Lipstick Apology (10 page)

I started to feel dizzy so I threw myself onto the couch and turned on
Oprah
.

Jolie came through the door a few minutes later. “Pop-Tarts?” She thrust a white bag toward me. “Don't eat Pop-Tarts; I've got Joe Jr. burgers.” She put the bag on the coffee table, then pushed a gray object over and sat on the table too. “What are you looking up?” she asked, peering over toward the laptop screen.

I shut the computer before she could see my Google search. I changed the topic. “What is that?” I asked, pointing to the gray thing I had never noticed before.

She picked it up and spun it in her hands. “It's an ashtray.”

“An ashtray? You don't smoke.”

“I know, but isn't it just fabulous? Every coffee table deserves a great ashtray.” She admired it. “Plus, when your mom was working at that art gallery so many years ago, she kept bugging me to come to a show, but I'm not really into art.” She extended her hand toward the blank walls.

“How very minimalist of you,” I teased.

She laughed. “So one day your mom said they were having some kind of domestic-exotic sculpture exhibition, and I thought, that just might be my thing. And that's where I found this.” She handed it to me.

I held the heavy ashtray, running my fingers over the smooth surface, thinking that one day my mother held it too. I thought about her life at the art gallery and realized that I always imagined my mother as the happy homemaker on Arbor Way. I never really knew about the person she was before I arrived. That part of her was as unfamiliar to me as this cold, angular object in my hands. “I Googled her,” I said.

“Who?” Jolie asked.

“Mom. I Googled Mom. I just . . . didn't know what else to do. What should I do?”

Jolie got up from the coffee table. “I think you should move on, that's what I think you should do.”

“What if I can't move on, Jolie? What if this big wave is hovering over my head, ready to crash and I physically cannot move from this place until I understand her apology?”

I looked out at the Hudson. The waters were calm, but all I could see was the image of that plane diving for the water. I waited for Jolie to say something, but she didn't.

“You don't want to help me understand Mom's apology? FINE!” I screamed. “I've asked for
nothing
from you and the
one time
I ask you for help . . . Well, forget it. Go back to your nails and your makeup and live your life like I never interrupted it!” I grabbed my purse off the kitchen table and headed for the door. I heard Jolie calling my name as I slammed the door.

I burst through the lobby door to the street and started aimlessly walking, my mind racing with thoughts. Was Jolie right—was a search for answers useless? I looked down and realized I was still holding the gray ashtray. All at once, I knew where I wanted to go. I put the ashtray down next to the small landscaped pansy garden and tried to figure out how to hail a cab. I walked toward an intersection and awkwardly stuck my arm out. A yellow cab pulled up and I climbed in. The cabdriver looked over his shoulder at me for instruction, but I couldn't remember the name of the art gallery where Mom worked. I knew it was in an area called Museum Mile, and I thought I would recognize the building from when she had pointed it out to me several years ago.

“Museum Mile, please,” I said.

“
Where
on Museum Mile?” he asked.

“Um, I'm not sure.” My heart fluttered with embarrassment. Why did everything have to be so complicated here?

He gave me an impatient look.

“Just . . . anywhere on Museum Mile,” I said.

We battled Midtown traffic, then soared up Park Avenue—it was the first time I'd seen the famous street. The polished-looking white buildings and quaint corner cafés looked quiet and serene. The driver turned a corner toward Central Park and pulled up in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

“Oh, yes. This will do fine.” I paid, then walked several blocks north until I saw the familiar stucco facade and the arching window details and knew I had found the correct gallery.

Inside the gallery there was a beautiful winding staircase with an ornate wrought iron banister. I could envision my mother floating down the stairs, Scarlett O'Hara style. I wandered around not knowing what I was expecting to find, but trying to channel any details of my mother that I had never explored.

I was on the second floor, staring at the diamond-patterned floor and wondering why my mother gave up a career she loved, when a groomed man with a cleft chin rounded the corner and stopped. I looked up and met his eyes.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly, running his hands through his thick, wavy brown hair. “I . . . I thought I recognized you.”

“Oh,” I said.
The relentless news coverage. The magazine exposés.
I turned and ran down the stairs, out the door, and didn't stop until I collapsed on the cold, concrete steps in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The massive pillared building was a playground for hordes of tourists and school groups. As the visitors stepped past me, no one registered recognition. Like static or white noise, they bustled around me in a blur. No one knew me as the girl whose parents died or the girl whose mother left an unexplained apology. To them, I was just another visitor eager to soak in the beauty of art. I embraced the anonymity for hours. The numbness helped me stay calm until the sun started to sink and my fleece sweatshirt no longer kept me warm.

 

WHEN I GOT HOME,
the apartment was dark. I walked down the hall. The radiant light from the TV in Jolie's room sparkled like a kaleidoscope on the dark hallway wall. The volume was set to mute. Through the open door, the flickering TV lights turned Jolie's face blue, then silver in a dizzying, fragmented pattern. Trent was sitting by her side on the bed, his arm draped over her shoulders. He was saying something with an unfamiliar serious demeanor. The TV brightened and I saw tears on Jolie's cheeks.

I walked closer to them, their backs to me.

“I thought it was the right thing,” Jolie whispered. “She doesn't need any more grief, right?”

Trent rubbed the back of her hair.

“This is so hard!” Jolie whimpered. “Am I trying to protect her too much? Should I encourage her to look for answers? I don't know what to do. I'm not cut out for this mother stuff.”

Trent pulled her hair back playfully so she was looking into his eyes. “It's true,” he said. “You know squat about how to cook and you know nothing about how to raise a teen. You're clueless about how to mend that little girl's broken heart, let alone your own. But Jo, sweetie, the threads of your sister remain in Emily. So by God, you better figure it out.”

Jolie's head dropped.

“It doesn't have to be Martha Stewart perfect,” Trent continued. “Just be the grown-up.”

I stood there, frozen, unsure what to feel. I was touched by Jolie's desire to take care of me but also felt like a burden for requiring it.

I watched Jolie's petite shoulders quake. Then I turned and ran down the dark hallway and crawled into the still-unfamiliar bed. I pulled the blankets over my head to block out this new world—a world where a girl could live her whole life and never really know the truth about her own mother.

I DROPPED MY BAG
down on the shiny marble floor and plopped into a seat at our usual lunch table.

“Why the grumpy face?” Andi asked. “Aren't you excited about tonight?”

“Tonight?” I asked, racking my brain. It was October 10th. Nothing registered.

“Tonight,” Andi said. “The Team and Squad party at Owen's? Aren't you excited?”

“Oh, right, sorry,” I said. “I think I bombed a quiz in history,” I explained. That was not exactly what I was thinking about, but I couldn't begin to explain the whole mess my life had become. The fight with Jolie. The fact that Anthony was still barely talking to me now and was clearly uncomfortable in my presence. Oh, and the little problem of not understanding my mother's mysterious and public last words.

Lindsey came over and took a seat, adjusting her cute heavy cable-knit sweater. You were allowed to wear any kind of sweater or blazer over the green uniform shirts, thank g oodness. “Hey, I heard Meyers nailed you with a pop quiz this morning,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said, shaking my head. That wasn't the half of it.

Andi turned to me. “I wish you could have come with us shopping. We had the best time. We went to Abracadabra's and found great stuff! I found this powder blue cheerleading outfit that looks straight out of the eighties!”

“So, what are you going to wear?” Lindsey asked me.

I tried to act casual, as if I had planned this all along. “Well, I thought I would wear my uniform from my old high school—last year's varsity basketball cheerleading uniform.”

Andi inhaled. “Authentic! That's awesome.”

“And sentimental,” Lindsey added with a smile.

Oh, good, now if I could find it.

“Why don't we all get ready together?” Andi suggested. “We could go to my place after school—oh, shoot, no, we can't. My mom has the decorators scheduled.”

Hmm. I had an idea. This might be exactly what I needed: a distraction. “We could go over to my place,” I said, feeling a little bold. “Jolie, my aunt, she does makeup; maybe we could use some of her stuff.”

Andi looked inquisitive. “What do you mean she
does makeup
?”

“She's a makeup artist,” I said.

“Like at a counter?” Lindsey asked. “Which line? Ooh, could she get us some free samples?” It bewildered me that people who lived like Lindsay and Andi still got excited over free stuff.

“Well, actually, she kind of has her own line. You probably haven't heard of it; it's mostly for TV and movies . . .”

“TV and movies?” Andi asked, eager for details. “She does makeup for TV and movies? Oh my God. You're not talking about
Jolie Jane?
As in,
Jolie Jane, makeup artist to the stars?
As in,
only the best sheer, non-sticky gloss available in the universe, Jolie Jane?
” Andi's voice was rising.

I'm not normally paranoid, but I swore I could feel breath on my shoulder, so I turned around and my arm crashed into the new girl, Carly. She dropped her lunch tray. A turkey sandwich tumbled to the floor and a seltzer bottle rolled under the table.

“Oh,” I said, “I'm so sorry.” How long had she been standing behind me?

A crimson rash crawled up Carly's neck. She dropped down to her knees and tried desperately to reassemble the sandwich.

“Here,” Lindsey said, bending down and retrieving the bottle.

Carly took the seltzer and pushed her giant glasses up on her nose. “Thank you,” she said, and raced away.

Andi snickered. “Is that the girl Ethan is partnered with in chem?”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“My God, did you see those glasses?” Andi shook her head. “Has she never heard of Lasik?”

“She's new,” I said. “Started here a few weeks ago. She's from Connecticut, I think. She seems nice.”

A funny look spread across Andi's face. “Ethan told Aidan that she was flipping through a Victoria's Secret catalog in chem class and she dog-eared a page with thongs on it. Thongs—for her?! Then she had the gall to ask Ethan if he thought thongs were sexy or slutty.” Andi smirked. “Where does
she
get off being so confident?”

I looked across the cafeteria at Carly eating alone.

Lindsey turned back to our previous conversation. “So, is Jolie Jane really your aunt?”

Lindsey and Andi waited in anticipation.

I nodded, and their mouths dropped.

“You've been holding out on us!” Andi exclaimed.

“No wonder your skin always looks so good,” Lindsey raved.

“I love Jolie Jane cosmetics,” Andi gushed. She rummaged through her purse, then waved a familiar-looking black and gold tube as confirmation. “Honestly, her glosses are killer.”

It was so strange to see them hold Jolie in such high regard. I guess I never realized the full extent of her success. I knew she had money—but I didn't think she had notoriety. Jolie Jane cosmetics weren't sold at the mall back home in Pennsylvania, so to me, it seemed like unless you whipped out a magnifying glass and read the photo-shoot credits in the fashion magazines, Jolie had more of a behind-the-scenes kind of fame.

“My mother swears by her foundation sticks,” Lindsey added.

“She's coming out with a new skin care line soon,” I said casually.

“Awesome,” Andi and Lindsey both said.

I laughed. “So why don't you guys come over around five thirty and maybe we can convince Jolie to do our makeup?”

They agreed.

I text messaged Jolie and asked her if we could
make up
at our house. I sensed that Jolie got my double meaning because she texted me back right away and said it was a date. Then, in a move reminiscent of my mother, Jolie added
XOXO.

With the anticipation of the pre-party at my house in addition to the actual party at Owen's house, I managed to forget about the Anthony debacle until I walked into chemistry. I took my seat next to him at the lab bench. I saw he had a Band-Aid on his pinky finger where the broken beaker had cut him. The guilt hit me. I nervously tried to remember my rehearsed apology.

“Hey,” Anthony said flatly. “I talked to Mrs. Klein yesterday. We have a new compound.” He pointed at a beaker on the table. “She told me we can just combine last week's lab work with our next assignment so we have adequate time to catch up.”