Bulletproof Mascara: A Novel

by Bethany Maines

  She considered her options. She could go in and ask for a ride, but truckers had to make time and probably wouldn’t be willing to make a detour for a dusty stranger with no cash. One of the car drivers might be persuaded, but then again, they were more likely to be Carrie Mae agents. She could hot-wire one of the cars parked in the lot, but that was likely to bring the police down on her head. Even if she did make it back to the ranch, getting arrested would probably score her negative points on the test. As she watched, one of the fueling truckers took some bills out of his wallet and then tossed it back into the cab. The trucker left the truck and went into the restaurant.

  She seized her opportunity and walked casually forward. When she reached the truck she opened the door and jumped inside, closing the door behind her. She expected, at any second, to hear an angry voice demanding an explanation. She felt around the cab for the wallet, keeping her head ducked to avoid being seen from the outside. She found the wallet and opened it; there were three fifty-dollar bills. She took one and exited the far side of the truck, where she was less likely to be seen. Nikki snuck past the trucks and then doubled back and went into the restaurant. Before going in, she tore off the emergency beacon and stuffed it into her pocket.

  The waitress greeted her with a disbelieving stare, and Nikki knew that she must look a mess. She gave the waitress a relieved smile and walked up to the counter.

  “Hi,” she said brightly. “Boy, am I glad to see you guys.”

  “Uh-huh,” the waitress said.

  “I was camping with my boyfriend. Drove down here on a dirt bike, but it crashed.” She gave an embarrassed laugh and gestured to her dirty sweats. “I guess you can tell.”

  “Uh-huh,” the waitress said.

  “I’m fine, but I really need change for the phone and the name of a close taxi service that can take me to Santa Clarita.” She laid the fifty dollars on the counter.

  “They won’t drive you back to your campsite,” the waitress said, not reaching for the bill.

  “Well, that’s just fine with me. If I never see that man or that campsite again, it’ll be too soon.” Nikki knew she had put just the right amount of anger in her voice when the waitress smiled.

  “Got in a fight, did you?” the waitress asked, taking the money over to the till.

  “Calling it a fight would be polite. That jackass said I was just like my mother.”

  The waitress winced sympathetically and shook her head. “You’re better off without him.” She gave Nikki a handful of change and a wad of bills. “The phone’s back there. There’s a corkboard full of business cards next to it. I think SCV Taxi is up there. They should be here pretty fast.”

  “Thanks,” Nikki said. “Hey, what time is it?”

  “10:38,” the waitress answered, glancing at her watch.

  Nikki grinned in delight and headed for the phone. With any luck she would be pulling up at the ranch by 11:30.

  The taxi service promised to have a car at the truck stop no later than eleven, and Nikki went to the bathroom to clean herself up.

  The restroom was a standard truck stop affair: covered in tile and generally grungy and next to the kitchen. Someone had obviously been in the middle of cleaning because the wheeled mop bucket was out and a cleaning supply closet stood open. Nikki filched a work rag from the closet, washed her face, and tried to scrub the worst dirt off of her sweats. She was just finishing up when Dina burst into the bathroom. Dusty, but hardly as disheveled as Nikki, Dina seemed irritated. For a long moment they stared at each other in surprise.

  “You are not getting there before me,” Dina snarled, and swung a punch. Nikki side-stepped the punch, and charged at her. Using both hands, she shoved Dina into the broom closet, slammed the door, and leaned breathlessly against it. Dina pounded against the door in shuddering thuds, forcing Nikki to readjust her hold on the door every few moments. Reaching out with her toe she pulled the mop bucket toward her inch by inch. When the mop was in reach, she jammed it through the broom closet door.

  “Nicole, you let me out of here right this second!”

  Startled, Nikki looked at the wooden door. Dina had somehow managed to copy her mother’s exact phrasing. Involuntarily, she reached for the broom handle.

  “Oh, come on, Nikki,” Dina said, changing her tone to NutraSweet stickiness. “Let me out.”

  The hand drier quit and in the silence Nikki thought she heard a car pull up outside.

  “I’m not letting you out. You tried to punch me!”

  “I didn’t mean it,” Dina protested from inside the closet. Nikki thought about believing her. Wanted to believe her. Couldn’t quite do it.

  “Yes, you did. You meant it. I don’t know why you don’t like me, but I’m tired of it. You want to be mad at me, then fine, you can be mad at me for locking you in a closet, because that’s what I’m about to do.”

  Nikki pushed the broom handle in more securely and ran to the window, hoping that the vehicle she’d heard was her cab. She scanned the parking lot and saw a yellow SCV cab park by the front entrance. Her heart leapt. The end was in sight. But as she watched, the cab driver pulled out a walkie-talkie, spoke briefly into it, and then hid the walkie-talkie under his sweater. Didn’t cabs come with CBs already in them? Nikki frowned as the cab driver walked into the restaurant. Was there something overly cabbie-ish about his clothes? The newsboy cap and cigarette were perhaps a little too cliché? Glancing back at the rattling broom closet, Nikki decided she couldn’t take the chance.

  She slipped out of the bathroom and into the kitchen.

  “Back door?” she demanded of a bemused busboy, who simply pointed past the large refrigerators. She dashed through the door and around the corner into the parking lot. Diving into the front seat of the cab, she fumbled with the wires under the dash, hoping desperately that she was remembering the class on hot-wiring correctly. The engine turned over, and she sat up, jammed the cab into Drive, and hit the gas. Roaring past the restaurant, she saw the cabbie throw his cap on the ground and yell into his walkie-talkie.

  Driving through the darkened streets, Nikki watched the LED clock on the dash click the minutes off. When the numbers passed 11:15, she began to get nervous. At 11:33 she pulled the cab into the gate at the front of the Carrie Mae Ranch.

  She left the door swinging open and ran to the gate. She wanted to finish before anything else happened. Her finger was on the buzzer and she was about to push it and ask for a triumphal entry when she paused. Mrs. Boyer had been specific in her instructions. She had said the entry hall of the office building. Mrs. Boyer was not known for wasting words or saying things she didn’t mean. Nikki carefully pulled her finger away from the buzzer.

  Running along the wall, she tried to find a spot where she could climb over, but the smooth concrete wall offered no fingerholds, and the drainage ditch below the wall left no good surface for a running jump. Stopping below one of the posts that segmented the wall, Nikki had an idea. Unslinging the rope from around her waist, she searched the ground for a rock. Finding a fist-size stone, she tied it to one end of the rope and flung the rope and rock in a looping arc at the post. On her third attempt, the rock went around the top of the post, and Nikki grabbed it. Looping one end of the rope around her right hand and holding onto the rock with her left, she walked her feet up the wall. Every few feet she looped the rope around her hands again, shortening the rope until there was no more rope and she was at the top of the wall.

  She threw her legs over the wall, extended her arms, and dropped down into darkness. She hovered in the dark pool of shrubbery and examined the grounds.

  The paths were lit as usual, with ground-level lights glimmering from the bordering flowerbeds. Everything looked as it always did. Nikki began to doubt her instincts, but then shook her head. Her instincts hadn’t failed her yet; it was better to trust them now. Keeping to the shadows, she worked her way up to the house.

  Her circumspection was rewarded when she saw two women dressed in black m
ove in the bushes ahead of her. The women in front of her were working their way quietly across the grounds, and Nikki assumed they were looking for girls returning from the obstacle course. Nikki smiled and followed them, trying to move at the same time so that any sounds of her movement were camouflaged. When they reached a covered point close to the main house, Nikki let them proceed in front of her. After an eternity of waiting, she ran across the exposed lawn and threw herself into the meager cover of the flowerbeds beneath the side windows. She stood up and peeked into the window, horribly aware that she made a very dark silhouette against the white stucco. Mrs. Boyer and Connie were in the main hall poring over a large map laid out on the table.

  There was a piercing whistle and Nikki knew she’d been spotted. She took off at a dead run, rounding the corner of the building and heading for the front door. One of the black-clad women was racing across the lawn, hoping to cut her off. Nikki put on speed. The woman gave a flying tackle, but Nikki dodged. The woman rolled and was up again in a flash, diving at Nikki. As the woman made her last lunge, Nikki slammed through the front door. She and the woman crashed into the room, stumbling a little as they struggled. Momentum was against them, and they slipped as the entry rug gave way and sent them both sprawling across the floor to end up at Connie’s feet.

  “I am stopping your clock now,” said Mrs. Boyer, looking down at Nikki. “The time is 11:47. Well done.”

  CALIFORNIA XI

  Coo Coo Ca Choo

  Nikki graduated with the rest of her class under the bright California sunshine, walking, albeit stiffly, across the stage to shake hands with Connie Hinton and the rest of the faculty. Jenny and Ellen were both assigned to an advanced training facility in Mexico, and Dina, much to everyone’s delight, was assigned to a Specialty Items quality control office in northern Idaho. But instead of receiving an assignment like the rest of the class, Nikki returned to stay at the Merrivels. Mrs. M had requested she stay until things were ready. Further questioning had not revealed what the “things” were or when “ready” was going to be, and Nikki had eventually given up and gone golfing with Mr. M.

  Entering the kitchen on the afternoon of the fourth day after graduation, Nikki found Mr. M enjoying an afternoon snack and the paper. He merrily waved at her, his mouth full of rice crackers. Nikki brought a plate of melon wedges from the fridge to the table. Mr. M was engrossed in the Sports section, so she took the front page without fear of repercussion.

  After a few minutes of companionable silence, Mr. M looked down at the crumbs on his plate. “I’m still hungry. Do you want a sandwich? Not even grilled cheese?” he asked, as Nikki shook her head. He shrugged and bustled around the kitchen getting out deli meat and cheese.

  “You look worried about something,” he said, scrutinizing her from the stove.

  “Mrs. M said she’d be assigning me soon, and I hate not knowing what I’m expected to do. I just wish I could prepare myself better. I feel like I need more intel.”

  “Yeah, new jobs can be very stressful,” he agreed, laughing a little at her choice of words. “But I expect they’ll give you more ‘intel’ at some point.”

  “But what if it’s not enough?” Nikki asked. “I mean, there’s the job and then there’s the other stuff.”

  “Other stuff?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at her.

  “Like in college, I turned in a perfectly decent paper, and my professor gave it a C-minus because he’d ‘expected more’ from me. What if something like that happens? What if I’m supposed to do more, but I don’t know it?”

  “Mmm,” he said, concentrating on buttering the bread and laying out the cheese. The blue flame on the gas burner caressed the cast iron pan as he slid the sandwich onto a slick of melted butter. There was a sizzle as the bread began to cook.

  “One of the first things I learned in law school, or possibly from Perry Mason, was not to draw conclusions from facts that are not in evidence.”

  “Meaning what?” asked Nikki, filching a piece of bread and putting it into the toaster, before returning to the table.

  “Meaning, worry about Mrs. M’s expectations when she tells you what they are.”

  “Stop borrowing tomorrow’s troubles for today?”

  “Exactly!” he said, smiling. “I understand your concern, but the only thing you can do is do the job to the best of your ability. And I suspect that the perfectly good paper you turned in was not to the best of your ability.”

  “Mm,” said Nikki guiltily. The kitchen was silent for a moment, filled only with the wafting smell of grilled cheese. She tidied the table and brought the condiments from the fridge. When the toast popped, Mr. M hustled the slices to the table between two burning fingers.

  “Hot toast,” he stated, dropping the toast onto the melon plate.

  “I thought you were supposed to be watching your cholesterol?” Nikki asked, eyeing the sandwich as he flipped it out onto a plate.

  “What Mrs. M doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” he said firmly.

  “But it might hurt you,” said Mrs. Merrivel, coming into the kitchen and planting a kiss on the top of her husband’s head. She was demurely dressed in a light blue blouse and navy skirt. She looked tiny and sweet standing next to Mr. M, and Nikki wondered how many people she had fooled with that look.

  “Nikki, when you’re done with your toast, I’ll see you in my office.”

  Nikki swallowed her suddenly too dry toast and nodded. The phone rang just then, and Mrs. M answered it. There were a few polite comments, but Nikki could tell that she was irritated by the call.

  “Go on ahead,” said Mrs. M, covering the mouthpiece. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Nikki walked slowly along the hallway, her shoes making no noise on the thick carpet. The only sound was the rustling of paper from inside the office. The door was open a crack, and Nikki pushed it open and entered unannounced.

  Inside, Valerie Robinson was elbow deep in Mrs. Merrivel’s desk drawer.

  “Jeez,” said Valerie, withdrawing her hand. “What is this? Carrot Top investigates?”

  “I prefer to think of myself as more of a Nancy Drew,” Nikki said, raising a defensive hand to pat her hair. During the war games seminar she had been given plenty of time to examine Mrs. Valerie Robinson, but once again she was struck by the woman’s boundless confidence, careless élan, and perfect physique.

  “Nancy Drew was a blonde,” said Val, returning to the interrupted task of rifling through Mrs. Merrivel’s desk.

  “In the original books she was Titian haired. Titian meaning red.”

  “Well, I suppose only Ned Nickerson knows for sure,” Valerie said.

  Nikki almost gasped out loud. Slandering the sainted Nancy Drew was like eating potato chips in church: the crunch really echoed, everyone noticed, and it was somehow deeply satisfying.

  Val had just completed her search of the desk and was in the process of lighting a cigarette when Mrs. Merrivel entered. Val clicked the lighter a few times before the flame ignited, pretending not to see Mrs. Merrivel in the doorway.

  “Really, Val!” Mrs. Merrivel exclaimed, standing on the threshold, one hand on the knob. “Do you have to smoke in my office?”

  “I’ll open a window,” replied Val around her cigarette. She opened one of the large bay windows and flicked her ash onto the neatly trimmed hedge below. With a wordless frown, Mrs. M handed Valerie an ashtray.

  “So what’s new, Miranda?” Valerie asked, sitting on the sill and bracing one foot against the window frame. Nikki had never heard anyone but Mr. M use Mrs. Merrivel’s first name.

  “Many things, and don’t put your feet on my white woodwork,” said Mrs. Merrivel sourly, taking her place at the desk. Valerie shrugged and swung her foot out the window. She took a last drag of the cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray with a neat twist, so that the cigarette butt collapsed into a neat spiral of filth.

  “So, Nikki,” said Mrs. Merrivel, and Nikki snapped her attention back to Mrs.
M. “You must have met our always charming Mrs. Robinson at the War Games seminar. You won that, didn’t you? I hope you’ve been getting reacquainted.”

  “Um, yes?” Nikki guessed, feeling that some response was expected of her.

  “I’m glad. It’s so much better when partners get along,” Mrs. M said without turning around, and Val froze mid-drag on a cigarette and then began to cough.

  “You know, Valerie, I don’t think you would cough so much if you didn’t smoke.” Mrs. Merrivel’s tone was saccharine sweet, but Nikki was starting to wonder how well she and Valerie Robinson actually got along.

  “I don’t need a partner,” Val said. “You’ve said yourself that I work better without one.”

  “No, I said it was better that you work without a partner than lose any more consultants.” Mrs. M beamed at Nikki, and Nikki started to feel very nervous. She didn’t want to be the dead meat partner to anyone’s Dirty Harry, no matter how cool they were. “But now,” Mrs. M continued, “I think I’ve found someone who’s up to the challenge.”

  “Who? Little Nancy Drew over here?” Valerie gave Nikki a once-over and a skeptical shake of the head. “Just because she won the War Games?” She didn’t do it, but Nikki sensed the finger quotes around “won.” They both knew Nikki wouldn’t have won without Val’s interference.

  “She also beat your time on the final test,” said Mrs. Merrivel, as if she were commenting on the weather.

  “She did not!” Valerie looked outraged.

  “By three minutes and three point two seconds,” Mrs. Merrivel said, opening her Day-Timer. Valerie examined Nikki again, this time with narrowed eyes. Nikki flinched a little under the examination.