Lipstick Apology (3 page)

Jolie and Trent were sitting on a small twin bed. They looked up at me.

“Jolie, seriously, I don't need the room with the big bed. I can sleep in here,” I said.

“The sad truth is,” Trent said, “your auntie, here, doesn't need the big bed either. As of late, her makeup brushes get more action than she does, if you get my drift.”

Eeeewww. I wanted to plug my ears. I knew Jolie's history was what my mom called serial dating. But I hadn't heard of any love interests since her arrival in Pennsylvania three months ago.

“Trent.” Jolie sounded exasperated. “Can we please not analyze my life right now?”

Trent looked at me and mouthed,
Touchy!
He got up and we followed him into the living room. The setting sun was casting a soft spotlight through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Maybe it was the three weeks of reporters camped out back in Pennsylvania, clicking cameras through our windows, but suddenly I felt like I was standing in a glass box—exposed to the world.

“So,” I said. “You don't have any blinds?”

“Blinds?”
Trent said like one would say
cancer
or
cellulite
. “On these windows?”

Jolie looked at me, her eyes reading my unease. She walked over to the wall, pressed a button, and shades moved down, hiding the wall of glass.

“I'm starving,” Trent said, walking into the enormous L-shaped kitchen. “Look at these sparkling black countertops,” Trent said to me. “So pristine. And that's not a reflection of your aunt's excellent housekeeping skills. No, no, it's due to the fact that the only thing that's ever been made in here is a small grease fire. And mad passionate love, maybe, if the mood was right.”

“TRENT!” Jolie yelled.

“Sorry.” Trent giggled. “Basically her kitchen is more like a closet for takeout menus and a coffeepot.”

“I can cook,” Jolie said, a little too defensively, and then started to laugh because we all knew that was untrue. “Well, I definitely want to learn. But for tonight, how's Chinese?”

My eyes drifted to the corner of the kitchen. There was a familiar cotton apron hanging from a hook on the wall. I walked toward it confirming my suspicion. It was my mother's. It was a retro-style apron that tied around the waist and had a border of white lace. I remembered the Christmas that Mom hinted she wanted that apron by leaving the catalog propped open for weeks. But Dad missed the hint and bought her a pearl necklace instead. Mom cried Christmas morning and my dad and I laughed that any woman would prefer an apron over pearls. Needless to say, Dad ordered the apron the next day. And now, for some reason, it was hanging in Jolie's kitchen.

Jolie read my mind. “Your mom gave me this apron after last year's Fourth of July barbecue. Remember when everyone was teasing me because I put heavy cream in the French onion dip instead of
sour cream
?”

“Good Lord,” Trent mocked.

“Well, afterward your mom handed me her apron and said maybe it would bring me luck in the kitchen.” Jolie gazed at the silver reflections from the refrigerator.

I reached out and touched the scratchy fabric of the apron, running my finger over a stain near the bottom. I suddenly needed to be alone. I excused myself and raced down the long corridor to my new bedroom. I braced myself against the windowpane and looked out at the million-dollar view—the maze of streets, the flutter of activity, and the vast waters of the Hudson River. Staring at the ripple of waves made me miss the serene, quiet Delaware River. Just a few miles from my old home a rickety, one-lane bridge marked where Washington had crossed the Delaware. The grassy banks with the trees arching over the water right near the bridge had always been my own private haven. But now this new river stretched on for miles, bordered not by trees but tall, gray buildings. And with its raging currents splashing below me, echoing my racing mind, it offered me no peace.

Where am I?
I thought.
How did I get here?
For the last three months I sat on our tan couch in a hazy blur watching
E! True Hollywood Story
. Georgia had hovered over me with talk of Ouija board and John Edward's
CrossingOver
marathons as options to contact my mother and crack the code of her mystery apology. She'd sit next to me—for hours at a time—and rattle off plans: plans for the prom committee, for which colleges we'd apply to, where to go back-to-school shopping. She'd tried to keep me updated on the gossip about our other friends from school, but it had been hard to focus on any of that. The world seemed so fuzzy. She'd tried to get me to put on a bathing suit and leave the house, even buying me a pair of funky sandals that hid my toes. But when I refused, she finally went on without me. It was like the world for everyone else was still turning, but for me, it had stopped.

Jolie had carted me off to shrink appointments and bought me books about grief. But all the voodoo and psychobabble in the world couldn't help me understand my mother's final words. Those words raced through my head for three months. Three endless summer months. And then we left. I was dragged from the only home I knew with no parents and no answers. And I still didn't know what she meant.

I leaned my head against the enormous cold windowpane and in the distance the Hudson flowed on, utterly indifferent.

“EMILY,” JOLIE SAID.
“I think school will be good for you, and you've already missed the first week.”

“Can't I just have a few more weeks to adjust? This is a big city . . .”

“Well, you wouldn't know,” Jolie said, pulling the cashmere afghan off my legs. “You haven't left the apartment.”

“We've only been here for a few days!” I grabbed the cover back.

Jolie sat down on the edge of the shiny glass coffee table. “Look, we're not doing this again. This hermit thing. You need to get out. Being back in school, around kids your own age, will help you . . .” She looked at the ceiling as if struggling to pick her words. “Help you move on. Obviously we need to try something different—the grief counselors were no help.”

“They were all wack jobs,” I said.

“They were
all
wack jobs?” Jolie challenged me.

“Uh, YEAH. Dr. Manchester wore a
bow tie
and kept pushing freaky back-to-nature retreats. Dr. Rogers was a Jimmy Buffett wannabe sailor who insisted on calling his boat
his little d inghy
. Like,
Sometimes the water splashes my little dinghy.
And Dr. Frix was totally sports-obsessed. He needs to be a coach, not a shrink. If I had to hear,
Tackle the issue,
or,
Rise to the challenge,
one more time, I'd scream. It's all just a big waste of time and money.”

Jolie threw her hands up in the air. “Okay, no more shrinks, no more counselors. But you
have
to go to school.” She crossed her legs. “I was thinking it's been a while since you've . . .
cleaned up
, so I've planned a weekend of fun and pampering. A real makeover to get you ready for your new school.”

“You think it'll take a whole weekend to make me over? Do I really look that bad?” I was trying to be funny, but Jolie's lips puckered up like she was trying not to comment.

“Okay,” I mumbled. “Make me presentable for school on Monday.” What did it matter, anyway?

 

THE NEXT MORNING
Jolie stood in my bedroom doorway with her hands on her tiny hips, looking tan and cheerful. “Today's going to be so much fun!” She beamed. “First we're going to Cornelia Day Spa for some much-needed pampering. I booked us this new ninety-minute algae body treatment that everyone keeps raving about.”

“Ninety minutes? Doesn't that seem a bit . . . excessive?”

“Trust me. By the time we walk out of there, we'll be as smooth as a baby's butt.” She giggled and took a sip of her Starbucks. I wondered how long she'd been up. “Then I thought we'd finish up with some quick pedicures.”

Pedicures?? As in someone touching my crooked toes??
I started to sweat.

“After the spa, we're going bra and underwear shopping!” She said this as if I just won a fabulous game show grand prize.

“Okay!” I faked enthusiasm. This was going to be a total disaster.

Jolie started for the hall, then spun around. “Oh! And I thought tomorrow I could help you with some makeup tricks and Trent could give you highlights. If you want them, I mean.”

I looked down at the ends of my dark blond hair. “Yeah, sure.”

“Awesome! We'll leave in ten minutes. Just wear spa attire.” She left.

I frantically dialed Georgia. “She's making me display my deformed feet for the world to mock me!”

“Huh?”

“PEDICURES! She won't let me back out. She called me a HERMIT!”

“Okay, relax,” Georgia said. “First of all, they always shove this Styrofoam contraption between your toes, which will make them look less crooked. It's not so bad. Think of Josie Leonard.” Josie Leonard was a girl in our class with a nub for her left index finger—some accident with a sharp knife. “Josie came back from camp with a smoking hot boyfriend—I saw them at the Coldstone Creamery on Thursday. If he could overlook the nubby finger, a random pedicurist can definitely ignore your weird toes.”

I hung up feeling slightly less panicked and wondered exactly what
spa attire
meant. I decided on a pair of faded black yoga pants and a red T-shirt. I grabbed my Nikes and walked into the living room. Jolie was sitting on the floor tying her shoes. She was dressed in low-rider navy spandex pants and a fitted striped tank top that flaunted her toned arms. She looked straight out of an American Apparel ad.

Jolie grabbed her Starbucks cup and we walked into the hall. As we rode the elevator down, I stared at my ragged reflection in the mirrored doors. My long hair, which usually lightened in the summer, was dull and shapeless. My skin was ashy pale and my eyes looked almost black in the fluorescent light. I looked like a horror movie version of myself. I tucked some flyaway hairs behind my ear and convinced myself I could survive this day. It's not like Jolie knew that I would much prefer a chick flick and nachos. Mom would know. Georgia would know. I needed to find a way to make things normal again. But how?

We walked a few blocks down tree-lined Perry Street, then turned onto Bleecker Street. The sidewalks were filled with Saturday morning shoppers carrying sleek handbags with impressive logos. The storefronts had large, glass display windows and signs hanging from wrought iron posts. Jolie stopped in front of Cynthia Rowley and gazed at the faceless mannequin sporting a flirty blue dress with metallic T-strap heels. She started walking again, her head craned toward a boutique shoe store display of towering strappy heels.

“A lot of people assume I'm a Park Avenue kind of girl,” Jolie said, tossing her coffee cup in the trash.
“An uptown girl,”
she sang. “But I love the West Village. It's the perfect escape from the flash and glitz.” She gestured toward the boutiques. “Everything is nicely balanced here—not so . . . fantastical. I feel like I belong. And I know you will too.”

We stopped at a light and I nodded absently while trying to decipher if the price tag on the cotton kimono pajamas in the children's store window really did say $160.

“Now when you go to school,” Jolie continued, “you'll continue for another few blocks, then turn left at the pizza place.”

I knew full well that I could never retrace our path without a map. “Oh, sure.” I faked confidence as we crossed a cobblestone square. We made a few more turns and arrived at the spa.

“Welcome,” a breathy woman dressed in white purred from behind a glass desk. “Welcome to our center for beauty synergy.” She smiled at Jolie. “Ah. Miss Jane, nice to see you again. I see you've scheduled two body harmonies and two signature pedicures. Wonderful selections.” She tapped on the keyboard, then peered over her rhinestone glasses. “With tax that brings your total to seven oh-five.”

Without a note of hesitation, Jolie opened her wallet and slapped a platinum credit card on the desk.

I remembered a few years ago when Mom decided to throw a surprise birthday party for Dad. She went all out buying thick slabs of filet mignon, imported cheeses, and vintage wines. When the bills came in, Dad bellowed,
Six hundred dollars at Costco? What? Did they slaughter and butcher the cows while you waited? You must REALLY love me,
he'd joked, his anger passing over as he pulled my mom into a big embrace. And that was six hundred dollars—and it fed a whole party. I wondered what Dad would think about Jolie spending seven hundred and five dollars to
primp before school
?

“Thank you, Miss Jane,” the breathy lady said. “You both may proceed to the women's locker room, where your aestheticians will greet you and discuss your skin care goals.”

Goals? How about a goal of getting out of here?

We walked into the locker room and were greeted by two women identically dressed in white button-down smocks. A petite woman took my elbow and steered me toward a bench at the far end of the room. Jolie and a redhead disappeared around a hall lined with trickling fountains, giggling and talking about some guy named Sven
.

My heart started to flutter. Where was Jolie going? I couldn't do this alone. All this spa stuff was foreign to me. The closest I'd ever come to a spa was when Coach Callihan massaged a charley horse in my calf during tennis semifinals last year.

“My name is Ming,” the woman said. She reached over, opened a locker, and placed its contents on the bench in front of me. “We provide robes, slippers, and wraps. Please undress and I'll return momentarily to begin your procedures.”