Truth or Dare (3 page)

     “That’s why you need some streaks.”  Pamela rummaged through the drawers of her dressing table.  “I bought one of those highlighting kits once but never used it.  My mother freaked and insisted on taking me to Radu at Salon de Beauté to get them done properly.”  She threw up her hands.  “It must be in the bathroom.  I can’t find it in here.  Come on.”

     They followed her into the bathroom.  Jars and bottles, most minus their tops, crowded the countertop.  A thin haze of powder dusted everything from the inside of the Jacuzzi tub to the top of the toilet.

     Rivka felt a moment of panic as they sat her in front of the mirror.  “My mother might not…"

     “Your mother?  Honestly, Becky, it’s none of her business.”  Pamela opened a drawer in the vanity and pulled out a Mason Pearson brush. 

     “It’s just that she’s sort of old-fashioned.”  Rivka winced as Pamela ran the brush through her hair, and it caught on her tangled curls. 

     “You have to be firm with your parents, or they’ll try to run your life.”

     “That’s right.”  Deirdre nodded.  “Of course mine don’t pay much attention to anything I do anyway.”  She pulled a pair of tweezers from the open drawer. “I’m going to tweeze your eyebrows for you.”  She leaned over Rivka.  Her dark bangs flopped forward and tangled with her eyelashes, and she brushed them to the side.  “I’m going to take off a little bit here,” she tapped a finger against the sides of Rivka’s eyebrows, “and clean up the space in between.”

     Rivka felt Pamela running her fingers through her hair.     She took another gulp of her drink, and the vodka made her feel braver. 

     Mary wrestled open the highlighting kit and lined the contents up on the counter within Pamela’s reach.

     Something knocked against the wall on the other side of the bathroom hard enough to send one of the paintings bouncing out of alignment.  Rivka jumped.   “What’s that?”

     “It’s my brother, Lance.  He’s home from college for the summer. His bathroom backs up to mine.  He's such a klutz sometimes.”  Pamela opened one of the bottles from the highlighting kit, held her finger over the open top and shook it. 

     A strong smell filtered out, and Rivka wrinkled her nose and blinked. 

     “Let’s get started, okay?”  

     Rivka shut her eyes and crossed her fingers.

“Amazing.”  Pamela stood back and admired her handiwork.

“You look incredible.”  Deirdre circled around Rivka.  “Pamela, you did a great job with her hair.”

Slowly Rivka opened her eyes and looked in the mirror.  Deirdre was right—Pamela had done a great job.  Her hair lay soft and sleek with light blond streaks framing her face.  Her eyebrows were thinner and neater, and her make-up made the best of her blue eyes and pale skin.

“You need something to wear.  Come on.”  Pamela grabbed her arm and pulled her back into the bedroom.

“
What’s wrong with
—
“

“Don’t ask.  Where did you get those jeans—the discount store?”

Pamela’s closet was almost the size of Rivka's bedroom.  Clothes lined all four walls and were heaped in tangled piles on the floor.  Pamela went to the far right side and began sorting through a rack of jeans.

She grabbed a pair and pulled them out.  “These!” she waved them at Rivka   “Now you need some sort of top...”  She opened one of the drawers in the built-in dresser revealing a stack of sweaters in a rainbow of colors.  She yanked one out by the sleeve.  “This one, I think.  The color should be perfect on you.”

She handed Rivka a pale green cashmere v-neck.  “Try them on.”

“Here?”  Rivka hesitated. 

“Yes.”  Pamela stamped her foot.  “Come on, we want to see how you look.”

Rivka slowly slid her jeans over her thighs and down her legs.  The pants had seemed fine in the store when Bubbeh had taken her shopping, but now she realized they were all wrong.  She threw them to one side where they landed in a heap.

“We’ve got to get you some thongs,” Pamela declared staring at Rivka’s cotton Hanes.  “You can’t go around wearing those things with low cut jeans.”

Rivka wriggled into the jeans Pamela had given her and pulled the sweater over her head.  The cashmere felt softer than anything she had ever worn.  She rubbed her chin against the fuzzy wool.

Pamela reached over and tousled Rivka’s hair slightly.  “Perfect.  Absolutely perfect.  Come and see.”

She led Rivka to a full-length, antique mirror and pointed at the glass.  “What do you think?”

Rivka could barely breathe.  She looked...pretty.  She actually did.  She stared at her reflection in disbelief.  She looked as pretty as Mary or Deirdre and almost as pretty as Pamela. 

“Thank you.”  She turned around to face them.  “Thank you so much...”

Pamela waved a hand.  “It was fun.”

Deirdre looked at Rivka from under her dark bangs.  "She looks like you, Pamela."

Pamela laughed.

Mary studied Rivka, her head cocked to one side.   "Kind of," she admitted.  She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to leave for work.  I’m afraid the old geezer will fire me if I’m late, and I can’t afford to lose this job.”

“I’m going, too.”  Deirdre picked up her purse.

Pamela grabbed the bottle of vodka off her dressing table and stashed it back in the drawer behind some school notebooks.

Rivka drifted out of the room on a cloud.  She kept seeing her reflection in the mirror.  She still couldn’t believe what Pamela had done. 

They walked into the hallway and were standing on the landing when one of the other doors opened.

A tall, blond guy came out of one of the rooms.  “Hey Mary, hey Deirdre, hey...” he stopped and stared at Rivka.

She stared back.  He was at least six feet tall, with vivid blue eyes.  And gorgeous.

“Come on, Becky.”  Pamela took Rivka by the arm.

“Hey, hang on a sec,” he said.  “It doesn’t look like my sister’s going to introduce us. I’m Lance.”  He held out a hand.

   Rivka took it.  His hand was warm and smooth and that surprised her. Her heart sped up, and her mouth went as dry as cotton candy.  She knew she was staring, but she couldn’t help it.  She desperately wanted to say something sophisticated and witty, but even with the vodka churning in her stomach, she knew better than to try.

“Becky is leaving.”  Pamela put a hand under Rivka’s elbow and pulled her toward the stairs.  Rivka stumbled slightly and turned to look over her shoulder.  Lance was still staring at her.

“What’s the matter?”  Rivka tried to free her arm from Pamela’s grasp. She felt like she had suddenly fallen down Alice in Wonderland’s rabbit hole.  Pamela’s eyes were dark and mean and were narrowed at her.  Rivka didn't know what she'd done wrong.

“Lance is my brother,” Pamela hissed in Rivka’s ear.  “He’s a Miller.  You’re not in his league.  You’re not even close.  Even if we have tarted you all up, you’re still a nothing, do you understand?”

Rivka nodded.  Pamela’s fingers were digging into her arm, and it hurt.

“Don’t even think about going after him.  Don't even think about it.”

“I...I...wouldn’t.  I won’t.”  Rivka felt tears pressing against her lids.  She felt ashamed, standing there in Pamela’s borrowed clothes.  A sudden, hot rush of anger made her stomach burn.  Who did Pamela think she was?

“Just so we understand each other.”  Pamela held the front door open.

Rivka scurried down the steps.  She wanted to be home.  Her stomach felt weird—as if she were going to be sick, and her head hurt.  She heard Mary and Deirdre following behind her, and they all jumped as Pamela slammed the door shut in back of them.

Pamela opened the refrigerator door and stared inside.  She needed something to eat.  Now.  Something smooth and creamy. She could still see the way Rivka had smiled at Lance, and how he'd smiled back.  Then she thought of that letter in her father's wastebasket, and a feeling of dread, like hot liquid, ran through her veins.

She pushed things aside on the shelves until she found the container of whipped cream.  She yanked off the top, aimed the nozzle and sprayed gobs of cool creaminess into her mouth.

“Can I help you, miss?”  Luis, the butler, stood behind her with his head tilted slightly to one side.  It was bald and egg-shaped and always made Pamela think of Humpty Dumpty.

She shoved the whipped cream container on a shelf and slammed the refrigerator door shut.

He was laughing at her—she knew it. How much harder he would laugh if he ever found out—

The whipped cream in Pamela's stomach turned sour and she gagged.

"Are you okay, Miss?" 

"Yes, I'm fine.  Now please stop bothering me."  Pamela stared at him fiercely.

Luis returned her stare for a brief moment then lowered his gaze.  "Certainly, miss."    

“What’s up?”  Lance wandered into the kitchen, opened the freezer and got out a carton of ice cream.  He grabbed a spoon from the drawer and began to eat right out of the container.

"That's disgusting."  Pamela yanked open a cupboard and handed him a bowl.

Lance shrugged.  “Who’s that girl who was here—the one with Deirdre and Mary?  I don't think I've ever seen her before.”
     “No one,” Pamela snapped.  “Not anyone you’d want to know.”

     Lance raised an eyebrow.  “Why not?  I thought she was hot.”

     Pamela sneered.  “She’s some nobody we had a bit of fun making over.  Not someone worthy of a Miller.  I'm not sure I'm ever going to hang out with her again.”

     Lance laughed.  “I don’t want to
marry
her, Pammy, I just wanted her name.”

     “Never mind, then.  Forget about her.”

     He shrugged.  “You know this whole Miller thing is crap.”  He licked ice cream off the end of the spoon.  "I don't know why you keep going on and on about it."

     “No, it’s not.”  Pamela whirled on him.  “Don’t you ever say that again.”

     Lance held up a hand, palm out.  “Okay, okay, don’t get so excited.”

     Pamela stared at his back as he walked out of the room. The terrible thing, the thing that made her feel sick to her stomach, was that deep down, she knew he was right.

                  Chapter 4

     Rivka pushed open the door to her house.  She was still shaking.  Would Pamela ever invite her again?  She hadn't meant to call attention to herself.  It wasn't her fault that Lance had noticed her.  Besides, he was being polite.  Guys like Lance normally didn't notice girls like her.

     Rivka passed the mirror in the foyer and stopped.  The new Rivka looked out at her.  She tilted her chin up slightly.  She really did look great—as good as Mary or Deirdre or even Pamela.  What if Lance really was interested in her? The thought gave her this scary but exciting shivery feeling.

     “Rivka, is that you?  You’re late.  We have only an hour till sundown.”

     Her mother came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a dishtowel.  She had an apron over her dress, and there was the heavy smell of brisket in the air.

     Her mother kissed her on the cheek and gave her a quick hug.  “How is my bubele today.”  She stopped suddenly and stepped backwards.

     “Ach.  What have you done to your hair?  And your face?”  She ran a finger down Rivka’s cheek.

     “It’s just some highlights and a little make-up, Mama.  Nothing to get all worked up about.  Pamela, Mary and Deirdre did it for me.”

     “But you are such a shaineh maidel, such a pretty girl.  You don’t need all those things.  Besides,” she tapped her head, “it’s what’s up here that counts.  You have a good brain, and you get good grades.  With that you can go to college and have a good life.” 

     “I want to live now!  I want to have some fun before I’m too old to care.”

     Rivka’s mother shook her head.  “Fun! What is fun?”  She motioned toward the dining room.  “Quick.  Come help me set the table.  Bubbeh and Zayde Polsky are coming for the Shabbat dinner, and Aunt Ruth too.”

     Rivka rolled her eyes.  She thought of her aunt as crazy Aunt Ruth, and once she’d heard her father refer to her that way, too, when he and her mother had been arguing and thought she couldn’t hear.

     “I want to go to parties and have a boyfriend and...and...be like everyone else.”  Rivka carefully set out the good plates—the ones her mother saved for their weekly Shabbat dinner.  Thinking about a boyfriend made her think of Lance.  What if…but no, someone like Lance, who was a Miller after all, would never be interested in her.

     “But you’re special,” her mother put her hands on either side of Rivka’s face, “you’re not like everyone else.”

     Rivka squirmed free.  “I know.  But I want to be.  I want to fit in like all the other girls.  I want to dress like them, and act like them and talk like them.”

     Her mother shook her head.  “We’re different, bubele.  Accept it.  That’s why Tate and I wanted you to go to the Hebrew school instead, but you insisted. Now, hurry and change.”

     Rivka’s mother was getting the linen challah cover out of the china closet when the phone rang.  “Who could be calling so late?  It’s almost time to light the candles.”  She scurried back to the kitchen.