The Lipstick Laws (2 page)

"I went to the wrong room." His words are like melted chocolate. His smile is to die for. His model face tops off his perfectly tall, lean, tanned body ... like frosting on a delectable cupcake. He is
purr-r-r-r-r-fect!

"Let me guess. Matthew Brentwood?"

Surprised by the nasty tone of Mr. Gladiator Man's voice, he mutters, "Yeah."

"You're late!" Mr. Stuart snaps.

"Sorry. I'm new here." Matthew's sparkling green eyes become tense with worry.

"Well, take a seat already! What do you think, Brentwood, you're on stage or something? This isn't the drama club!"

Matthew hurries to the first seat he finds. His delicious hot-guy aroma overwhelms my nostrils as he speeds past me. I can't help but look back at him. He looks like an Abercrombie model. Sure, after walking into the flames of wrath in homeroom 119, he looks a little like he's just choked on a corkscrew. Nevertheless, he is BEEEE-YOOOOU-TI-FUL!

Mr. Stuart continues taking attendance. However, in my mind, his booming voice slowly drones and morphs into a symphony of sappy love songs. The next ten minutes fly by with thoughts of Matthew grabbing me in a passionate embrace of lust. By the time the bell rings for first period, I've planned steamy make-out sessions, the spring formal, a wedding, children, and the rest of my natural life with Mr. Hottie-Body Brentwood.

Then, reality strikes. I have gym class first period, and I'd rather drill a screw through my big toe.

In my opinion, the person who created the torture device called gym class should be clobbered with an enormous frozen cucumber. Not to mention, the person who decided it would be a great idea to schedule me in first period gym every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday also deserves a heavy-handed whacking with the same frozen cucumber.

To avoid the risk of anyone spotting my Kleenex cleavage, I change in the private bathroom next to the main locker area. I truly can't trust any activity that requires me to change out of my normal attire during the school day ... which boils down to gym class, drama class, and talent shows—all equally shameful in my book.

I sulk into the gymnasium to join the rest of the girls waiting for our gym teacher to make her entrance. Immediately, I spot Britney Taylor instructing five girls on how she lost six and a half pounds on a sugar-free Popsicle diet over the summer.

"It's all about willpower. Some of us just have more than others," she says proudly, holding her chin high. Shallow words continue to dance from her mouth with the superiority that only Britney Taylor exudes. "Remember, a growling stomach is just a round of applause for a job well done."

Hanging on her every word, the girls nod devoutly in agreement. They stare at her like the adoring fans they are. This is nothing new. Everyone treats Britney like she's a princess.

"Great," I mutter under my breath. She's the last person I want to see in my gym class. How can a girl feel confident in gym clothes next to her? Especially when she's wearing those mega short shorts that only an ultra-scandalous pop star would wear while lounging on a tour bus.

Positioning myself on the outskirts of the group of girls, I try to look busy. I dawdle with the seams in my shorts, tie and retie my shoes, look for split ends, and inspect my nail beds ... all to obscure the fact that I have no one to socialize with.

"Good morning," Ms. Hoopensteiner finally greets us, cradling a basketball. I've never been so relieved to see a gym teacher in my life.

"For those of you who haven't had me before, my name is Ms. Hoopensteiner. But you can call me Ms. Hoops," she says, sounding as if she's sucked in at least a dozen helium balloons for breakfast. "If you can't already tell by my freakishly tall stature"—she snorts, amused by her own joke—"you might be able to gather from my last name that I like to play basketball."

I have doubts that she's tall enough to put a letter in a mailbox, let alone a big orange ball in a ten-foot-high hoop. Despite being tiny, her athletic abilities are impressive.

"In fact," she continues, "I love all balls."

"No way. All futch gym teachers are lezzies," Britney says under her breath, flipping her long blond hair as an exclamation point.

Ms. Hoops ignores the remark, puts the ball down, and clears her throat. "All balls meaning basketballs, soccerballs, footballs, lacrosse balls, tennis balls, bowling balls—heck, even snowballs! In fact, a snowball fight is a great activity to strengthen your hammies, quads, glutes, triceps, and biceps," she says, pointing out the muscles on her pint-size frame.

"Now, girls, time for your gym partners."

Groans flood the gymnasium. She's the only gym teacher in the school who doesn't let students pick their own partner. This worked out to my advantage last year, when I was paired with Haley. I hope my good fortune continues this year.

The squatty teacher begins calling off names. I pray that I don't get paired with Britney or any of her idolizing worshipers. I don't think I can handle the pressure of comparing myself to their perfectness. Unfortunately, I jinx myself.

"April Bowers and Britney Taylor, please pair up and stand with the rest of the line."

Darn it! Haley would die if she knew this was happening to me right now. She hates Britney.

I make my way over to the blond goddess as she whispers "Who?" to a pretty brunette.

"Hi, I'm April," I say politely.

"Oh, hi." Her menacing brown eyes shatter the little confidence I have. "Are you new here or something? I've never seen you."

I pause before I answer. Britney and I were in the same math class last year. In fact, I sat a few seats behind her. Is she so self-absorbed, she's never noticed me? Or worse, am I so uninteresting that I've never been noticed? Feeling like a complete loser already, I can't bring myself to remind her of this.

"Yeah, I'm new."

She stares me up and down appraisingly.

"Welcome to the Roc," she says.
The Roc
is a term that some people living around Rochester, New York, use to make it sound cooler than it really is.

"Thanks," I say, shocked that she's being so welcoming.

Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows furrow in superficial judgment. She nods hastily in acknowledgment and then sneers at Ms. Hoopensteiner's back, blurting, "It's total bunk that we don't get to pick our own partner."

What an endearing comment. Immediately, my self-consciousness skyrockets. I have a sneaking suspicion that Britney has this effect on everyone. She flips her bouncy, long blond locks, just barely smacking me in the face, and turns to join the line of pairs. I follow her scent of expensive shampoo to the wall. I can't help but wonder if the rumor about her having a birthmark in the shape of a Playboy Bunny is true.

After a horrendous fitness test during which I realize that I have the upper-body strength of a soggy green bean, Ms. Hoops releases us to get changed. Being Britney's gym partner means that I'm assigned a gym locker next to hers. The horrifying notion of having to change around her nearly gives me a heart attack. I try to think of every possible way not to change my shirt in front of her. Someone with her kind of body won't be able to sympathize with the torment that's led me to a tissue addiction. Awkwardness creeps up my spine. I can tell she's curious to see if I have any cellulite, ugly moles, or unshaven hair underneath my clothes that she can gossip about later.

"That's a really cute skirt," she says with surprise that I should probably be offended by.

Brilliant! I think this is my chance.

"Thanks. Check out the designs on the back pockets." I'm a genius. I swiftly turn my butt around to face her while simultaneously changing my shirt. Diversion—it works every time.

"Super cute," she says, not even catching on.

I smile at her compliment, hoping she's being sincere. Fashion praise from Britney Taylor is like a Grammy to a new vocal artist.

"Crap," she gripes, fumbling through her makeup bag. "My lip gloss must've fallen out in my cousin's car."

I dig around in my book bag and pull out my new lip gloss. "I have an extra one. You can have it."

"Oh my God, you're such a lifesaver. Are you sure?" Britney asks, smearing it on her full lips.

"Oh, yeah. No problem. I have a ton of 'em."

"Thank you
so
much. I owe you one." She pauses in thought briefly. "Actually, when's your lunch period?"

I can tell my face is getting red. Red and hot. Why is she making me so nervous? Why is she asking when my lunch period is? When
is
my lunch period? Eighth? No! Second? No! December?—grrrrr—
Get it together, April.
My mind has gone blank.
Think!

I take a deep breath and choke out, "Fifth period."

"Mine too." Britney smiles. "Why don't you sit with me and my friends at lunch today? We can fill you in on all the hot gossip, newbie."

I can't believe my ears. She just invited me to sit at her table? Is she serious? Maybe being Britney's gym partner isn't so bad. After all, she's the conductor on the fast-track train to popularity.
Act cool, April
...
Don't let her know you're excited.

"Definitely! Ah ... I mean, yeah ... sure. Really?" Okay, so I blow the cool bit.

"Sure. My family's full of philanthropicalists, and you look like a decent charity. Kisses..." She blows me a kiss and walks out of the locker room with the strut of an actress on the red carpet ... leaving me utterly confused.

Philanthropicalists? I think she meant
philanthropists.
Whatever she meant, it doesn't matter at this point. What matters is that she called me a charity case, and that's just sad. All of a sudden, I find myself in a dilemma. I don't really want to sit with someone who's comparing me to the Salvation Army. But on the other hand, she's my gym partner, and I have to see her three times a week. If I don't sit with her she may be insulted, and getting on Britney Taylor's bad side is something I just can't risk.

The next few periods go by quickly, and I begin to panic during the last fifteen minutes of fourth-period math. What have I gotten myself into? What am I going to talk about? What if I trip walking up to their table? What if someone recognizes me from last year and blows my "newbie" cover? Yeah, right, who am I kidding? The only people that know me are my brother and Jeffrey Higgins, who both have lunch sixth period, King Stalker McGerk of Loserhood, who eats lunch in the library ... and Haley, who's all the way in Kansas. I think my cover is safe.

Before I know it, the bell rings and I'm among teenage royalty in the cafeteria. It's amazing how many worshipers Britney has. She can hardly get a word in edgewise between all the flirting from vying guys.

"Jeez, Brit, they're like crazed paparazzi without the cameras," Erin, Britney's sidekick and chauffeur, says, laughing enviously.

"What do you expect? Some of them haven't seen me all summer. It'll settle down in ten minutes," Britney insists with a heavy sigh, pretending to be burdened by her good looks and popularity.

I quietly take in the circus scene surrounding the table of girls, hoping I won't have to explain how I got here. I'm clearly out of place, and feel judging eyes critiquing me from every angle. I feel like a used Honda in a Mercedes lot.

"This is Aubrey, guys. She's new."

"April. My name's April," I correct her shyly.

"Whatever." She shrugs her shoulders carelessly. "April, this is Erin, Jessica, and Brianna."

The girls stare at me coldly, seemingly unconvinced of my worthiness to sit with them. I bounce timid glances off each of them like a Ping-Pong ball.

"Hi," I say nervously. "It's nice to meet you guys."

"I know," Brianna snaps, primping her shiny auburn hair. She narrows her honey brown eyes, looking utterly annoyed by my presence.

"How did you two meet?" Erin whispers to Britney with a perplexed expression.

Britney rolls her eyes.

"In gym class. Mr. Futch paired us." She holds up the lip gloss I gave her. "April saved my lips from dehydration."

The girls glance from me to Britney to the lip gloss, still skeptical of my worthiness. I can't help but bite my lip with angst.

"Anyway." Jessica, the petite raven-haired girl sitting on Britney's left, changes the subject. "Isn't Kyle Smith looking delicious this year?"

"Yeah, but who's the girl with him?" Brianna says disparagingly.

Brit's attention immediately pans to Kyle and his new love interest. Judging from her sour expression, it pains her to see anyone else getting male attention—especially from a senior football jock.

"Ewwwwww," they exclaim in unison. "Hilary the hooker!"

"Which reminds me." Britney grins deviously. "Let's play Rank-a-Skank."

The girls clap; their eyes grow wide with excitement. I smile politely and place my hands in my lap, suddenly not knowing what to do with them.

Britney takes the lead. "How 'bout Bridget Michaels?" She points to an average-looking girl eating a pickle. "Definitely a four!"

Erin's hazy blue eyes twinkle as she nods. "Oozing with skank."

"No way. She's a five," Brianna says. "Look how she's handling that pickle!"

Everyone laughs ... including me, even though I feel for poor, unknowing Bridget, who's just trying to enjoy her pickle in peace. Not to mention, I don't really know what I'm laughing at. Then, to my dismay, they turn to me.

"What do you think?"

Could this be more awkward? I have no clue what they're talking about, and they're asking my opinion. I'm terrified that my nerves are going to propel me to yell out something bizarre like "llama" or "gnocchi." Thankfully, my tongue lassos any looming nerd-words down as I sit motionless with a dumb deer-in-headlights kind of look.

"Well?" they say impatiently.

"Ummm," I pause to think. When in doubt, agree with the queen. "I agree with Britney. Definitely a four."

Brianna raises a dissatisfied eyebrow. "Do you even know what you're rating, April? You seem totally clueless."

My face steams up like a teakettle. I can feel sweat droplets forming in my forehead pores. She called my bluff.