by Lara Deloza
“Good,” Olivieri says—the first thing he’s said to me since “Come,” which is how he waved me back in the first place. “Keep ’em closed.”
I do as I am told.
He combs and snips and twists and razors my hair. I can feel everything as it is happening, even if I cannot see it. I know the back of my neck is bare, because there is a breeze that tickles it. I really hope my mother doesn’t freak out. “My friend made me do it,” I will tell her. My friend. That should get me a pardon.
Product is applied and there is more hair drying, more twisting, more everything. It is almost dark outside. How long have we been here, anyway?
“Done,” Olivieri pronounces. “Open ’em.”
I am speechless.
My dyed-black hair is now the golden brown of a waffle just off the iron. There are wisps of blond running through it; they look sun-bleached, and not something that came from a bottle. It is what I think of as artfully messy—like I just got out of bed, only I’m now the kind of girl who looks like a supermodel first thing in the morning.
Suddenly, Sam has joined us. “Whoa,” she says approvingly. “You look . . . hot.”
“Uh . . . thanks?”
Olivieri snorts. “Thank me,” he says. “I gave you the hotness.”
Sam slips him the twenty and we head to check out, where I am given a pink bag full of product. “I need all of this?” I ask.
The lady behind the register nods. “Olivieri’s instructions are in the bag. You look good, doll.”
It is almost five thirty by the time we get back into the car. Sam texts something to someone—Alexandra, I assume. “We’re running a little late,” she informs me.
“Yeah,” I say. “I told my mom I’d be home before dinner.”
“We’re not going home. We’re picking up Alexandra and then heading back to school.”
“Oh?”
“It’s training time.”
The stage looks like something out of a nineties’ movie montage. Clueless: The Ivy Proctor Edition. There are dresses hanging from every available surface. Half-opened boxes of shoes are all over the floor. There is a table littered with costume jewelry and—hand to God—an actual boa draped over a full-length mirror.
I am wearing one of Alexandra’s old pageant gowns. It is a fluffy cupcake of a frock. “Tea-length,” she calls it. “I wore it for talent, not evening gown. Killed with the judges, though.”
I am also wearing panty hose. I never wear panty hose. Not to mention the fact that my legs are unshaven. I hardly ever shave them; I don’t have a ton of leg hair and what I do have is thin and baby-soft. But it is also dark, and that does not escape Alexandra’s notice.
“Shaving isn’t optional,” she tells me. “Pits, legs, privates. No exceptions.” To Sam she says, “Make her a waxing appointment. With Olga. Be sure she knows we don’t want a Brazilian.” Alexandra turns back to me. “You should be neat, not bald.”
I want to ask her who in the world she thinks is going to see my neatness, but I fight the urge.
She hands me a pair of sky-high heels that are two sizes too big. Sam stuffs the toes with crumpled-up paper towel stolen from the girls’ restroom. It takes a lot of paper towel to make my feet fit, but we get there. The real challenge is trying to walk in them.
“You can’t put your weight on the heel,” Alexandra instructs. “Step lightly, on the ball of your foot. Not your sole, the ball. Do you know what the ball of your foot is?”
“I know it doesn’t look like it,” I say, “but I am trying.”
“Try harder,” she shoots back.
I am given speeches about the three Ps of pageant success: posture, poise, and presentation. According to Alexandra, my posture is for shit, I lack poise, and my presentation leaves a lot to be desired.
“No more denim!” she barks. “You walk like you’ve spent your whole life wearing jeans. Skirts only until after the election. Nothing too short, either. Despite what Hayley Langer and her crew think, if a skirt doesn’t hit your knee, it is most definitely too short.”
I always figured that being pretty took a lot of work. That is what women always say in the magazines, what actresses say in interviews. But honestly? I had no idea just how much work it could be.
My stomach starts grumbling around seven. Thirty minutes later, Alexandra declares us done for the day. Or so I think.
“Which do you want to tackle tonight—clothes or makeup?” she asks me. “I’m thinking makeup, since it will have the biggest impact with the hair. But your clothes . . . you need new clothes, Ivy.”
“I need to go home,” I say. “I need to eat dinner.”
“Dinner is for losers,” she retorts. “Are you a loser, Ivy?”
Sam cuts in, “You know, I could eat, too. Maybe we break for dinner, then regroup?”
It is the most she has said since we were alone in the car.
Alexandra checks her wristwatch, a slender silver one with diamonds crusted around the face. It looks old, like it was handed down to her from a grandparent.
“We don’t have time for a break,” she says.
“Then maybe a snack,” Sam suggests.
Alexandra sighs heavily. “Fine. Something quick. Let’s move.”
While I change back into my own clothes, they huddle in a corner to go over details. I hear Alexandra ticking off a list of cosmetics I will need to purchase. I wonder if she plans to pay for them, too. I don’t have her kind of money, that is for sure.
In the car, Alexandra continues to give us orders. “No purple anything,” she declares. “Teal is your new color. You’ll look good in teal. Not eye shadow—just clothes. And limit the black. We can’t have you looking like you’re headed to a funeral.”
Apparently, we are doing both clothes and makeup this evening.
I had thought shopping might be more relaxed than my three Ps practice, but I was dead wrong. Sam and Alexandra book it across the food court with me ten steps behind, practically running to keep up. “Dinner” turns out to be a protein-boosted acai smoothie from Jamba Juice so that we do not have to bother with a table or even utensils. Then we suck them down as we speed-walk to Forever 21.
Sam pulls garments off the rack with a freakish kind of precision. She can take one look at a shirt and know in an instant whether it has a “generous cut” or “unforgiving lines.” I point out an ankle-length, floral print skirt that looks great with a baggy sweater, or at least it does on the mannequin. Alexandra shakes her head no.
“Why not?” I say. I am thinking that long skirts equal less-frequent leg shaving. But what I say is “It’s girly, right?”
“It’s shapeless,” Alexandra says. “Our school is forty-seven percent male. Boys vote for boobs. You hide those and you can kiss the crown good-bye.”
“Oh.”
I point out a few other things that catch my eye but make Alexandra roll hers. She hates everything I like. Sam offers no opinions whatsoever.
After I try on several configurations of garments, we land on a combination that pleases Alexandra: a high-waisted maroon pencil skirt paired with a slim-fit black turtleneck sweater tucked in.
“This. Yes,” Alexandra says. “Retro is the way to go.”
“Sure,” I say. “Retro. Got it.”
But I do not “got it.” Everything about this day feels completely surreal. When I go into the dressing room with the striped sweater dress that Alexandra insists I try on, I see some strange girl in the mirror . . . and then realize that I am that strange girl. I have new hair. I have new clothes. And, as long as we hit the makeup counter in time, I will have a new face, too.
By the time we leave, I am the new owner of four pencil skirts in various colors and fabrics, plus matching tops, two sweater dresses, a couple of pairs of tights, some earrings, and a boxy purse. All Alexandra-approved, all Alexandra-purchased.
“I hope she doesn’t expect me to put out,” I joke to Sam as we head to meet Alexandra, who apparently does not like waitin
g in checkout lines, at the MAC store.
Sam’s head whips around so fast I could hear a cartoon swoosh. “Why would you say something like that?”
“Because she’s buying me all of this stuff,” I say. “It was a joke. I’m joking.”
She squinches her eyes at me, not saying anything. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of judgy silence: “Nothing about this is funny.”
Then she strides away from me, like we didn’t even come here together. I have to double-time it just to keep up.
At MAC, Alexandra shows a lady with scary eyebrows pictures of the outfits we purchased and says something to her about a new “neutral retro” look. I have no idea what that even means, but I sit, not saying a word, as she paints a bunch of things on my face. Alexandra nods approvingly, giving Scary Eyebrows feedback as she works.
I am not allowed to see until she has finished. The makeup lady hands me a black plastic mirror. Her face is blank. I raise the mirror up, not sure what to expect, and let out a short gasp.
I was right: I have a brand-new face.
Cheekbones, to start. I have them now. They are an optical illusion, but so is everything about this version of me. My eyes look bigger, my lips look fuller, and I can’t help but think, So this is what it feels like to be pretty.
“Take it all off,” Alexandra tells Scary Eyebrows. “Start from the beginning, only this time, show her how to do everything.”
Scary Eyebrows obliges; my guess is that she works on some sort of commission. Or maybe she gets a bonus based on how much product she pushes. It is a lot of makeup. The total ends up in the hundreds. No joke.
Alexandra moves on to another store while Sam handles checkout. She tells us to meet her at the car.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asks as we head to the parking lot. “You’re white as a ghost.”
“I can’t afford all of this,” I say. “I’m never going to be able to pay her back.”
“You won’t have to.”
“But how can I not?”
“Listen,” Sam says. “They have money. They had it when her dad was alive and they have more of it now that he’s dead. A lot more. Don’t worry about it, okay?”
But I am worried. Of course I am worried. Alexandra has invested a lot in me. Time. Money. What if I fail her? What if I lose this race she so badly wants me to win?
What did I do to deserve all of this? Any of this?
How did I, crazy Ivy Proctor, ever get so incredibly lucky?
TWENTY-SEVEN
Alexandra
When I get home, post-mall excursion, it is to an empty house. I don’t mean that metaphorically speaking, either. I mean that no one is here. Natalie isn’t at home. She was here when I left, after our pageant practice. So where is she now?
I wander through the living room and into the kitchen. There’s no note there. None in my bedroom either. There aren’t any text or voice mail messages—I didn’t even miss a call.
It occurs to me that I should be worried. After all, my mother doesn’t own a car anymore. I mean, technically my car is her car—was her car—but she pretty much stopped driving not long after my father’s accident. Her decline in driving was proportional to her escalated boozing, so this turned out to be a good thing.
I could play Nancy Drew and try to figure out where she is and what she’s doing, but I don’t have it in me. Besides, I can’t remember the last time I had the house to myself. It is deliciously quiet. I need to take advantage of it while I can. Surely Natalie will be home in the next hour or so. It’s nearing ten o’clock.
Within the next hour, I’ve breezed through my homework and cleared out my email. Matt’s and my YouTube video now has more than 27,000 views; it’s more than doubled in the last two days. You can’t buy that kind of PR.
Eleven thirty comes and goes; still no Natalie. I’m going to pay for staying up so late anyway, so I decide to sneak in a quick run before bed. I can feel the steel in my muscles, the blood pumping through my heart. With each mile, my head grows clearer.
Natalie still hasn’t returned by the time I hit the shower. I send my mother a text letting her know that I am worried about her. She doesn’t answer. By the time I slide into bed, quarter past midnight, I am honestly a little scared. I call Natalie’s cell; it goes direct to voice mail.
“It’s me,” I say. “And it’s really late. I hope you’re okay. Call me if you need anything.”
As tired as I am, I can’t fall asleep. I head down to the kitchen for some warm milk and a Benadryl when I hear the key fumbling in the lock. I run to answer the door. Natalie is standing on the stoop, illuminated only by the full moon. Her hair has been pulled into an impeccable chignon and her makeup is magazine-perfect.
“Where have you been?” I ask her, and not in a disappointed parent kind of way. I am genuinely curious.
She gives me a long, long look. Then she steps over the threshold, pushes past me, and walks straight upstairs without so much as a simple explanation.
What the fuck ever.
“I don’t know what happened. I swear I followed the instructions.”
A tearful Ivy Proctor stands before me, looking like a drunk sorority girl who just burned herself trying to light a cigarette backward. Her newly dyed hair is both limp and frizzy at the same time. Her makeup is cartoonish; I have to wonder if she applied it in the dark. And she’s wearing that dreadful black hoodie of hers, the one that has thumbholes in the cuffs so that they always cover half the hands, over the new teal sweater dress my credit card purchased last night.
In other words, she is the hottest of hot messes.
“Take it off,” I say.
“The hoodie?” Ivy asks.
I shake my head. “All of it.”
“You want me to . . . strip?”
“God, no,” I say. “I want you to get back in the shower. Wash your face. Put on your old clothes. Now.”
More tears spill down Ivy’s cheeks, making black tracks through rouge-red circles. To Sam I say, “Didn’t I tell them we wanted waterproof everything?”
“I’ll return it,” Sam says, not missing a beat.
Ivy stands there, her narrow shoulders shaking as she cries. She’s a quiet crier, and for whatever reason this infuriates me even more.
“Get in the shower!” I snap. “Now!”
She runs off without another word.
I am seething. Only Ivy Proctor could fuck up a thousand-dollar makeover.
“You could’ve warned me,” I say to Sam. She doesn’t respond.
After a minute, Sam sets about straightening the messy room. There are bags, tags, and clothes all over the floor. She is very Sam about the whole thing. Slow. Deliberate. Methodical.
Also infuriating.
“Any new dirt on Erin?” I ask as Sam folds clothes neatly on the foot of Ivy’s bed.
“Nope,” Sam says. Her tone is clipped. She can’t possibly be angry at me. Can she?
There are only three weeks until the election. Three weeks in which to turn Ivy into a viable candidate before I posit myself as the front-runner once more.
Have you figured it out yet? My plan? I’m building Ivy up, placing her on a sky-high pedestal, only to push her off it at the eleventh hour. And in the wake of her destruction, I will arise, a phoenix forming from her ashes.
It’s a brilliant plan, and one Erin Hewett would never see coming. Hell, you didn’t see it coming, did you?
I would understand it if you are struggling to keep up. There are sophisticated machinations at work. The only thing you really need to know, right now, anyway, is that this whole process is going to be a bitch.
“Three weeks isn’t enough,” I say, more to myself than anything. “We need more time.”
“Or less,” Sam offers. “Is Matt hosting this year’s Puritan Party?”
“Of course. The captain always hosts.”
The Puritan Party is a tradition that stretches back to before Natalie was a student at Spencer High. After se
veral years of the Spartans not winning a Homecoming game played on their own turf, the then-coach issued an edict: For two weeks immediately prior to the game, no player was allowed to indulge in drinking, drugging, smoking, or screwing. Anyone caught violating those rules would be kicked off the team. The party-hardy boys decided to have one last blowout the Saturday before restrictions went into effect—which by all accounts was a bacchanalia of epic proportions. Afterward, the team followed their coach’s instructions to a T, and two weeks later, they slaughtered the Spirit Lake Lions, our long-term rivals. Prior to the game, the Lions had been having an undefeated season, so this was an extra-big coup.
A second Puritan Party was held the following year; again the Spartans were victorious. By year three, it had become a Spencer High tradition. The Puritan Parties continued, the players cooperated, and our high school hasn’t lost a single Homecoming game in the past twenty-four years. If we win this year, we’ll even break some sort of Indiana record.
“Why are you asking me about a social event?” I say. “We’re in crisis mode.”
“The guest list for the Puritan is pretty elite,” Sam replies. “As a cheerleader, Erin will automatically be on the list. But Ivy won’t.”
“So?”
“So you should bring Ivy.”
Just like that, I get what she’s trying to say.
“You’re fucking brilliant,” I tell her. “I could kiss you right now, that’s how brilliant you are.”
Ivy reenters the room wrapped in a beige towel, with a second one turbaned on her head. So I don’t know if Sam’s turning red because of what I said or because she’s in such close proximity to a semi-naked girl.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be wearing,” Ivy says sheepishly.
“Change of plans,” I tell her. “We’re going to wait a week before unveiling your new look. So for now, do everything like you normally do. Or like you did before I came along.”
Ivy looks stricken. “You said we didn’t have a single day to waste. You said—”
“I know what I said. Now I’m saying something different.”
