by Alex White
As she washed up in the claw-footed tub, she tried to imagine what makeup would feel like on her skin. She took her bar of soap, which had become soft from soaking in the tub, and smeared a streak across her cheek; nothing but calmness followed because she knew it was only soap. She’d been taking baths her whole life, and as much as she tried to imagine it was makeup, she couldn’t. Makeup was weird: it changed the color of your skin and it sometimes didn’t come off when you rubbed it.
Her mother had tried to put lipstick on her once as a child, so she could attend the funeral of a family friend. The second the grease had gone on, Loxley wiped it across her sleeve, leaving a huge red streak across the white cotton of her Sunday dress. Baby, what the hell? her mother had screamed. She’d roughly grabbed Loxley by the shoulder and tried to put on another coat, and Loxley had resisted, falling into a state of screaming panic that had lasted the better part of a night. They’d missed the funeral.
Loxley tried to imagine a mask of colors coating her face, beautiful and exciting like Jayla’s. Jayla’s lips were especially fascinating, because they were actually three shades of red, meticulously blended into a luscious tone. There was a wetness to them, as though they were always recently licked, and Loxley wondered if they tasted good. She shook the thought out of her head. No one would like her if she tried to kiss a girl – that much she knew.
Loxley washed up and dried off, returning to her quarters. When she arrived, she donned the tuxedo, and had barely tied her laces when Jayla breezed in to take her to the dressing room.
“I’m going to be doing your makeup today, Loxley!” she said, dragging her out the door and down the hall. “Isn’t that exciting?”
After her thoughts in the bathtub, Jayla’s hot hand felt strange on Loxley’s skin. “No. I thought you were a cook.”
“If it wasn’t for me, everything would fall apart around here.”
“I thought that’s what people said about Quentin.”
“Sure... Him, too, but he ain’t as smart as me.”
The hallways came alive around five in the afternoon, and for the past two days, Loxley had retreated into her room at that time. She hated the motion and noise; they reminded her of Vulcan’s Bazaar with its boisterous crowds and barking vendors. Now the Hound’s Tail filled with clinking glass and hissing steam, bustling colors and so much shouting. Warm up the lights! Did you get the sign? I need those veggies over here! Thirty more of those! Get on it! They’re lining up! Get out of the way! Soup is on! Get the butcher on the horn! Twenty minutes!
She focused on the feeling of Jayla’s hand as they wound through the chaos and down several hallways. Loxley’s heart thumped, but she could take it as long as she held on. She stared at the place where their skin touched, for fear that looking up would send her into a panicked fit. Her jaw clenched, and she squeezed Jayla’s fingers even more tightly.
“What are you singing back there?” asked the cook.
Loxley hadn’t realized she was humming again. “N-nothing. Just scared. Too many people.”
“It’s okay. Dressing room is right here.”
They passed through a doorway to find a row of mirrors, each surrounded by a dozen naked bulbs. Underneath each mirror was a table containing many of bottles of makeup, hair supplies, combs, scissors, tape and more. Each station also had a large leather chair that had been worn in a few spots. Between the incandescent wall of mirrors and the creamy paint scheme, the dressing room exuded a pleasant warmth.
That changed when Jayla sat Loxley before one of the mirrors. The myriad of makeup bottles seemed to multiply before her eyes, their colors and eccentricities compounding into a wall of chaos. She wanted to straighten them or sort them by color and shadow to make sense of the mess. She could fragment the complexity by only looking at individual bottles, but each time she tried, another would pull her gaze.
She shut her eyes, staring into the dark pink of her lids. She should’ve fought back when Quentin told her she’d have to wear makeup, should’ve stood up for herself. The thought of greasy film being rubbed onto her face was too much for her, and she feared what she might do when Jayla started.
“You okay, gorgeous?” came Jayla’s voice.
“No. I don’t want to do this.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s like tape, and when you have tape on your skin, you have to take it off.”
“Five minutes of wearing it, and you won’t even know it’s there,” said Jayla. Tiny glass bottles clinked, and a plastic cap was unscrewed.
“Do you promise?”
“I promise, but you can’t touch your face, okay? Not even to rub your eyes.”
Loxley thought about it. This all sounded awful. She wasn’t pretty, anyway; she didn’t know why anyone bothered to try to fix her. “Okay.”
“Good,” said Jayla. “Just keep those eyes closed then.”
Something soft and wet dotted Loxley’s cheeks and chin, leaving behind a residue. It was almost impossible for her to keep her hands down when she felt that, but she managed to grip the chair. A foam sponge worked the residue in, spreading it over her face. She found that sensation more pleasant, as well as the scent of Jayla’s breath mixed together with the heathery smells of the makeup.
She looked up to find the other woman mere inches from her face, Jayla’s large, chestnut eyes aglow in the shadow of the mirror’s lights. Up close, Jayla’s lips were even more stunning – full and slick, promising a burst of juice like the waxy skin of a red apple. Loxley’s breath grew hotter and her stomach twisted into a knot.
“What are you doing?” asked Loxley.
“Just putting on a base to get you all smoothed out. We’ll build on top of that.”
Jayla finally pulled away so Loxley could look in the mirror, and her withdrawal seemed to suck away all the heat. She met her own gaze and a different woman stared back at her. All of her blemishes had been covered, and her skin had a sheen like the body of her poplar violin. It wasn’t reflective, but seemed to drink in the light. It felt greasy, yet looked clean.
Jayla unscrewed the cap on a fat container of rouge and grabbed a brush from the table. “Okay, now hold still. I don’t want to get this in your eyes.” She leaned back in and began to smear Loxley’s cheeks with the red powder. When she breathed out through her nose, warm air tickled Loxley’s bare neck.
She kept her eyes fixed on those wonderful lips. “Are you going to do my mouth like yours?”
“You like my lipstick, honey?” A curling, glistening smile.
“Yeah... I think it’s really pretty.”
“I tell you what, I’m not sure you need this blush. You’re pretty flushed right now.”
“Just scared. I don’t like things on my skin.”
But that was a lie. She wanted to kiss Jayla the way she’d never kissed Nora, in a way that would wipe the stink of Officer Crutchfield off her face; the man who’d died saving her from Duke. The pleasant twist in her stomach became a cold ache, and she felt the makeup on her face more keenly than before. It had replaced her skin. She had to wipe it off now.
“Whoa, girl,” said Jayla, catching her hand as it went to her face. “Hey, now, it’s okay. Just chill, honey.”
“I don’t like this!” said Loxley. “It’s stupid! Let go of me!”
She easily wrested her arm from Jayla with muscles she’d trained to carry hundred pound bags of soil up thirteen stories to her rooftop garden. She brought her sleeve across her face, leaving a beige streak along the tuxedo, but there was more – so much more on her, like she’d never get it all off. The fractal web of makeup bottles loomed before her in their chaotic pile. Too many bottles, no rows – they needed to be thrown down. She lunged forward and scrambled at them with her clawing fingers, trying to knock them from the table. Jayla snatched her right hand and placed it against her own cheek, and the warmth of Jayla’s skin flowed into Loxley’s body.
“It’s okay. I want you to look at me. Look at me, Loxley.”
Loxley looked into her eyes, her ragged breath calming.
“What are you thinking?”
She dug fingernails into the arms of the chair and looked away. “I like your lips.”
“And that was a good reason to fuck up my makeup?” asked Jayla. Her words were angry, but her voice wasn’t. Touching the woman’s skin made Loxley feel like she could hear her better.
“Last week, Officer Crutchfield kissed me,” said Loxley, startling as her voice creaked.
“I don’t know Officer Crutchfield. Is he sweet on you?” Jayla reached out and stroked her hair, the gentle caress holding the tears at bay.
“Yes,” said Loxley. She swallowed and shook her head. “I hate him.”
“Oh?” The stroking stopped, stumbling momentarily. “Oh. What are you saying? Did he do something bad?”
“H-he pushed me and then he tried to put his fingers in me and it hurt, and it’s my fault.”
“Oh, Jesus. No, it isn’t. Don’t say that.”
“It is my fault!” she screamed, her whole body tensing – static and ants, crackles and fire on her skin. She beat her fists into her eyebrows a dozen times, lights exploding behind her eyes with each strike. “I should have known he was going to try to fuck me! I should have told him to stop! I w-would have, too, if I could’ve, if I wasn’t so –”
“Let’s be calm. You need to calm down, honey.”
Despair washed into her head, pouring down her eyes. She slumped forward, her brain spinning, and whispered. “... if I wasn’t so retarded.”
The room shrank around her, filled with the sounds of her sniffling breaths. They sat in silence, and Loxley counted the squares in the carpet pattern to keep the ants at bay. She imagined cars driving along the lines as though they were city blocks.
“Everyone is right about me. They all know I’m crazy because they’re not.”
Jayla pulled Loxley to her breast, the woman’s heart pounding in her ear. Softness enfolded Loxley, and she felt like she might faint in those kind arms. It was as though she’d pulled the blanket up over her head on a cold morning, and even if it would suffocate her, she stayed under, savoring the texture. She wrapped her arms around Jayla and held her in turn.
“Loxley, baby, you got to listen to me. The things men do... they ain’t ever our fault. You understand me?”
Nora’s face flashed through her mind, the bruised hole on her brow. Loxley didn’t answer, but squeezed more tightly.
“You want to hate him... you go on and hate him,” said Jayla.
“He’s dead. He got shot trying to save me from Duke.”
“I see.” Jayla patted the back of her head. “He may have done something right, but that doesn’t mean you have to love him. You ain’t his property.”
She considered that for a moment. Folks were always on about how people owed each other for the things they did. If someone owed money, that person paid it back. If someone saved a person’s life, that person was forever in debt. “It’s not fair. I should be allowed to hate him.”
“It’s okay to hate him. He was going to do bad things to you, and you know that.”
“He was the only person who ever kissed me. Only person who ever wanted to.”
Jayla pushed her back to arm’s length and looked into her eyes. “You’re a beautiful girl. I’m sure a lot of people have thought about kissing you.”
“Have you?” Some of the tension returned to her fingers. She mouthed the words twice before they came out. “Would you?”
Jayla’s arms fell to her sides, and a look of surprise crossed her face. For once, it was Loxley keeping eye contact while another person looked anywhere but at her. The vein in Jayla’s neck throbbed, but Loxley couldn’t tell if she was blushing.
It almost hurt her to talk. “I j-just want to kiss... someone other than Officer Crutchfield. Someone I think is pretty... I like your lips. That’s what I was talking about before.”
The crackles weren’t just in her fingertips; They spread into the air, tickling her entire body. Her skin grew hot, like she was running a fever, and her being stretched toward Jayla, even though she was sitting still. She couldn’t un-say what she’d said, and now she’d have to suffer consequences. People hated girls who kissed girls.
Loxley’s sadness returned. She’d ruined this, too. “I... I’m sorry. I never meant –”
The distance between them suddenly collapsed as Jayla leaned in, closing her eyes, and their lips met. Loxley felt sticky lipstick and breath as she snaked her arms around the other woman, pulling her closer. Her body scintillated like it had in the cooling tower – a million little bubbles rushing over her skin, tickling every sensitive area.
After a too-brief moment of tenderness, they parted.
“There,” said Jayla, her voice barely a whisper. “Now you been kissed by someone else.”
A smile pulled so hard at Loxley’s mouth that her cheeks hurt. “Yeah.”
“I was just filling in. I know you’d probably rather get a kiss from Quentin.”
“No.”
Loxley waited for her to say something else, but Jayla fiddled with the makeup bottles instead. She laughed for no apparent reason. “You going to let me do your makeup, girl?”
“If I don’t, they’re going to throw me out, aren’t they?”
“Tee might not let you play. I’m already going to have to swap out your jacket. Those sleeves are coated.” Jayla strode to the closet, where Loxley spotted an array of tuxedos. She began to dig around inside, and soon reemerged with a jacket, and a lacquered, white half-mask – the kind that went around the eyes. “Look what I found.”
“A mask?”
“This would be perfect. Then we don’t have to do anything up top of your face – just the lips. Besides, didn’t you say Duke knows what you look like?”
“Yeah, he does...” Loxley far preferred the idea of the mask. It had been tough enough wearing the base. She could only imagine how bad it would be close to her eyes.
“This is going to be so cute with the violin and tux; so classy,” she giggled. She picked up six of the containers and arrayed them upon the table.
“I thought lipstick came from a stick.”
“Not if you want lips like mine, honey.”
Jayla laid down a foundation of powder over Loxley’s lips, still swollen from the exhilaration of her kiss. Then, she smeared a brilliant crimson over the skin: a liquid that looked like fresh paint. Jayla alternated layers of color and powder over and over, surprising Loxley with the complexity of the task. She traced Loxley’s lips with a dark pencil before grabbing a tiny brush to work in the edges. When the woman finally moved out of the way of the mirror, Loxley gasped.
Gone were the long, thin lips she’d seen her whole life. These were plump and perfect, kissable, wonderful things the color of blood. She turned her head from side to side, her mouth slightly open, watching as the light danced across the paint and marveled at how different she’d become under Jayla’s hand. Even if she didn’t wear the mask, Duke would never recognize her.
Jayla had her stand, then helped her replace her smudged jacket. She slipped the mask over Loxley’s face, completing the stranger in the mirror. The violinist on the other side of the glass was beautiful and confident. Mysterious. Strong. A little wild. Her dull hair poked out around the mask at odd angles; she hadn’t tamed it after her bath.
Jayla seemed to notice the unkempt hair at the same time. She stroked it once. “We’ve still got a lot of work to do.”
“I like my hair like this.”
“I could make it even better.”
Loxley shook her head, along with the violinist across from her. She thrilled to see this side of herself, and her voice came out easily and clearly. “No. This is perfect. This is the real me.”
A Song and a Game, Played
LOXLEY STRODE THE back hallways toward the stage, the customary thunder of her heart displaced by a swell of delighted anticipation. The mask had sup
erseded her skin, creating a safe house from which she could look out at the world. No one could see her, but she could perceive every detail with the clarity of a meticulous voyeur.
The other staffers looked upon her as a stranger and stepped out of the way as she passed. They stared and apologized, an action Loxley had never inspired in her life. She reveled in their acquiescence, their confusion, and, she hoped, their admiration.
“Whoa! That you, Loxley? You going to wear a dude’s suit onstage?” called Cap as she passed the kitchen.
In previous days, she’d have shied away. “Yes,” she said, and stared at him.
“I was looking forward to seeing you in a dress.”
“I ain’t for you.”
“Okay. Well, uh... good luck, sweetie.” He wilted, and she moved onward toward the backstage entrance.
The lipstick was a badge, commemorating Jayla’s mark upon her body. Loxley wanted to touch it, to warmly fondle the paint in the hopes of rekindling her moment with the woman, but Jayla had made her promise she’d do no such thing. She lightly licked her lips, imagining soft skin upon them, and was rewarded with a deep, tingling ache in her belly. As she moved into the darkness behind the curtains backstage, she felt an abiding sense of one-ness with her surroundings, like sliding into her bed after a long day. The shadows that surrounded her were not frightful places of uncertainty, but close and comfortable.
Music drifted back to her from the other side of the curtains – acoustic guitar and a trumpet playing a song she’d never heard before. It was cheerful, but repetitive, only evolving over the course of a refrain. It didn’t tell a story, or if it did, she certainly couldn’t figure it out. At long last, the trumpet belted a series of phrases that took her somewhere, though really, the song only seemed to meander about the Hole on a sunny day.
She knelt down and removed her poplar treasure from its case. She couldn’t make out its features in the shadows, but ran her fingers along its back until she found the engraved spider’s web. Now that she was alone, with no one to reflect her newfound identity, cold nervousness settled into the pit of her stomach.
