels from the top of my head down to my toes and lingers at several key places on the way back up. Normally, I would feel self-conscious, but wearing what I’m wearing, looking how I look, I just … don’t.
“Wow,” he says.
I suddenly start to feel a little embarrassed and look away. “Thanks,” I say, smoothing down my fitted red top over my jeans, which feel just a tad too tight.
“Taking your own advice, I see.”
I laugh. “Well, trying to. I am nothing if not authentic. And you know, certified expert and all.”
“Highlighted hair, jeans that show off ‘your best assets,’”—his voice goes super high when he says this, mimicking mine—“a bikini wax?” He raises an eyebrow and grins. My face goes instantly hot; I know it’s probably redder than my shirt. Sometimes I forget Drew reads everything I post.
“Don’t even get me started on that.”
He snickers. “Give me just a couple minutes, okay? I need to grab a jacket and, you know, put on shoes.”
“Fair enough.”
I step inside and lean against the doorframe, feeling weird. Like, I don’t know. Someone else. But at this exact moment, it feels kind of good. And that’s okay, I think.
A small person I don’t recognize pads past me and adjusts the thick glasses on the t
op of her nose. She’s got to be at least nineteen, and the college hoodie tells me my instincts are not wrong. She stiffens when she sees me and narrows her eyes, looking me up and down in the exact same places Drew did, but in a very different way.
“Hi,” I say.
She lets out an exasperated sigh, clutching a small backpack to her chest, and pushes past me and out the door. Drew meets me about two minutes later, raking a hand through his hair and grinning sheepishly. I click my tongue.
“Keeping her up late on a school night? You knave.”
He shrugs and slings a bag over his shoulder, simultaneously pushing the front door open. “Eh, her first class isn’t until ten today. She’ll live. And she’ll think it was worth it.”
He winks at me and I roll my eyes. Then, as we walk across the yard and to his car (cold front decided to swoop in this week and usher out October), I frown. I slip into the front seat, trying not to look weird when he hops in and fastens his seatbelt.
“Did she … she stayed over?”
“Yeah,” he says, and he spends at least thirty seconds attempting to start the ignition.
I blink and look out the window, not knowing what to do with the hot flash of jealousy that floods over me. This is stupid. And totally not fair. I’m not allowed to be jealous, and usually I’m not, because Drew and I are nothing that allows me to be possessive. He sleeps with girls all the time, but … some cougar college girl shouldn’t be sleeping over at Drew’s. Only I’m allowed to do that.
“Why?” he asks after the silence has gone on just long enough to be awkward. “Are you jealous?” He’s teasing; I can hear it in his voice. But I can’t look directly at him, and it’s so stupid.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the smile on his face disappear, and his eyebrows rise. Then he furrows his brow and turns back to face the road.
“Uh, it’s not like I asked her to stay over or anything. You know how I feel about that. It’s just, I don’t know, I think she expected to stay or something. I don’t know how this all works with college girls.” He glances at me, hands twisting on the wheel. “It felt really weird waking up with her next to me.”
Now I feel even more like an idiot. And a jerk. Why is he apologizing to me? What did he do? Cheat on his not-girlfriend, not even friend-with-benefits? But I can’t make myself look or feel like a reasonable human being. All I can do is stutter.
How to Make Out Page 5
