Shrinking Violet (2 page)

I stretch out on my bed and practice. "Hi, Pamela, you look really nice." "Hi, Pamela, new car?" "Hi, Pamela, new lipstick? I heard red is back." Wait, was it ever gone? I sound so lame. I don't even care about this stupid woman.

"TEHESA!" Mom calls from downstairs.

I pop up from my bed and take a quick peek in the mirror. Ugh, new pimple forming at six o'clock. Great, now I'll have to buy some coverup from Pamela. To her, every imperfection is a chance for a sale. Ka-ching! I can see her square face adding up the math in her head. Zit, ten dollars; thin lips, twelve dollars; small eyes, fifteen dollars; shy--can't help that.

"Did you hear me?" Mom yells again. I slam my door and trudge down the stairs.

Mom sits on the living room couch while Pamela sets up her products on the coffee table. Mom picks up a tube of lipstick and flips it over to the bottom. "Hot Stuff. Perfect for me." She laughs. But she didn't even open it yet.

"Hello, Teresa," Pamela greets me. "I love that color on you."

"Um, thanks." I shove my hands in my pockets. "Your teeth are really white." Did I just say that?

Pamela rubs her hand over her mouth in a fanning motion and 19

smiles. "I'm glad someone noticed. I spent six hundred dollars to get these pearly whites."

I plop down on the suede couch opposite from Mom. It's so stiff that I bounce. When I design my own living room, all the furniture will be comfy.

"I noticed, too." Mom sets down Hot Stuff and picks up Vixen Prowl.

Pamela finishes setting up, then takes a seat in the wicker armchair next to me. She leans over and pulls my face toward her. "What beautiful skin. You should use a medium to light base."

Geez, what do people with really bad skin need? A double coat?

She fishes through her obnoxious pink suitcase and holds up a bottle to my face. "This has avocado in it."

I don't even like to eat the fruit. Why would I want to wear it on my face?

"Teresa's looking for something that will give her some pep," Mom chimes in.
I am?

"Ohh, I'd love to do you up," Pamela squeals. Man, this is a total setup. Ambushed by Mom. I should've seen it coming.

While Pamela rummages through her stuff, I plead with Mom by frantically shaking my head. I don't want to be anybody's little project.

20

Mom's still fiddling with the lipsticks. "It's just what you need, honey."

You don't
need
makeup to be on the radio. I'd much rather have every hair on my head plucked out one at a time with tweezers.

Pamela gathers up an armload of supplies and tells me to sit down in the kitchen. "Are you ready for the new you?"

"Um, no," I manage to say. I follow her to the table but just stand there, eyeing the staircase that leads to my bedroom. My sanctuary.

"Don't worry; I won't bite." Pamela laughs and pushes me down into the chair. Her teeth blind me.

Before I know it, she owns my face. She dabs a Q-tip in some brown gunk and applies it to my skin. "Watch how much I use. You don't want to overdo it."

Trust me, that's not a problem.

Next she moves on to some blush and after that, she uncaps a few sleek-looking pencils.

"Look up so I can apply some under your eyes."

"Maybe a little more." Mom hovers over Pamela.

I feel like one of those pathetic clowns standing outside the flea market on US1 holding a huge sign directing you inside for major discounts.

Pamela rests a hand on my shoulder. "Relax. Trust me. You'll look great."

"Okay." I slouch, hoping to appear relaxed.

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Mom pulls herself away from the freak show to brew a pot of coffee. "I want the finished product to be a surprise."

I hope she likes it because then maybe she'll leave me alone for a few days.

We're on to the eye shadow. First white, then purple. Pamela starts with the lower lid. I tilt my head and watch the time on the clock change. Three, now two minutes left until two-time Grammy winner, Maltese, will be on VH1 talking about his upcoming hip-hop album with DJ Wild. The album drops March 15--that's in two weeks. I can't wait.

It's weird having someone this close to me. So close that I can see her nose hairs and smell her cucumber hand lotion. I wonder what Pamela is like under all her makeup.

Does she like wearing her mask?

"Which color?" She holds up two different lip liners. "This one." I point to the lighter of the two. It matches my shirt.

"Good choice." Pamela smiles.

I don't know how people reinvent themselves every morning. Primping takes way too much time and effort. Mom's the master of reinvention. She changes for every guy she's sweet on. I'm glad she finally settled on Rob because I'm tired of watching her transformations. Every time she brought a new guy home, I'd have to prepare for his arrival. The worst was when she made me don a cowboy hat for Ted from Wyoming. He showed tip at our house in a baseball hat, and there I was in a dorky suede cowboy 22

hat. At least now I can pretty much be myself. Well, except for today, apparently.

Pamela finishes off with my lips. I'm now wearing Hot Stuff. Maybe it holds magical powers and attracts guys like I attract mosquitoes in the backyard.

"Oh, I love it. The mascara and eye shadow really open up your eyes." She hands me a small mirror.

I hold it, but don't pull it up to my face. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

"Well, go on . ." Pamela nudges me.

I slowly bring up the mirror and peel open my eyes, one at a time.

Wow, I
almost
look pretty.

Mom sets two cups of coffee down on the table. "Nice job, Pamela. Now if only I can find someone to fix up the rest of her."

Almost.

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I grab a handful of cotton balls and run the water in the sink until it's warm. I wipe at my eyelids, then my cheeks. I have to press down hard to remove the gunk, especially under my eyes.

Why didn't I just say no to Pamela? It couldn't be worse than what Mom will say if she sees my streaked face and pile of soggy cotton balls. What's the point in making yourself up if you'll still be treated the same?

Mom jiggles the handle on the bathroom door. "Open up. I want to take a photo for the scrapbook."

No way in hell. I'll stay in here for the rest of the year if I have to.

I turn the faucet on full blast, hoping she'll catch the hint and 24

leave. Instead, she pounds on the door. "It'll only take a minute." Hasn't she humiliated me enough for one day? She pounds again. "Not now!" I yell.

"Stop being difficult and let me in." Mom uses two fists to knock against the door this time.

Finally I relent, opening it a crack. I quickly drop the cotton into the wastebasket. But I cannot save my face.

Mom pries the door open all the way. "Oh, God." She puts a hand up to her mouth. The camera hangs around her neck, swaying back and forth. Her red acrylic nails stare at me like daggers.

I peer into the mirror. My face looks like a child's watercolor painting left in the rain. It's a mess of brown, black, red, and purple.

"It's hard to take off," I say.

"You could've at least kept it on until you went to bed."

"Why?"

It takes Mom a few seconds to answer. "Because Pamela worked hard to make you look nice. And I wanted a decent picture of you."

Geez, thanks, Pamela, I'll move you to the top of my Christmas list.

I don't respond. I can't. I'm concentrating too hard on keeping all my emotions inside.

"I'm only trying to help you," Mom adds some sugar to her voice.

Then why does it always end up about you?

25

I promised Mom I'd lose the weight for her wedding, and I did. She wanted the photos to come out perfect because she'd never had a proper ceremony before. She never bothered to try and find my dad, and she got hitched to her first husband, Tony, when I was five. That one was in his parents' backyard.

Well, I did it that summer. I went to Weight Watchers and ran on Mom's treadmill almost every day, and by December I squeezed into the pink strapless dress she had bought for me. I've kept most of the weight off, only letting about ten pounds creep back, but I still feel like people stare at me at Ridgeland High. I hope when I go off to college that people will look at me differently.

"Hmm." I frown into the mirror, not convinced.

"Here, this is yours." Mom thrusts a pink plastic bag at me and starts to walk away, but quickly turns back around. "I don't know what's wrong with you."

Me neither.

Her stilettos click-clack down the hallway.

I slam the bathroom door and dump the contents onto the counter. Different-colored bottles and tubes spill out. I pick up a blue bottle with a gold top. Eye-makeup remover.

This could've saved me a lot of pain. I dampen another cotton ball, close my eyes, and wipe away every shred of evidence. Then I scrub my face until the only thing I can smell is Dove soap.

Mom calls me down to help with dinner. She tries to stay away from ordering takeout because Rob is used to home-cooked

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meals. His first wife was a chef. We don't make eye contact. We just assume our usual dinner roles. She makes the tossed salad, and I sauté the chicken breast. She always complains about cooking. I don't see what the big deal is.

Before we moved in with Rob, we were strictly the
white food is evil, go green
type of family. But I dreaded most of those meals because it gave Mom all the time in the world to point out what's wrong with me. It would take us about five minutes to chew and the next fifteen were spent on how I could get more involved in school social activities. The other nights I was left alone with an elderly babysitter who fell asleep before me, while Mom jaunted around town, dating one guy and then the next. That's where I really got used to being alone. I had no one to answer to. Of course, I had no one to talk to either.

The radio fills the dead air that lies between us. I'm singing along in my head and Mom's bouncing around the kitchen.

"This girl can carry a tune." Mom wields her vegetable knife in the air. "What's her name again?"

I sprinkle some more chili powder on the pieces of meat and flip them over. "Maya Jackson."

"I'm sure she'd be fun to party with."

"She's sixteen."

"So what, I'm too old to hang out with the
young
crowd?" Mom swings her hips and tries to sing along,
"You think you know me, boy, well just wait and see ... "

"American Idol
worthy," I mutter.

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"Oh, no, I was thinking more like MTV" She laughs.

The front door swings open and I can hear Rob toss his keys onto the table in the foyer.

Mom drops the salad spoons and rushes to greet him.

Hi, babe," she says.

They move into the other end of the kitchen, and then all I hear is them kissing. I don't turn around. They could be at it for a good five minutes. You would have thought, him being close to fifty, that things might slow down a bit. Oh, no, not this cowboy.

The chicken is done before they are, so I put it in a serving dish and place it on the table.

It smells good.

Mom comes up for air. "Teresa, can you set up the rest of the food?"

She doesn't even wait for me to answer before she locks lips with Rob again.

I snatch a cucumber from the salad bowl. A little dry, so I add more dressing and toss the vegetables again. I'm suddenly thankful that I still have homework to finish for tomorrow. The lovebirds are going to be pretty busy tonight.

I sit down at the table and wait for them to join me. I pick at the salad.

Finally Rob breaks free and walks toward the table. "Oh, hi, Tere. How was your day?"

"All right."

"Good." He motors right past me and grabs a beer from the fridge. "Finding a new DJ

isn't going to be easy."

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"Why?" Mom gasps like she even knows what he's going through.

"I tried to lure Captain Pete, the midday guy from SUN, but he's locked into a two-year contract." Rob thumps down at the table and kicks off his cowboy boots.

As much as I really don't like SUN, SLAM's competitor, Pete is a good DJ. If it wasn't for him, the Ravers wouldn't be playing at Tobacco Road now and Giant James would still be delivering pizzas.

"What are you going to do?" Mom asks.

"Garrison will pick up his shift on Monday night, but we need to find a replacement. Get them groomed before sweeps." Rob takes a huge swig of Bud.

"What about that Feather guy we met at the Delano last week." Mom passes Rob the salad, but he waves it off. "He was cute."

"Cute doesn't cut it on the radio. There's a reason he's a catalog model." Rob spears the biggest piece of chicken from the serving dish.

"Oh." Mom bites her lip. "Do people really listen to the radio at night?"

Garrison's good, but he's not a night guy. He's morning show all the way. He's always hyper and gets people moving. I love waking up to him. It's like jump-starting your day with a cup of coffee. But not many people drink a large cup of joe right before they go to bed. I have enough trouble falling asleep as it is. I usually listen to the radio for a couple of hours before I nod off.

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That's one good thing I got from Mom. When we first moved to Miami, I tossed and turned half the night. After about the third night of me waking up bleary-eyed, Mom bought me a hot pink radio and told me to let the music help me fall asleep. After the first night I was hooked. The radio really gave me peace and settled my worries about being in a new city, having to make new friends. Miami is nothing like Orlando, but now I'm so used to living here. It's a great place to be if you want to discover new artists.

"Yeah," both Rob and I say at the same time. "When do your friends, er, classmates listen to the radio?" Rob asks me.