Lipstick Apology

by Jennifer Jabaley

“THE WHAT?!!!”

  “Dr. Reeves gave me a mushcle relaxer for my jaw. Lindshey made me take it.”

  “OH MY GOD. Oprah did an entire episode on housewives addicted to pain pills. You can’t just go popping pills, then downing a whole liquor cabinet; it’s a recipe for disaster. We need to call the hospital. We need to get you into detox.”

  “Shhhut up!” I garbled. “It wash one pill. ONE. I’m not a closhet addict. And I wahsn’t planning on drinking any alcohol.”

  “Owen pressured you, didn’t he? You gave in to the peer pressure,” Georgia insisted.

  “I DIDN’T KNOW THERE WASH ANY ALCOHOL IN THE DRINK!!”

  “Relax. You need to eat. Something to soak up the alcohol. Like bread.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Maybe you should call Jolie . . .”

  “NO! We’re having a good time. I’ll be fine. You’re right, I jusht need to eat.” I hung up. When I stumbled out of the bathroom, Owen was setting a couple of plates at the table in the opposite corner of the living room, nearest to the kitchen.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Starved,” I said slowly, trying not to slur. I planted myself in a chair.

  Owen pulled out a dish from the oven. He removed the foil. “Tanya made Turkish lamb chops. And I think this is a cauliflower puree.”

  I didn’t know who Tanya was, but I didn’t care. I dove in, praying the sustenance would return my equilibrium. And it did. At least momentarily.

  The dishes were still on the table and I’d only had a couple bites of the minty, tender meat when Owen got up and walked over to me. He pulled me up out of the chair, leaned me against the kitchen doorway, and kissed me. Hard and eager. His mouth was firm and aggressive, and my mouth cooperated with such ease, I felt relaxed and confident. I might be the best kisser he’s ever kissed, I thought with bravado.

  Minus that small amount of . . . did I just drool? Guess he didn’t notice.

  He steered me backward, out of the kitchen, into the living room. Then he leaned me down on the couch. The decline sent my stomach into orbit, but I decided it was butterflies, nothing to worry about. I kept kissing him. His hands roamed around my waist, inching up to my chest. There was an undeniable swishing sound. Crap. Why? Why did I let Andi convince me to purchase a water bra? The manufacturers of this contraption, while quite clever at creating cleavage, obviously failed to recall the groping that can occur with teenage romp sessions. Owen’s hands roamed. Swish. Please, Big Guy, please don’t let my water bra pop. Please, I’ll feed the hungry, clothe the naked . . .

  There was another swishing sound, but this time it wasn’t my bra. A tidal wave stirred deep in my stomach, and the walls started to spin again.

  I cannot believe this is happening.

  I thrust Owen off of me. He went crashing to the floor, just missing the coffee table.

  Hoisting myself up off the couch, I clapped my hand to my mouth and barely, barely made it to the bathroom. And that’s the last thing I remembered.

  By the time I was coherent again, I was tucked into my bed, a water glass and a bottle of Advil on my nightstand.

  I heard Owen’s voice out in the living room. He was thanking Trent for picking me up.

  “Shoot,” Trent said. “No big deal. I was thirty before I could handle my liquor. So I was on Em’s speed dial? Man, it’s good to be important.”

  Small chuckle from Owen. Owen said goodbye and the front door slammed.

  Trent’s face peered into my room. “You okay, sweetie?”

  I groaned. I didn’t know which hurt worse: my jaw, my head, or my ego.“Maybe we don’t need to tell Jolie?” I suggested.

  “Sorry, sugar.” Trent grimaced. “She knows. She was a little freaked out. She’s on her way home now.” He made a big frown. “She left the big boss’s party already. So, honestly, the best thing you can do now is pray.”

  I pulled the pillow over my eyes.

  “But more importantly,” Trent continued. “Tell me, did Owen hold your hair while you puked?”

  chapter twenty

  “WHAT EXACTLY WERE YOU DOING, EMILY?” Jolie’s voice was shrill and my head was pounding. “When I allowed you to go over to Owen’s house, against my better judgment, I might add, it was because I trusted you.”

  Pound. Pound. I reached for the water bottle on the coffee table and swished water around in my cotton-dry mouth.

  “I certainly didn’t expect that you would get liquored up and half naked . . .”

  “I wasn’t half naked! My clothes were covered in puke, so Owen gave me a sweatshirt.” At least that’s what I thought—my memory was a tad hazy. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I spoke. Why did my teeth feel like they were wearing fuzzy slippers? Pound. Pound.

  “Well, that’s just lovely, Emily. And why exactly did you puke, huh? Just how much alcohol did you consume? What was it you were planning to do once you felt all loose and happy? Forget it.” She shook her head violently. “I don’t even want to know.”

  “Look.” I clenched my forehead with one hand, my jaw with the other. “I wasn’t intending to get drunk. You KNOW I don’t drink. This is going to sound ridiculous, but I didn’t even know there was alcohol in the drink. Owen offered me a drink before dinner and that was it. I thought it was just orange juice.”

  “You’re sixteen! Not thirty. You don’t have cocktails before a meal!”

  I held my head. I wasn’t even about to explain the muscle relaxers.

  Jolie took two long breaths. “Okay.” Her voice was calmer. “Don’t you think it was a little irresponsible to let yourself get into that position with that kind of guy?”

  “What do you mean, that kind of guy? I thought you liked Owen.”

  “Yeah, I like Owen. Trust me, I’ve liked a lot of Owens.” Her mouth was set into a straight, thin line.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? So you agree with Trent? You think Owen’s a player? That he’s USING me? That he couldn’t actually LIKE me?”

  Jolie exhaled deeply. “That’s not what I’m saying.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “A boy who looks like that and acts like that, he’s used to getting what he wants. And at sixteen, there’s pretty much just one thing that he wants. I know your mom didn’t raise you to be the kind of girl who gets drunk and swaps clothes with the local hottie.”

  So, she was going to play the dead mother card. Lay on the guilt. Well, it worked. My eyes welled.

  Jolie’s face softened. She ran her fingers through her hair again. “Look, I know you’re a responsible person and this was not in character, but my God, Emily, use your head. Think about what you’re doing and who you’re doing it with. Sometimes it’s just better to stay away from the golden boys and find the nice, shy kid in the corner. He’s the one that will treat you right.”

  “I don’t see you dating any shy geeks. So maybe I learned from a good teacher,” I said with bite.

  Jolie looked away, defeat written on her face. “Emily, I don’t want you to live like I live. Sure, it’s got a lot of fun, but it has a lot of heartache, too. Live like your mother—true love and stability.”

  “Yeah, right!” I yelled.

  Jolie looked back at me, confused.

  I got up and raced for my bedroom with my brain knocking against my skull in rhythm with my footsteps. I ran back into the living room with the incriminating letter in my hand. “I know what you did—hiding this from me! I know what she did with that ‘D’ guy!”

  Jolie looked frantic. “What? What do you have?” She reached for the letter and scanned it. “Where did you get this?”

  “Oh, play dumb!” I yelled. “I found it where you hid it! In your bathroom cabinet!”

  Jolie sat down on the couch, her face flushing red. “The envelope,” she mumbled. She turned toward me and tried to take my hand, but I pulled it away fast, knocking the remote off the coffee table.

  “Why didn’t you show me this?! Who is this guy? Are you hiding anything else? What
do you know?” I fired questions at her, but she just stared out at the Hudson.

  “LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU!” I yelled. It was my mother’s words; we both knew it.

  Jolie’s face crumpled into her hands.

  “Just tell me,” I said, softer. “What do you know?”

  Jolie picked up the letter and tore it in half. “That’s what I know.” The letter floated to the ground.

  I eased myself back down on the couch and laid my head on the soft, green, chenille pillows. My mom had married the nice, shy kid who kept his coins neatly stacked on the dresser. Then on the sly she romped around with the charismatic golden boy. I wiped my eyes on the pillow, thinking of my golden boy. Bits and pieces of the previous night re-entered my mind. Laughing. Lamb chops. Kissing, groping. Oh God, the water bra. Did it pop? I don’t think it popped. Sitting on the toilet. Projectile vomiting. Something crashing. Red puke on Trent’s leather seats.

  I rolled over and buried my face into the couch. I didn’t know which was worse: the splitting headache, the throbbing jaw, listening to Jolie cry, or the tortuous fragmented memories of a ruined opportunity.

  “SO, HOW’S MY GIRL?” Owen cooed through the phone that night. “The one with zero tolerance for vodka?”

  Uhhh. So it was vodka. My stomach turned. But did Owen just call me his girl?! Even after the disastrous date?

  “I’ve been through half a bottle of Advil,” I moaned. “But at least I can stand now.”

  “You are so lucky that your puke didn’t stain my mom’s carpet or you’d be over here, steam cleaning.” Owen laughed.

  Oh God. “I am so embarrassed,” I said. “I took a muscle relaxer . . .” I started to explain.

  “Yeah, I know. I saw Lindsey at the gym this morning.”

  “Owen? Can I ask you a favor?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Could we keep the muscle relaxer/alcohol disaster our little secret? Please? I’m so horrified.”

  “You got it, kid. I was thinking, maybe you should come over tomorrow, hit the re-do button.”

  “I really want to, but I have to work on my chem lab report,” I said. “It’s due really soon and we’re totally behind. It’s kind of my Sunday ritual from now until Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh, too bad.”

  Wow, maybe I really was a good kisser, even in my mildly uncoordinated state.

  “Maybe sometime next week?” I suggested.

  “That works. The only thing that’ll get me through the next week is knowing that we’ll be picking up where we left off.”

  I giggled. “I’ll see you at school.” I hung up both exhilarated and frightened. I thought about what Jolie said. Think about what you’re doing and who you’re doing it with. I wanted to make out with Owen and have fun. I wanted him to think I was sexy and confident. But I also needed to be smart, to recognize what his true intent was. I wanted to know how to set limits, how to be a girlfriend to someone popular and experienced but remain true to myself. I needed my mother to sit with me on our back porch and tell me what to do. I needed her to make me her best buttery noodles and say, “Just trust your gut and let the blank canvas guide you.” All at once I was furious at her. I was furious that she wasn’t alive and I was devastated that the memory of her was tarnished by a few letters. How could I be so mad at my mother but somehow still need her to be there, to be the way she was, the way I knew her before I laid my eyes on those words of deception?

  I reached into my purse for a tissue and saw the metal picture frame I had broken in Owen’s bathroom. I took it out and studied it. Owen was squinting into the sun, kneeling down next to a boy in a wheelchair. They both had Special Olympics T-shirts on, and a volunteer badge hung from a string around Owen’s neck.

  The phone rang in my purse, startling me. It was Anthony.

  “Hey,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure we’re still on for tomorrow. And you still want to come to my house?”

  “Um, sure. And where exactly do you live?”

  “Brooklyn.”

  I recalled the black and white photo of the Brooklyn Bridge hanging on the wall in Trent’s salon. I imagined myself sauntering across the bridge, the cityscape a theatrical backdrop and the breeze rustling my hair.

  “So you get on the F train at Washington Square Park.” He broke my reverie.

  F train? “Now when you say train . . .”

  “Oh, jeez. The subway, Em.”

  Crap. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t navigate myself out of a cardboard box; I certainly couldn’t travel to another borough. Anthony was spitting out directions. I was about to suggest we meet at a more central location when Anthony interrupted my thoughts.

  “Hey, Em? Thanks so much for coming my way. That’s really cool of you.”

  I dropped my head, defeated. “No problem.”

  I wrote down the directions, asking for spellings and clarifications.

  “I promise you won’t get lost.”

  As if I weren’t lost enough already.

  chapter twenty-one

  I WALKED DOWN THE CONCRETE STEPS into the underground world of subway travelers. I looked around nervously. Anywhere that was dark at noon creeped me out. I pressed through the cold, silver turnstile. The metal gave me an electric shock and my hand shot back like a slingshot. The man behind me cackled. I looked over my shoulder.

  “My dad used to say when you got shocked, it meant you were full of spark. Ha ha.”

  The man gave me a crazy look.

  Why am I talking to random people in the subway terminal? Okay, shut up and act like you know what you’re doing! I looked at all the signs and tried not to panic. There was no mass transit in Newtown, Pennsylvania, and aside from one disastrous ride with Georgia on Amtrak, I had never been on a train, much less a subway, so this was all uncharted territory. How would I know when to get off?

  I boarded the train and found a seat. I clenched and unclenched the written directions in my hands. I can do this, I thought. I’m not a complete idiot. Sure, I had failed to recognize my OJ was spiked. And I had allowed my falsified cleavage to be discovered. And I had drooled on Owen while attempting to kiss him. But surely I could travel to Anthony’s house without handholding or a GPS.

  They announced my stop and I got off, again rereading the directions. Head west toward Clinton Street. I hated when people gave directions like that; why couldn’t they just say go left or right? Did he assume there was a compass floating in my water bra?

  I looked further on the written directions. Just past the park on Clinton Street . . .

  I tapped a safe-looking man on the shoulder. “Excuse me, is there a park close by?”

  He turned toward me, stuck out his pointer finger directing me, then walked on without a word.

  I followed the line of his finger. “Right, obviously. Thanks!” I called, but he was already halfway down the block. I walked down the street, passing restaurants and local shops flanked by beautiful old brownstones. As I rounded the corner onto Anthony’s road, I saw a group of guys playing basketball in the street, a portable net resting on the edge of the sidewalk. The sight of it made me ache for my days of kickball on Arbor Way.

  As I walked closer, I could make out Anthony, dressed in old jeans and a gray sweatshirt. His face was flushed with activity and his ears were red from the cold. One of the other b asketball players motioned to him. Anthony stopped dribbling, held the ball in his hands, and turned around.

  I waved.

  He walked toward me.

  “Go on,” I said. “Finish your game. I’ll watch.”

  He smiled and turned back to his game, tossing the ball to his friend.

  I took a seat on the stoop in front of an old, four-story brownstone. A copper mailbox with Rucelli engraved on the front hung next to the door.

  The basketball game was competitive, with lots of yelling and high-fiving. They teased each other with such familiarity, it was clear they were old friends. Watching Anthony here, in his own environment
, was such a contrast to how I perceived him at school—as a loner. I felt like an idiot for assuming that Anthony’s actions within the confines of Darlington’s walls paralleled how his life was elsewhere. And suddenly I understood. He didn’t ostracize himself to the library because he had no friends. His friends just weren’t available at lunch. He didn’t care what people at Darlington thought about him because his security was here. I envied him, wishing I had the pride to not obsess about how others viewed me.

  Across the street, two pretty girls walked by, slowing down as they approached the basketball net. One of Anthony’s friends tapped a sweaty teammate on the shoulder, then nodded his chin toward the opposite sidewalk. The sweaty guy smiled, seeing the girls, then said, “Molly and Adrienne,” to no one in particular.

  Anthony’s head swung around toward the girls.

  The taller girl, with long, wavy black hair, waved and smiled, then whispered something to her friend. The shorter girl, the prettier of the two, had olive skin framed by shiny, stick straight auburn locks. Her eyes were wide and dark, and she had a sexy, pouty mouth. She smiled then called out, “Hi, Anthony.”

  I couldn’t see Anthony’s face when he responded, “Hey, Adrienne.”

  The short, pretty one, Adrienne, smiled toward Anthony, then nudged her friend with her elbow, gesturing across the street in my direction. The girls looked at each other and burst into a fit of laughter. They waved goodbye to the guys and sauntered down the road.

  My face burned. Were they laughing at me?

  The guys stood there, motionless, the basketball resting on the street, and watched Molly and Adrienne walk, their curvy backsides swaying as if to music, until they turned the corner and disappeared out of sight.

  I felt a sudden surge of inadequacy. I always thought I had a decent butt, small and firm, but I was quite certain it lacked the raw sex appeal of those two curvy, confident girls. And I was abruptly aware of how the cold weather leaves me looking so pasty and lifeless. My hair darkens to the color of soggy Cheerios. How bland is that? Note to self: Harass Trent for highlights that don’t fade! Compared to those girls, I was about as appealing as unbuttered toast. Second note to self: Buy some self-tanner! Buy Buns of Steel!