The next thing I know, I’m looking into the mirror over Lana’s shoulder as she puts the finishing touches on making her/my face look absolutely glamourous.
“And how exactly is a makeover supposed to switch us back?” I ask as she dabs a small brush along my blood-red lips. They are literally blood-red since Lana only had my monster special effects makeup to work with, so they’re covered in fake blood. She’s used bruise makeup to create a dramatic smoky eye and somehow managed to manipulate skeleton contour to change the shape of my whole face.
“I thought that maybe making you gorgeous was my quest,” she says, dramatically gesturing to her handiwork.
“Your quest was to make me look like I’m sucking in my cheeks and giving kissy lips,” I grouse. “Yeah, right.”
“So maybe I have been dying to accent these cheekbones.” She points to one. “Just look.” I have to admit she’s not wrong about the enormous-seeming cheekbones.
“Wait a minute, maybe the curse is just waiting for me to make up your face,” I say.
“Great idea! Do you want some help?” she asks.
“Oh, no. I’ve got this.” I get to work while Lana opens my closet, releasing the pile of laundry I recently shoved inside.
“I have to get out of these frumpy pajamas,” she says and starts rifling through the clothes on hangers. “Why on earth do you own so many hunting outfits?”
“They’re not for hunting—I just like layers.” I get to work on my elaborate face makeup. “Don’t wreck my closet.”
“Your closet was a wreck before I got here,” she says. “A fashion train wreck.” She laughs at her own joke.
I ignore her as I work quickly. I know my cousin’s face so well it looks odd to see it reversed in the mirror.
“Oooh, wait! LBD! LBD!” Lana shrieks excitedly as she pulls out a short black dress. “And are these actual . . . Prada heels in your closet?”
“A little fancy, don’t you think?” I say. “That’s my junior prom dress from last year. And my mom bought me the heels as wishful thinking. I wore sparkly Doc Martens with the dress instead.”
Lana slides the heels onto her feet and she is instantly six foot three. “I’m so tall!” she says with amazement. “And these shoes are gorgeous. I can’t believe you never wore them.” She holds up the dress and poses in the mirror that hangs on the inside of my closet door.
“I can’t walk two steps in those things,” I say.
Lana gives a few expert stomps toward me and stops short when she gets a look at my face. “Really, Ricki?” She’s furious.
“What?” I say innocently. “You gave me a makeover and so I gave you a makeover.” I snarl at my reflection and a sick-looking zombie girl snarls back. I adjust a strategic bit of rot on my left cheek and spin around to grab at my cousin. “Braaiins!”
Lana flinches. “That’s so creepy and disgusting!”
“Thanks.” I smile, showing off blackened zombie teeth.
Lana slips into the black dress and tries to convince me to change the sleep romper I’m wearing. But this romper is super comfortable. I point out that nothing in my closet will fit Lana’s tiny body anyway.
We’re still arguing over belting options when there’s a quick knock on the door and my mother opens it without waiting for our response. Zelda struts in behind her.
“Aunt May was so right about that car being magic.” Mom’s hair is windblown, and she has a wild look in her eyes as she swings the key chain around her finger.
Lana and I look at each other. “The convertible must hold the key,” Lana says.
Mom quickly shoves the key into her own pocket and looks at Lana. “You look amazing, Ricki!” she says and then turns and startles at my zombified face. “Oh! And, wow, look at you, Lana. Just . . . look at you.”
I ignore her. “That Skylark is definitely magic,” I say. “We need to get in touch with Aunt May right away.”
“That’s sweet you want to thank May,” Mom says, “but you know your aunt. She’s can be tough to track down—probably off hiking through the California wilderness without a care in the world.”
Aunt May uses a primeval flip phone, and insists her yurt and truck remain zero-tech, Wi-Fi–free zones. Plus, most of her time is spent hiking with her wolf dogs in out-of-range places.
Sure enough, when Lana dials her, it only takes a moment before she growls, “Straight to voice mail.”
“And she never responds to texts on that fossil she calls a phone,” my mom says.
“Let’s just go see if we can catch her at home,” I say. “It’s only an hour and a half away, and this could be really important.”
Lana is still distracted, scrolling on her smartphone, and Zelda sniffs my ankle like she’s looking for something to nosh on. I hook my foot to slide the Chihuahua neatly underneath the bed.
“Let’s go!” Grabbing Lana by the hand, I head for the door and give my mom a quick peck on the cheek as I move past her.
“Wait,” Mom calls as she steps into the hallway after us. She holds up my phone. “You left this charging, Ricki.”
I slink back to grab the phone from her and my mother furrows her brow. “Oh,” I say, “I’m letting Ricki use mine to map the way to Aunt May’s.” I hold out my hand and accusingly add, “Keys please?”
Grudgingly, Mom pulls the pom-pom key chain from her pocket and I take it.
The Chihuahua sees an opportunity to go for blood and I quickly shut the bedroom door just as Evil Z charges for my toes. I hear a small thump and tiny yelp.
Handing my phone to Lana, I say loudly, “Here you go, cuz. I can’t believe you almost left without it.”
“Sorry.” Lana takes my phone and stacks it underneath hers. “I’m not feeling myself today.” She laughs at her own joke.
“So not funny.” I wave the pom-pom key chain in the air and sprint outside. “I call driver!”
I expect Lana to move slow in the high heels, but when I turn back at the walkway she’s right behind me. We both dash for the car and reach for the driver’s door together. I give the keys a shake. “I called driver.”
Lana towers over me. “Really, Ricki? You’re going to turn this into a thing? I’ve had my driver’s license longer and have more experience, so—”
I cut her off. “Don’t you remember the big spark? When the random movies started playing?”
“Hmm . . . let me think a second . . . OF COURSE I remember,” Lana scoffs. “That had to be the moment our switch began.”
“Exactly.” I smile at her. “So maybe we should, you know, sit on the sides where we were? Try grabbing the wheel again?”
“Good idea,” Lana says as she gestures for me to walk around to the passenger side.
“Actually,” I say, “I was in the driver’s seat at the time, so . . . ?”
I wait.
Lana doesn’t move so I gesture with a nod to the passenger seat. I have to point my head so hard I can feel the fake pus on my cheek trickle slightly toward my jaw.
Finally, she rolls her eyes, hands me my phone, and stomps around to the passenger door like a surly toddler forced to go to her room.
I climb in the driver’s side and Lana slides all the way in close. When we’re both in position I count down slowly, “Three. Two. One,” and the two of us reach for the steering wheel at the same time. And . . .
Nothing happens.
I try to imagine the weight in my chest being released out into the open air as I turn the key, but there’s no breakthrough of relief as the engine rumbles to life. In fact, I’ve never felt so trapped.
I put the Skylark into gear. “Hopefully Aunt May can help us.”
Lana slides to the passenger side as we roar away from the curb and says, “Well, at least we’re road tripping in style.”
“Right,” I say. “Tripping in style.”
The Skylark picks up speed, and the fresh air kneads at us.
Finally, Lana flings her arms wide and stands so she’s hugging the wind that wildly whips her now-dark curls. She calls out, “I may be crazy, but I feel so free!”
“Well, I feel like I’ve had something sitting on my chest ever since I woke up this morning.”
Lana sits back down and looks at me. “Is it like an invisible crushing that makes it so hard to breathe that you feel like you might suffocate on just plain air?”
“Why?” I ask. “Have you felt it before?”
“No. No reason.” Lana reaches for the radio dial and turns up the music. “Maybe a little car dancing will help you feel less anxious.”
She makes twisting arm motions to the beat of the song she’s put on. Turning to me, she unsticks a clump of her hair from the thick glamour makeup layered on her face. “Car dance!!”
Lana gleefully moves to the music, and I think about the heavy weight I’ve inherited. She definitely knew what I was talking about. I can’t imagine what it could mean, but I do think my mom’s theory may be right about our bodies manifesting tension as we hold on to stress.
And I suspect Aunt April’s firing isn’t the only secret Lana is holding back.
As Lana’s front seat rave continues, a Volkswagen SUV filled with cute guys approaches us on the passenger side. Lana flirtatiously shimmies her shoulders in their direction and the young men woot and cheer in a way that surprises me, since I’ve never in my life been “wooted” at by a carload of boys.
Lana eats up the attention until we stop at a light and I put the car in park so I can lunge all the way across the car to her side. I stretch past her, grasping at the air and reaching for the guys with zombie hands.
I call out, “Brains!! Braaaaiiiins!” and the boys immediately stop flirting and speed off ahead of us.
Rubbing at the pressure in my chest as I slide back to my seat, I shift back into drive and turn the music to an indie rock song that better matches my mood. “While you’re me, you might want to try staying in character,” I say. “I would never flirt with strangers that way.”
Lana crosses her arms and makes a pouty face. “Fine. Now I’m you.”
“Yeah. That’s the problem,” I say, and gun the motor, speeding faster toward Aunt May’s yurt.