I am such a girl
.
Now that I’ve broken the gift-giving seal,
it can’t be stopped
.
T
he next thing I know
,
I’m pulled into a makeup boutique and
Clair
and a makeup artist
attack my
face
w
ith sharp tweezers and pointy lip pencils and
other
scary instruments
.
I squeeze my hands around the seat of my chair until my knuckles are white and pray they won’t poke
an eye out
.
Gray owes me, big time.
I relent and for the next hour, I get my first makeover
.
My mom tried to do this with me dozens of times
,
but gave
up, resigned to the
fact she had a mutant daughter that wasn’t into makeup and clothes shopping
. Instead
she settled on splurging with my little sister
,
who happily made up for
both
of us.
When they finish, they rotate my chair around until I’m facing a large mirror
.
I blink back at my reflection
.
My skin is all one
even tone and it
actually
shimmers
.
My cheekbones look higher and have defined angles
.
My eyes look twice as big, my lashes twice as long
and thick
.
I reach my hand up and brush my fingertip against my long lashes as if they aren’t mine
.
I don’t look like Dylan right now
.
I
look like a Christie or a Connie
.
Maybe a Candy.
Clair
claps her hands like this moment has made her entire year worthwhile
.
Then
she
glances at my hair.
“When’s the last time you got a haircut?”
she asks
.
I pick up a chunk of my hair and remember
my sister trimmed it before I left for
Europe
, because she claimed it looked like a rat’s nest
.
“Maybe a
year ago,” I say.
Both of the women wince
and
I know what stop is next on the agenda
.
What begins as a cut ends up being
four
inches hacked off with all these choppy layers around my face that the hairdresser promise
s
will “frame” my bone structure, whatever that means
.
She
insists my dark hair washes out my complexion, so she
dye
s
it a caramel
brown
and adds blond highlights
.
She
pulls on
my hair
for twenty minutes and tells me she’s ironing it which scares me and I wonder why it isn’t melting
.
I stare at myself in the mirror
.
My
face
is
painted
with color
, I’m wearing a yellow sundress and now I have blond
highlights
to match it
.
My hair’s
brushed smooth
and straight
.
No
frizzies
.
No snarls
.
“I look like—”
“A woman,”
Clair
says. “I can’t wait to see what Gray thinks.”
“He won’t recognize me,” I say
.
I
don’t even recognize myself. E
ven though I appreciate all
Clair
’s done, it’s a little scary
.
As if
I just transformed
.
GRAY
I see my parents at the game
,
but no Dylan
.
Maybe
she
and my mom didn’t hit it
off
.
I’m a little surprised
, b
ut
it might be
for
the best
.
My mom gets attached too easily and Dylan’s too temporary
.
After the game my parents walk down to the field to meet some of
my teammates,
and I stop to sign
autographs
for a pack of kids swarming
around the dugout
.
I head back to the field where a bunch of the players and family members
are
congregating
.
A few reporters are taking interviews
.
Coach Clark comes over to shake hands with my parents
.
He and my dad start discussing
the game
and my mom
grabs my arm
.
“Gray, aren’t you even going to acknowledge Dylan?” she asks.
“What?” I ask
.
I look around for Dylan’s jean jacket or her messy hair pulled back in a ponytail
.
Then, someone
standing right next to me
lightly hits me on the side of the head
.
I stare at this
tall, gorgeous
woman
and finally
recognize her
.
But it isn’t Dylan
.
It’s like her supermodel twin sister
.
I do remember seeing her now, in the stands during the game
, b
ut I figured she was somebody’s girlfriend
.
Turns out, she’s my girlfriend
.
“Holy
shit
,” I yell
.
My dad and Coach Clark both stop talking and regard me carefully
.
Then, they regard Dylan
.
A few other people turn to stare
.
I notice Travis gawking at her, clearly as surprised as
I am.
“Gray, watch you
r
mouth,” my mom scolds me.
I just stare at her
.
My Dylan
.
She’s wearing a…and her hair’s even…what
the
?
“What happened to you?” I ask.
Dylan frowns
.
It’s the most gorgeous frown I’ve ever seen in my life
.
She looks down at the ground, through eye lashes I never knew were so long
.
“I know,” she says and blushes
,
and I’m amazed she’s the only girl who gets embarrassed when she looks
beautiful
.
“It’s lame.”
“I gave Dylan a makeover,” my mom says with a proud grin.
I don’t believe it
.
“Did you have to drug her first?”
“I was kidnapped and forced
to spend a day on Planet G
irl
,
”
Dylan says
.
She wraps her arms around her chest like she’s trying to cover herself up
.
My mom squeezes her
shoulders
.
“Doesn’t she look beautiful?”
Dylan shakes her head
.
She meets my eyes and hers are magnified and sexy and it ties my stomach in a knot
.
“They curled my eye lashes with this scary torturing
d
evice
—”
“We got lunch afterwards,” my mom interrupts.
“They spent forty-five minutes ladling my hair—”
“Layering Dylan, it’s called layering,” my mom says
.
I grin and I can’t take my eyes off of her
.
I do the only thing I can, the only response that feels natural, even with my parents and Coach Clark and half my teammates standing right there
.
H
ow often does your wildest fantasy come true?
“Amazing,” I say and
lean in and
kiss Dylan full on the lips
.
GRAY
She’s
changing too fast a
nd it’s starting to worry me
.
She’s always been a prism to me
.
She’s meant to break light apart so you can see
all the colors it’s c
omposed of
.
Now she’s starting to cloud up
.
Blur
.