Bulletproof Mascara: A Novel (4 page)

Ellen’s side was almost unbearably tidy. Everything was placed with extreme precision, and Nikki could tell that she had even dusted. There was a picture of a cheerfully smiling man of about Ellen’s age beside her roommate’s bed. Nikki wondered
if he was Ellen’s husband and what he thought about his wife’s new job.

Nikki flopped full length onto the bed. The constant working out was OK. The weird subjects were fine—except for target shooting, and what was Cocktails class anyway? And even having to play catch-up on all the classes she’d missed and the resulting lack of sleep were all right, but she was surrounded by fifteen women, all of whom were smarter, prettier, and more confident than she was. Or at least that’s what it seemed like. As usual, Nikki felt like the odd girl out, a circumstance that made her all the more grateful for Ellen and Jenny’s friendship.

She kicked off her shoes, hearing them smack against the wall and rebound to the floor. Slowly, she tried to peel off her socks by pinching at them with her toes. After a moment of futile effort, she flung a hand down and shoved off one sock, then she used the toes of her naked foot to peel the sock off the other. Ellen came in, humming.

“Shower’s all yours,” she said, pulling on sweats.

“Yeah,” Nikki said, not moving.

“I’m going to head down. Sarah said she’d let me look at her notes on hot-wiring.”

“Cool,” said Nikki.

“So you’ll be down in a bit, right?” Ellen asked, hovering, but trying not to.

“Yeah,” said Nikki, smiling at her. “As soon as I work up the energy to sit up.”

“OK,” said Ellen, laughing. “See you down there.”

The door closed behind Ellen, and after a moment Nikki rolled herself off the bed and stumbled into the shower. As the water poured over her, she leaned against the wall and considered
whether or not she was crazy. It wasn’t too late; she could still become a teacher, get a job at Starbucks, go back to school, go be a fill-in-the-blank.

She’d been waiting to be a fill-in-the-blank for four years. After college she had wandered from one stupid job to another. She kept waiting to discover what she wanted to be when she grew up. Only she was twenty-five now, which was supposed to be grown-up. She was supposed to know something, be something, have something by now. But she didn’t. She sighed and wrapped a towel around herself as she stepped out of the shower. Carrie Mae. It might be crazy, but at least it was something.

Borrowing Ellen’s brush, she bullied her hair into a ponytail and went downstairs determined to hold Jenny to her promise of shooting practice. She wasn’t going to screw up her opportunity in Carrie Mae through lack of effort.

Downstairs, in the common room, most of the girls were on the couches chatting. The cook opened the sliding window between the kitchen and the dining area and began to place dishes on the counter.

“Anytime,” the cook yelled, and the girls went to stand in line.

“So, after dinner,” said Nikki, pulling Jenny into line ahead of her, “we’ll go over to the armory and check out guns and go down to the range?”

“Sure,” agreed Jenny easily.

“I really do appreciate your helping me,” Nikki said earnestly.

“Well, you can’t shoot for shit, and I like shooting shit, so it works out well,” Jenny said cheerfully.

“I never shot a gun before I came here,” said Nikki. Jenny stared. Her pale blue eyes were the perfect complement to her French-braided strawberry blond hair.

“I’d never shot a gun before my fortieth birthday,” Ellen said, lining up behind Nikki. Nikki smiled at her gratefully. “And I was pretty bad my first time. You can improve; you just need to get your muscles in shape, and practice.”

Nikki had witnessed Ellen’s improvement firsthand, at shooting practice earlier in the week. Most of the stalls at the gun range had high counters for resting equipment, but the last two stalls were empty except for a mound of dirt. Over one of these mounds, Ellen had aimed a very long rifle at some distant wavering balloons tethered in the far field. She had seemed oblivious to the wind, the popping of the smaller firearms, and the hot glare of the sunshine. She simply lay on the ground looking through the scope, her gray hair fluttering in the wind. Then the rifle gave a small hiccup, and out in the field the balloon burst silently. Connie had proudly announced that Ellen was an Olympic-qualifying shooter and that they could all learn from her, and Nikki had noticed that despite Ellen’s soft appearance, her forearms carried muscles like steel cords. When it came to shooting, she had obviously taken her own advice on training.

“Yeah, you need a lot of practice,” said Jenny, but instead of finishing her commentary on Nikki’s shooting skills, she groaned as the cook scooped a heaping spoonful of broccoli onto her plate. “Why do they give us broccoli? I hate broccoli.”

“It’s good for you,” answered Ellen.

“I’ll take it,” said Nikki. “I like broccoli.” That earned another stare of disbelief from Jenny, who willingly scooped the offending broccoli onto Nikki’s plate. Dina walked by and jogged Jenny’s elbow, scattering broccoli onto the floor.

“Well, I guess you want your pee to smell,” Dina said, staring at Nikki’s heaping pile of broccoli and snickering. Nikki stared back at her, and then at her broccoli, puzzled by the comment.

“I think you’re thinking of asparagus,” said Nikki at last. Dina shut her mouth with a click like a mousetrap slamming shut and stalked away without another word.

“You know,” Jenny said, picking up the broccoli and shooting it into the wastebin, “you’d think she could at least get her insults right. I’m starting to think that girl is a few bricks shy of a load.”

“I wish we could get rid of her somehow,” Ellen agreed. “I can’t think why Mrs. Boyer picked her to be team leader.”

“I think they just draw the names out of a hat,” Jenny said, heading for a table.

As if on cue, Mrs. Boyer bustled into the room. “Lanier!” she barked, scanning the room.

“What’d you do?” Jenny joked; at least, Nikki thought it was a joke. Hesitantly, she waved her hand and caught Mrs. Boyer’s attention.

“You have a visitor up at the main house,” Mrs. Boyer said, and left before Nikki could ask anything further.

“That’s exciting,” said Ellen. “Who’s visiting you?”

“I don’t know,” Nikki said, shaking her head. “I don’t know anyone around here. Save my plate for me?” Jenny nodded, and Nikki hurried to the exit.

The main house was set on a gently sloping hill. From the front, the main level was even with the ground, but from the rear, as the hill dropped in elevation, it exposed the second level of the house. The path from the dorms took the most direct route and passed quite close to the house, under the windows in the rear, through the rock garden, and to the side door. The setting sun illuminated the paved trail like a ribbon on the green grass. Nikki stretched her stride to cover the ground quickly, intent on reaching her destination.

As she passed under the windows at the rear of the house, she
heard the sound of voices. One of the voices was Mrs. Merrivel’s. Without thinking, Nikki slowed her steps, trying to catch the words.

Another voice said, “It’s a disaster! I do not approve of this course. Mrs. Boyer doesn’t, either.” The other speaker was Connie Hinton.

“I appreciate your feelings,” Mrs. Merrivel said. “What do you think?”

“What do I think?” a new voice spoke, sounding bored. “I think they’re sloppy, unimaginative, and totally useless.” Nikki noticed that the speaker bit down hard on her consonants, giving her voice a sharp, clipped quality. Sort of East Coast, but no Boston drawl. Maybe New York.

“I
told
you,” said Connie. “This is not what Carrie Mae does. We’re not about strike teams and SWAT action.” There was the edge of a whine in Connie’s voice, and for the first time Nikki wondered if Mrs. Boyer’s anger at the trainees during war games was more about the war games than about them.

“The world changes, Connie, and Carrie Mae needs to change with it.” The voice was Mrs. Merrivel’s again. “That’s why headquarters sent me out here. They wanted a fresh eye to make sure that West Coast Carrie Mae was evolving into the twenty-first century. I want to maintain Carrie Mae’s core values, but let’s face it, the need for our ladies to deal with these kinds of emergencies is crucial. And, as the military and other agencies field rapid-response teams, we have to be able to deal with, understand, and respond to these kinds of tactics.”

Mrs. Merrivel managed to blend just the right amount of soothing and command into her voice. Once again, Nikki was impressed by her ability to manage people.

“I know, but—” Connie began.

“But they suck,” the third voice interjected. “They should have
gone around to the south, ambushed the other team, and then worried about the objective. Instead, most of the teams wandered around like they were lost the whole afternoon until one team finally tripped over the objective and everyone else just gave up.”

“That’s interesting, Valerie,” Mrs. Merrivel said, and Nikki couldn’t tell whether or not she was being sarcastic. “And I agree—the results have not been what we hoped for, but that is exactly why I asked you up here.”

“I could have told you on the phone that they sucked,” said the Valerie voice.

“Yes, but then you couldn’t have shared your insights with the girls.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no, no,” Valerie said. “I’m not giving a SWAT team pep talk to your baby spies. I am not instructor material. Not here, not now, not ever.”

Non hic, non nunc.
Nikki’s mind gratuitously translated Valerie’s words into Latin, and she quickly blocked a memory of her disastrous visit to Canada that threatened to spring up.

“But Val,” said Mrs. Merrivel sweetly. “It’s just a two-day seminar. You’ll get to judge, and we’ll even let you give out grades.”

“I’d get to grade them?” Valerie sounded tempted.

The grading system, as far as Nikki could tell, was totally arbitrary, but everyone said it counted toward the final grade and a trainee’s job placement.

“Absolutely,” Mrs. Merrivel said.

“Just one day, one class?”

“Two days, a seminar and a practical,” said Connie.

“OK,” Valerie said after a long moment of consideration. “I’ll do it as long as I get to flunk people.”

“I don’t know,” Connie protested, but Mrs. Merrivel overrode her objection.

“Very well, but just the class. You can’t flunk them from the program.”

“Fine, whatever,” Val agreed.

Nikki frowned. She wasn’t sure this Val person sounded like someone she wanted grading her. There was a knock on the office door and the low murmur of voices.

“Excuse us a minute, won’t you, Val,” Connie said. Nikki heard the clack of shoes and the office door close. She frowned again, pondering everything she’d just heard. A puff of cigarette smoke drifted past her face.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to eavesdrop?” said a smooth voice.

Nikki looked up to find a woman sitting on the edge of the window frame. She was dangling one leg outside the window. Her boots were black and shiny with a pointy toe, of the variety Nikki’s mother referred to as “Hey, sailor” boots. Nikki’s gaze followed the boot up the leg covered in black slacks, to a trim torso in a white shirt, and then farther up to a head of sleek black hair and brown eyes under perfectly arched brows. It was difficult to tell how old she was—late thirties to mid-forties was Nikki’s best guess.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was . . .” Nikki coughed.

“Yes?” said the older woman, clearly amused.

“I was information gathering.”

“Oh, really? Gather anything interesting?”

“Yes, I learned that my team leader sucks and we should have done it my way.”

“Get a new team leader,” Valerie said with a laugh.

“Can’t. They’re chosen every couple of weeks, and the time isn’t up yet.”

“Well, it looks like you can kiss your SWAT grade goodbye
then, doesn’t it?” Val said, taking another drag of her cigarette.

Nikki frowned. She didn’t like her choices. “There has to be another way,” she said.

“There is,” Val assured her, and Nikki wrinkled her nose trying to see what Valerie saw. “Don’t strain your brain, kid. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I guess if I could get Dina to resign,” said Nikki tentatively.

“Now you’re thinking, but better yet, why don’t you just trip her on the obstacle course and ‘accidentally’ bust her ankle?”

“I couldn’t do that!” Nikki exclaimed, shocked.

“I’m just teasing! Relax. Jeez,” said Valerie, exhaling another puff of smoke.

She hadn’t sounded like she’d been teasing, but Nikki decided not to argue.

“There really isn’t a way to get rid of her,” said Nikki dejectedly.

“Sure, there is. Slip her a mickey. Just give her a little something to send her to the infirmary for the day, and you’ll be golden.”

“Well, as tempting as the idea of making Dina puke her guts out is, I’m pretty sure it’s against the rules,” said Nikki, trying to repress a smile.

“I don’t think it’s specified,” disagreed Valerie.

“Because they didn’t think anyone would do it,” Nikki answered tartly.

“Well, you can just wait for me to flunk you if you want.” The woman shrugged and tossed her cigarette butt into the flowerbed. “Up to you.” She smirked and pulled the window closed. Walking slowly, Nikki entered the house. She was about to approach the receptionist when she saw Mr. M waving at her from the front hall.

“Mr. M!” Nikki exclaimed, hugging him. “I’m so glad to see you! How are you? Did you manage to get par on that hole?”

“Below par!” he said happily, and Nikki grinned, throwing up her hands triumphantly. “I know!” he said, agreeing with her unspoken congratulations.

“Not that I’m not happy to see you, but what are you doing here?” she asked. “Aside from bringing me the victorious news, of course.”

“Ah,” he said, and reached into a paper grocery bag he was carrying. He pulled out her hairbrush. “And it looks like I didn’t get here a moment too soon,” he said, tugging at her messy ponytail.

She laughed. “I knew I lost it somewhere,” she said, batting his hand away and taking the brush.