Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
chapter twenty-one
chapter twenty-two
chapter twenty-three
chapter twenty-four
chapter twenty-five
chapter twenty-six
chapter twenty-seven
chapter twenty-eight
chapter twenty-nine
chapter thirty
chapter thirty-one
chapter thirty-two
chapter thirty two
chapter thirty-three
chapter thirty-four
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgements
SUNDAY NIGHT I stared at myself in the mirror. The transformation was amazing. A little concealer under the eyes, Jolie’s favorite berry stain on my cheeks, golden highlights around my face, compliments of Trent, and a tiny bit of cleavage. I looked like a new version of myself. A happier, prettier, more confident version. Maybe I no longer had to be the orphaned girl that everyone pitied, the zombie girl whose face was splashed across the covers of People and the regional papers because her mother left her a mysterious apology. Maybe this was my chance to try on a new life.
Lipstick Apology
RAZORBILL
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Young Readers Group
345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario,
Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright © 2009 Jennifer Jabaley
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jabaley, Jennifer.
Lipstick apology / by Jennifer Jabaley.
p. cm.
Summary: After her parents’ sudden death, sixteen-year-old Emily leaves Pennsylvania for her aunt’s New York City apartment, private school, and disconcerting new relationships, all the while puzzling over her mother’s mysterious apology to her.
eISBN : 978-1-101-18456-1
[1. Grief—Fiction. 2. Moving, Household—Fiction. 3. Aunts—Fiction. 4. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction. 6. Orphans—Fiction. 7. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title
PZ7.J127 Lip 2009
[Fic] 22
2008039716
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
http://us.penguingroup.com
FOR MY FAMILY
prologue
STEVE MCCAFFITY JUST UNDRESSED ME with his eyes.
Okay, maybe I’m still clothed, but we definitely made eye contact. Well, actually, he might have only glanced at the tiny chocolate stain on my V-neck—so it was noticeable.
I decided to level with myself. It was actually quite possible that Steve McCaffity didn’t even know that I existed.
I stared at him, lounging on my living room couch in a T-shirt that revealed his impressive biceps, looking like he owned the place. I stood in the doorway trying to muster the courage to approach the guy who hadn’t yet realized that we were destined to be together. I glanced back at my best friend, Georgia, who was standing in the kitchen, monitoring the party activity. A couple of hours ago Georgia had decided we should shut off the overheads and drape Christmas lights from the cabinets for a better atmosphere. I’d been skeptical—Christmas lights in early June? Wasn’t this supposed to be a summerthemed party since the school year had just ended?
Either way, the red and green flickering lights danced on the faces of people I barely knew. I felt a twinge of guilt letting the popular crowd invade our kitchen—my mom’s favorite room—just to have a chance to talk to Steve.
Georgia raised her eyebrows at me, her dark curly ponytail bobbing. Emily, she mouthed, go talk to him!
I shook my head and scampered back toward her. “He doesn’t even know my name.”
“Wimp,” Georgia said. “Look at him, he’s watching you!” She gestured across the crowd toward Steve. Jeez, there were like fifty kids in my living room, and the party had only gotten started an hour ago! Just went to show how little else was going on in our quaint Pennsylvania suburb on a warm night in June. I saw Steve, still on the couch. He was looking at me, but his face was all scrunched up.
“He’s just trying to figure out how he knows you,” Georgia said in an encouraging voice as she nudged me forward. “This is just like on Rhapsody in Rio when Gabriela asked Fernando for a new mop and Fernando scrunched up his face and asked, Who are you, you gorgeous thing? And Gabriela said, I’m your maid. I’ve worked here every day for a year. And Fernando said, How have I failed to notice this creature of beauty until now? And they fell madly in love.”
One thing about Georgia: she was addicted to soaps, psychics, and all things melodramatic.
Steve’s face was all twisted, and I thought just maybe there was a chance he was finally seeing me and opening his heart to the possibilities. But then he pulled a lime wedge out of his mouth and tossed it on the floor. I stared down at the lime. How could he do that in my home? I surveyed the room: the soft, tan couch with plaid throw pillows, the circular ring on the wooden coffee table where Dad’s mug perpetually sat, the sun-distressed leather recliner. To me, all these things signified a home, a place to relax and be myself, but as the ancient wine stain on the rug jumped into focus, I wondered if to others, the room appeared shabby. I suddenly felt uncomfortable in my own house.
When I looked over again, Steve was kissing Lexi Bollins—like, on the mouth. This is so typical of my life, I thought. Things go from bad to worse.
I tore through the kitchen, grabbed a box of donuts, and bolted to the solitude of our basement. I sat on Mom’s stool and stared at her oil painting of our huge, backyard weeping willow tree. Touching the drying paint, I had an overwhelming urge to call my parents. Not to confess
about the party, but just to hear their voices. I reached for my cell phone, then remembered my cotton skirt didn’t have pockets. Oh, well, they were probably still in flight, hovering somewhere over the West Coast.
“Oh my God! Release your grip on the Entemann’s!” Georgia yelled as she came downstairs. “No time to sulk!”
“Do you ever feel like you just fade into the background?” I asked, taking another bite of the chocolate donut. “And it’s not just Steve—nobody ever notices me.” I pointed upstairs. “They don’t even know whose house they’re in.”
Georgia sighed and sat on a stack of art books. “You just need to take more chances—be a little more visible.”
“But how?”
“How?” she asked more to herself. “I know! I’ll call Sister Ginger!” She patted the butt of her tight jeans, then gave up and said, “Give me your cell.”
I shook my head. “It’s upstairs charging. But I’m not taking advice from a crazy psychic.”
Georgia disappeared upstairs. I looked over at a water-color portrait Mom had painted of me. Even with her artistic ability I still looked bland. I had apple cheeks that my mom swore were high cheekbones but really just made my face look chubby. A round face on a toothpick body. I had blond hair, but not blond enough. I had blue eyes, but not blue enough. It was like I needed one more stroke of color.
“Okay,” Georgia said, coming back downstairs. “The good news is it was not an international call.” She held out the house cordless phone. “Riley Goodwin used your landline to call her boyfriend.” She looked down at the screen. “Seventy-two minutes ago. It’s a 404 area code. Any guesses?” She shrugged, then dialed a number by heart. “Yes, Sister Ginger?”
I heard Georgia say my name and birthday as I reached out and touched Mom’s paintbrush, still coated with phthalo green paint.
Georgia grabbed my arm, her eyebrows raised to her hairline. “Sister Ginger says tonight you will be noticed in a BIG WAY.” She tossed the phone to the ground.
“I’m not listening to that crazy psychic. Last time you wound up with orange hair!”
Georgia examined a strand of her dark curls. “Come on, be adventurous,” she begged.
My stomach clenched at the thought. I nervously reached up to adjust my glasses. Georgia motioned to my face. “Emily, stop. You’re wearing your contacts.”
“Right,” I said, taking my index finger off the bridge of my nose. Whenever I was nervous, my finger reflexively went to the spot where it had pushed sliding glasses back into place for eight years—that was half my life! It was a hard habit to break. “Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s go get noticed.”
Back in the living room, Tanner Montgomery switched off my CD and started hooking up his own iPod to the computer. Immediately loud bass shook the floors and rattled the family photo frames on the mantel.
I tried to pretend I recognized the song and yelled, “Good choice!” But no one heard me. I had a better idea.
“What are you doing?” Georgia was frantic.
“I’m going to dance on the counter. Get noticed,” I explained as I pulled myself onto its cool surface.
“I do not think that’s what Sister Ginger had in mind!” Georgia put her hands on her hips and huffed. “Well, at least take your shoes off; your mom will notice scuff marks!”
I leaned down toward her. “I’m not taking my shoes off and displaying my abnormalities to the whole school!”
She shook her head disapprovingly. “God, you’re so obsessed with your toes!”
“What’s wrong with your toes?” a girl from my gym class asked while pulling herself onto the kitchen counter to join me.
“Her second toe curls over the third,” Georgia said, demonstrating with her fingers.
“Gross,” gym girl screamed.
“Georgia!” I exploded.
Just then the front door swung open and two shaky Jimmy Choos stepped onto the floor. My aunt Jolie took a couple more steps into the foyer and stood there frozen. Her makeup was smudged and her hair winged back behind her as if blowing in an unseen wind.
“Jolie?” I asked, stunned. Why was Aunt Jolie here?
Aunt Jolie was a celebrity makeup artist. She was always polished to perfection. Always.
Jolie lived in Manhattan. She wouldn’t make the two-hour trip unless my parents asked her to check up on me while they were away. And they’d only left for San Francisco this afternoon!
Jolie weaved her way through the maze of people toward the kitchen, a weird, somewhat dazed look in her clear green eyes.
I eased myself off the counter. “What are you doing here, Jolie? How did you get here?”
“I borrowed Trent’s car,” Jolie said, speaking of her business partner and hairstylist to the stars, Trent Mason. She ran her fingers through her knotty blond hair. “It’s a convertible. I couldn’t figure out how to get the, uh.” She stared at me for a second. “The, uh. The top up.”
Something was seriously wrong with this picture. “Um, did Mom ask you to check up on me, because that’s supremely lame.”
“Your mom didn’t ask me to come,” Jolie said, her face still expressionless. “I’ve been trying to call you.”
A breeze blew through the open door and I got goose bumps on my arms.
“I was in a cab,” Jolie continued. Was she blinking back tears? “And I saw the news.” She looked up at the five girls dancing on the counter as if suddenly noticing the ongoing party. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “You don’t know.”
“What? What don’t I know?” My back stiffened.
Jolie turned toward Georgia. “You’ve got ten minutes to get everyone out of this house.”
Georgia’s eyes bulged. She scrambled into the living room.
Without another word, Jolie took my hand and pulled me up the stairs away from the chaos. She opened my bedroom door and motioned for me to sit on the bed.
“What is going on?” I asked, releasing my hand from her grip.
“Emily.” Her voice shook. “Emily, I. They. The news. Your parents. I saw.” She gulped, tears sliding down her face. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
I was in a cab and I saw the news. Your parents. Her words didn’t make any sense, but they made my spine tingle and my mouth go dry. I grabbed the remote control off the nightstand, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. The back of my neck felt liquid-hot. I clicked the power button and found a news channel, my fingers fumbling on the remote. And there, scrawling across the bottom of the TV screen in ticker tape, was the answer. The words Jolie couldn’t say.
SkyAmerica Flight #565 bound for San Francisco has crashed into a field in Provo, Utah. The jet, transporting 245 passengers, left Philadelphia airport at 5:00 p.m. earlier today. It appears the pilot was attempting an emergency landing at the Provo Municipal Airport when things went awry. The cause of the crash, at this time, is unknown. Emergency medical help and the local police force are at the scene of the crash. At this time, no survivors have been found.
I stood there, remote in my hand, and stared at the screen. No survivors have been found.
I grabbed my cell phone off the charger. Twenty-six missed calls. I scrolled through, seeing unrecognizable numbers, my stomach clenching as I saw on the caller ID list Provo, UT.
Nothing made sense. I dropped the cell phone on the floor somewhere and then sank down to the carpet, resting my head against the yellow bedspread. Jolie sat next to me, wrapping her arm around my waist as the barrage of news stories flashed endlessly on the screen.
The house quieted and eventually, the noise from the street quieted, leaving just the sound of the cherry blossom branches tapping against my window screen in the warm June breeze. I watched the red electric numbers slowly change on my alarm clock from 10:35 p.m. up and up to 11:43 p..m, just me and Jolie sitting on my bedroom floor, holding each other, silently staring at the TV. When my lids got heavy, I let them fall, sinking into a restless sleep.
A cramp in my
neck woke me several hours later. Jolie was still pressed up against my shoulder, her head leaning on the edge of the bed, but her eyes were red-rimmed and open. The TV was still on. We stared at each other, uncertain what to do. Should I get up and take a shower? Should Jolie make some phone calls? Should we go downstairs and eat breakfast? But neither of us moved. Suddenly, the news anchor’s voice seemed to rise an octave, catching our attention.
Who is Emily? she asked. Words scrolled across the top of the screen in bold capital letters: WHO IS EMILY?
My mouth was parched. My throat ached with an intense pain I’d never felt before.
The camera zoomed in on the news anchor. She was standing next to a fireman who was holding a large mangled piece of plastic in his hands.
We’re here among the wreckage from Flight 565, which made a crash landing earlier this evening. As the emergency medical help searched for any survivors and crews combed the rubble for the black box, there’s been an interesting find . . .The camera zoomed in on the plastic slab in the fireman’s char-covered hands.
I breathed in, out, in again. This was not happening. I saw coral lipstick. God-awful, unforgettable, coral lipstick. We begged my mother to stop wearing that lipstick.
This is a tray table,the news anchor explained. Written across this tray table in what appears to be lipstick is the desperate plea of a passenger who perhaps knew she would not make it off this flight ...
The camera zoomed in even closer on the coral lipstick writing. It was smudged, but, unbelievably, the message was still clear. It read: EMILY PLEASE FOR GIVE ME.
chapter one
THREE MONTHS LATER
“EMILY, WE’RE HERE!”
“You’re sitting there like a human-size packet of Sweet’n Low.” I stared at Jolie as she parked the Lexus.
Lipstick Apology Page 1
