THIRTY-THREE

“I FIGURED YOU’D BE GOOD at helping me get my wig to look just right,” Tyler says.

“You did?” I don’t have any wig experience. But I don’t know why I am debating this right now. I should be thrilled, ecstatic, jumping up and down. But instead I’m freaking out. I don’t know how to do makeup. Or put on a wig. I mean, I guess you just put it on, but . . . and I can’t be that close to him, touching his face, his hair. I’ve never been that close to a boy before. It’s like my limbs feel extralong and out of place, like I don’t know what to do with them.

He nods. “And I need some makeup help, too.”

“Wait, why do you need makeup?” I ask. “Aren’t you just singing your own made-up songs?”

“Yes.” He eyes me like I’m a complete buffoon. “But I need a look. I can’t just, like, go up there, looking like regular Tyler. And stage lights wash everyone out! Don’t you know that?”

“Um.”

“I need to look like Alternative Tyler.” He points to his face. “That’s why I have a Mohawk wig. And I’m going to wear KISS makeup.”

“KISS?” I ask.

I take a step back because everything seems to be going really crazy right now. I didn’t know boys thought about stuff like this—stage makeup. And wigs.

“It’s a band!”

“I know,” I shriek. “But are you singing KISS songs?”

“No! But it’s part of my look.”

He’s not really making much sense. But he’s just so cute that it almost doesn’t matter.

“So. Uh.” He stares at me, waiting for me to say something. “Will you be my stage assistant?”

Stage assistant?

This is literally the most awkward conversation I’ve had in my entire life and yet I don’t want it to ever end. I am so close to Tyler right now. He’s asking me to do his makeup. And help him with a wig. A shiver shoots down my back.

He owns a Mohawk wig.

I will be forced to touch him.

Me, Kaylan. Forced to touch him, Tyler.

“So where should I sit for my makeup?” he asks.

All around us people are buzzing about—getting on costumes, putting on makeup, all sorts of stuff.

“How about over here?” I lead him to a bench in the back corner of the stage. He sits down. “Did you bring makeup with you?”

He nods and hands me a pink makeup bag. “It’s my mom’s. I think I can use her eyeliner to do the black triangle parts.”

Something about the way he says it is so sweet and funny at the same time that I completely burst out laughing and then Tyler looks embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He shrugs.

I try to apply the makeup standing up but then it’s just too weird, and I can’t get a good angle, and it all comes out blotchy. I try to follow a picture I found by Googling on my phone. My hands are shaky. We are so close and I wish I’d popped some gum in my mouth before we started. I try to back up so he can’t smell my breath, but then it gets even more messed up.

I have to start again.

“This is kind of a hard design to do,” I tell him.

“Don’t you know about makeup? Girls all wear makeup, right?”

“Um.” I bite my lip. “I don’t really wear makeup.”

I sit down next to him and take the round sponge thing (I have no idea if there’s a technical name for it) and start rubbing the concealer on his face.

I try to focus, but all I can think is: I am touching Tyler’s face. I am touching Tyler’s face.

And then, midapplication, when I’m trying to finish the side of his nose, he puts his hand on my hand. It’s not sweaty, thank God. But it’s warm, like he’d had it in a glove this whole time.

“Thanks for doing this, Kaylan.” He looks into my eyes.

This is it, I think. I know it is. Tyler Beasley is going to kiss me, right here, right now, on this stage.

I manage to mumble out a “no problem.”

And then he says, “Listen, a friend of mine is having this party Saturday night. You should come.”

Wait. So he’s not going to kiss me?

But he is inviting me to a party.

That’s something. That’s a big something!

And then I remember—the party Ryan was talking about, actually fighting about, with my mom.

“Kaylan?”

I haven’t said anything. I’ve been silent, I guess. Just dabbing his face with this weird sponge.

“Oh yeah.” I stop dabbing for a second and then continue. “Party. Cool.”

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I step back as if inspecting my work on his face, but really I’m just stepping back from this situation a little bit.

“So you’ll come?”

I nod. “Yup. Okay, you’re all set. You look fab, Cool Tyler.”

He cracks up and then high-fives me. “Just call me Tyler.”

Mrs. Bellinsky yells out that it’s time to start the rehearsal. I don’t have makeup on. I’m not in a costume. I was just planning on wearing my regular clothes and maybe a cool scarf or something, and ya know, being myself.

At least I have my phone with some songs loaded on iTunes so I’m prepared with background music. And I brought more clementines this time.

“So.” Mrs. Bellinsky talks into the microphone and it screeches. “Sorry. Sorry. So we know that getting ready for this dress rehearsal took us a long time. A verrrry long time. We’ll need to do better before the main event. Or you’ll all need to show up the night before.”

She waits for laughter, but no one laughs.

“Anyway, let’s get started.” She calls everyone up in the order we’ll be performing but tells us she’s still fine-tuning the exact final order.

So the group of eighth graders that does some kind of fifties-style dancing medley goes first, and then there’s seventh grader Stephen Board, who plays Mozart on the cello. After that I zone out for a little while, and when I zone back in, Tyler’s making his way to the stage.

“I’d like to thank Kaylan Terrel for helping me with my makeup,” Tyler says.

“Okay, Tyler.” Mrs. Bellinsky interrupts. “Let’s get started.”

So he starts. His first song, “Uptown Junk,” goes something like, “Uptown Junk. Throw it out. Throw it out.” It’s really bad. Like, really, really bad. And then he does a parody of Taylor Swift’s “Bad Blood”: “Mad Mud. We used to have mad mud. In our cleats. After soccer.”

I look around, and it seems like people feel like they should laugh, so they’re forcing it because honestly—this isn’t funny. No one in the entire world could find this funny. These parodies are dumb, and the words don’t line up with the music, and it all just feels like a mess. I’m cringing that this is happening, and that he thinks it’s so great and so funny.

He thinks he’s Alternative Tyler.

He thinks that everyone thinks he’s Alternative Tyler.

But even through my cringing and his bad songs—I don’t deny his cuteness. Even in his Mohawk wig. I mean, he’s supposed to be my first kiss.

And I have to be loyal to the list.