I’m sitting in a chair in the middle of my bedroom and I’m no longer a person. I’m an object. Becca and Melanie circle around me, poking and prodding like I’m a car they’re thinking of buying.
Becca gives me a long, hard look. “When you say ‘makeover,’ what exactly are you talking about? Something out of CosmoGirl, like learn how to do Lindsay Lohan’s eye shadow?”
I shake my head. “No, I want something out of the Witness Relocation Program—so my own family won’t even recognize me. We need to take the Bikini Jane concept and turn it into reality before Alex’s swim lesson tomorrow morning.”
Melania smiles. “Now we’re talking.”
They’ve been waiting for this for a long time. It’s not like I don’t care about my appearance. I really do. It’s just that my style is pretty limited. I usually go for jeans and T-shirts. Hair and makeup are a problem because I spend about half my life in a swimming pool. I’m just happy when I don’t smell like chlorine. But now I’m ready to go for broke.
It may take a village to raise a child, but I’m counting on two best friends, half the Clinique counter, and the complete first season of Alias on DVD to unleash my inner Aniston.
Before we get started, Becca makes an announcement. “I want to remind you of one key thing.” She reaches into her backpack and pulls out the picture of Alex in all his shirtless glory. She tapes it to my mirror. “You’ve got to keep your eyes on the prize.”
I nod in agreement. “Eyes on the prize. I’m ready.”
What follows is a lot like orientation at Magic Waters. Except, instead of Krys teaching me the Beaver dance, Becca’s showing me the Sydney Strut—named in honor of Jennifer Garner’s character and the kick ass, sexy way she walks. (With the DVD, we can break it down frame-by-frame, which really helps.)
Becca demonstrates it with breathtaking ease. When she moves she’s all curves and inertia, with no regard for Newtons Laws of Motion. (If she weren’t my best friend, I’d really hate her.)
I try it, and the effect is very different: mostly elbows and kneecaps flying out in odd directions.
Becca’s undeterred. “Heel, toe, heel, toe,” she coaches. “Overlap your feet and swivel your hips.”
I try again and it’s still not there.
“We want an Alias walk,” she says. “Not an alien walk.”
This is going to take all night.
While I keep practicing, Melanie goes to work on my wardrobe. She digs around my swimsuit drawer but can’t find anything that pleases her. They’re all racing suits. They were designed to reduce drag and repel water, not to enhance cleavage and attract boys.
“None of these will work,” she proclaims. “We may need a bikini.”
I stop mid-Sydney. “No way.”
“I’m just saying …”
Becca joins in. “Mel’s right. You can’t be Bikini Jane without a bikini. That would make you … One-Piece Jane.”
I glare at Melanie. I glare at Becca. They know I can be self-conscious about my body. “You said the bikini thing was about attitude, not about actually wearing one. You gave a speech and everything.”
“I know,” Becca answers. “I was lying.”
“It would be ridiculous,” I say. “No one gives a lesson in one. Don’t you think he’d notice?”
“That’s the point,” says Melanie. “For him to notice”
“Besides,” Becca adds, “there’s not a seventeen-year-old boy on this planet who doesn’t want his swim instructor to wear one. It’s like something out of an Aerosmith video.”
After some more debate, I’m finally willing to concede their point. But that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t actually own a bikini.
“No,” Becca says. “But your sister does.”
That’s an understatement. Kendra is what we affectionately call a “summer slut.” Her entire June-July-August wardrobe is designed to showcase her killer abs. (She does so many sit-ups, her sorority sisters call her “Captain Crunch.”)
She’s been home from college for three weeks, which means she and Erik have already had their third annual Memorial Day “I missed you so much, can’t we get back together?” talk. (This will undoubtedly lead to their third annual Labor Day “I never want to see your stupid face again” fight.) But for now, she’s out of the house and her clothes are completely unprotected.
Since Kendra was the one who inspired all of this madness with her “Make this summer count” advice, I’m able to rationalize the petty theft. In all, we “borrow” three bikinis, some short-shorts with ALPHA CHl OMEGA written across the butt, and a cool pair of Ray-Bans.
It’s funny, because the moment I put on Kendra’s clothes, the walk comes more naturally. Pretty soon I’m Sydney strutting all over the place.
“That’s hot,” Mel says with a nod of approval.
“Scorching,” adds Becca.
Suddenly, I’m having fun.
“What next?” I ask.
Becca reaches over and feels my hair. “We’ve got to scrunch this. Give it that Teri Hatcher look.”
Doing anything to my hair is ridiculous when you consider that the moment I dive in the pool, it won’t matter anymore. But it will take us three to four minutes to walk from the front door to the pool, and I’m taking advantage of every second I can get.
I’ve never scrunched my hair before, but the girls help me and it’s pretty easy. All I do is wash and towel-dry it. Then I comb it out with my fingers and scrunch a little product into it. (No brushes allowed!) After that, we put it up in what Bee calls “a big freakin’ bun” and let it sit. While it’s piled on top of my head, we move on to makeup.
Usually pools and cosmetics don’t mix. Luckily for me, Melanie is a master of minimal makeup for maximum effect. She flips through a magazine until she finds a great picture of Sophia Bush. (Personally, I don’t get the whole One Tree Hill thing, but she is gorgeous.)
With the picture as our guide, Melanie goes to work with a Bad Gal eye pencil and then hands me a small pot of fuchsia lip gloss. We experiment with some different nail polish until we find a perfect shade of pink from MAC.
“That’s it,” Melanie says, backing away so as not to disturb a thing. “We’re done.”
I let my hair down and look at myself in the mirror. I know it’s me. But it sure doesn’t look like me.
“You look great,” Becca says.
I’m not convinced. “You think?”
“I don’t think, I know. Still, we need a dress rehearsal.”
“A what?”
Becca grabs a FOND OF BEING BLONDE tee. “Put this on,” she says. “We’re going to Mama Taco’s.”
Mama Taco’s is our hangout. It’s an old wooden shack right on the beach. It serves the best Tex-Mex in the state and it’s always packed. Becca lays out her plan as we drive over.
“Mel and I are going to go in first,” she instructs. “Give us a few minutes to get a table. Then you come in and do your Sydney strut straight to the counter. Place an order and then come sit down with us.”
“How is this a dress rehearsal for a swim lesson?” I ask.
“We kind of figure you’ve got the swimming thing down, Aquagirl,” Becca says. “This is about guys. We’ll be watching them, and hopefully they’ll be watching you. By the time you sit down, we’ll know exactly how good a job we’ve done.”
I feel like a total doofus as I wait in the parking lot. It’s bad enough that I’m doing this. But it will be ten times worse when I do it and none of the guys notice me.
I wait a few minutes and then I go in. It is beyond awkward as I try to do the walk and look confident without tripping over myself. I order a Coke and some chicken nachos. I can’t imagine that any guy has so much as looked my way. But as I walk to the table, I’m amazed by what I see.