Amanda said that after I took off with Nikki, she wished she’d come, too. “I was afraid to. That girl in front was smoking and I don’t really know them.”
I didn’t really know them, either, but I couldn’t let Amanda in on that. She talked as though Nikki and I were good friends. All I ever said was how Nikki and I met in the bathroom and how helpful she was and funny, too, like in history class, and how Emily and Cynthia couldn’t believe that Nikki Simms spoke to me.
Amanda has me right on top of the popularity ladder, but really my fingers are clinging to the bottom rungs. I just let Amanda come to her own conclusions. When I saw myself through Amanda’s eyes, I felt important. I didn’t want to change that.
Neither Amanda nor I mentioned my little car trip to our parents. That’s the kind of thing you don’t have to discuss with your best friend—she just knows. Besides, it’s not like I murdered someone or stole something. There isn’t one single commandment against riding in convertibles. Still, I’m glad she didn’t tell my parents because I’d be in big trouble and then we probably wouldn’t be stopping by the electronics store after church today.
Holding my thumb to my ear and my pinkie to my mouth, I pretend to talk on my new cell phone in front of my mirror. Emily’s phone is green; Nikki’s is red; Amanda’s is plain old black because it’s not a smart phone with a screen, and black is the only color that kind of phone comes in.
I feel sorry for Amanda because I’m also getting a laptop. All she has besides her dad’s old phone is a chunky computer that sits on a desk in their formal living room. I can’t believe I used to think she was lucky. Poor Amanda.
I do a few more poses in the mirror before getting ready to put on one of my church dresses. Opening the drawer of my undergarments, I push aside my first bra because, guess what? I have outgrown it. This is how it happened: Mom took me to the mall for new clothes. I shopped in Aéropostale and Forever 21 and all the good places, and I discovered something I didn’t know before—I hate shopping for clothes. You have to look through five hundred tops before you find one that isn’t see-through, doesn’t hug you so tightly your belly button is a dark oval shadow that everyone can see, or isn’t cut so openly, your bra shows.
As I modeled one top, Mom fingered the strap on my left shoulder. She examined the front of my chest. My bustline, as she calls it.
“Mom!” I crossed my arms.
“I think you need a bigger cup size.” She didn’t even whisper.
I slammed the dressing room door shut, pulled off the shirt, wriggled out of the tank, and put my own clothes back on. Mom tried to pull me to the lingerie section, which is right by the water fountain and the bathrooms. Like, what if someone I knew walked by and caught me holding Sweet Things Bra and Panties, Matching Set? I headed for the door instead, but there were three tops and some shorts I liked, so I couldn’t storm out like I wanted to. Finally my mom emerged from the aisle, two bras dangling on hangers from her fingers.
I handed her the clothes, then pretended I didn’t know her. When we got home, I rushed the bag upstairs like a hot potato before Dad saw it. For all I know, she tells him about these things. No, she doesn’t; no, she doesn’t, I convinced myself.
So I hook up the new bra and put on the matching underwear, then I slip the green summer dress over my head. Green looks good with titian hair. Usually, I go bare-legged to church, matching my flip-flops to my outfit, but today I’m thinking I should wear stockings. Like Nikki. I poke my head into the hallway and listen. The clanging of dishes means Mom’s in the kitchen. I hear Dad downstairs talking to her.
Tiptoeing through the hall, I slip into their room and head for the drawer I know Mom keeps her stockings in. “Reinforced toe,” the boxes say. When I pull out the stockings, big seams and double strips of nylon cross over the toes. I don’t want my feet to look like old lady toes. I stuff them back in their boxes and shut the drawer when I spy Mom’s makeup sitting on top of the dresser. I wonder how I would look with darkened lashes and shiny lips.
Hiding a tube of mascara and some lipstick in my fist, I check for Mom or Dad, then sneak into the hall bathroom. I twist open the mascara. The wand makes a dry sound when I draw it from the tube. Bristles stick out of the tip, but I don’t see any mascara on them. Maybe it’s like water paint. I add a couple drops of water to the tube and slosh the wand around. Much better. Black, runny drips splat into the sink as I brush the stick through my eyelashes.
Poison! Poison! Eye poison! The ink runs into my eye. It stings like iodine! I’m blind. I run the cold water, splash my face, and see in the reflection that the mascara has left gray water streaks on my cheeks and red cracks in my eyes.
And then, “Hailee! Need your help.” Oh, my gosh, why is she always calling me when I’m busy?
“Coming!” I yell back, my voice muffled by the washrag I’m scrubbing with. I’m not taking any chances with the lipstick. Before she can call me again, I’ve put the makeup back in her room and I’m downstairs.
This is what Sunday mornings smell like: salty sweet bacon sizzling in the pan; scrambled eggs and cheese; the dark brown aroma of coffee.
Libby kicks in her high chair. “Aa-ee!”
“Libby! Hi, Libby! Hi, Libby!” I sing in a high-pitched voice. Babies like that—babies and dogs—but we can’t have a dog until Libby gets bigger, so that’s why I put dog toward the end of my list.
It’s been a month since we won the lottery and I’ve only gotten four Things I Need: bicycle, cell phone (getting today), laptop (getting today), new clothes (though I can’t wear them to school because of the uniform rule).
Dad’s plate is empty and he’s bent over the checkbook. “Hi, honey,” he says, lifting his eyes for a moment.
Mom sets down my breakfast. As she pours a glass of orange juice for me, she says, “When you’re done, I need you to wipe Libby up and play with her until church.”
“But I haven’t done my hair yet.” A messy bun looks easy but takes time.
“You can take her into your room.” Mom clicks off the burners, closes containers, puts things away. “I’ve got to get ready.”
After she’s upstairs, I ask Dad, “Could Libby just stay in her high chair?”
Dad shakes his head. “I’m trying to balance the checkbook, and I want to go through the newspaper and see what’s on sale.”
Hel-lo? Lottery winner—don’t need bargain basements anymore.
He moves into the dining room and I sigh as I hear the newspaper rattle.
“Okay, Libby,” I say when I hoist her out of her high chair.
Libby’s not interested in any of the toys I stick in front of her. Pulling my hair is more fun. I wouldn’t have this problem if I were bald. She bounces from picking up a ceramic vase to almost biting the electric cord to pulling on a bookcase. I bet she thinks her name is “NoNoNo” because I say that a lot more than I say “Libby.”
I drag her new saucer upstairs. The least she can do is sit in it while I fix my hair. Or so you would think. She bellows as soon as I slide her into its colorful seat.
“WaaAAHHH!”
“¿Cómo te llamas? ¿Cómo te llamas?”
“Look, Libby, look!” My dogs-and-babies voice.
Dad calls up, “Hailee, can you please do as Mom asked? I’m trying to concentrate.”
Libby squirms in the saucer, and when I try to reposition her, I find a brand-new doll under her butt. She stops crying when she sees it, stretches out her arms, but I hold it closer for a better look. I’ve seen this doll in commercials; I wanted this doll when I was younger. Too expensive, I was told.
Libby pulls on the doll’s legs.
I never had stuff like this when I was little. I don’t care if we won the lottery or not—they’re bringing Libby up to be a lady of leisure. Brand-new saucer, store-bought bibs (as in not from garage sales), new clothes, and now Happy Hannah Hearts. I clench Happy Hannah with my fist and she squeaks.
“Aanah!” Libby demands.
It’s so unfair.
I yank Happy Hannah Hearts away from Libby. Happy Hannah Hearts has to go to sleep now. Happy Hannah can’t play. I take the doll to Libby’s room and stick her on top of the changing table, turning my back on her happy little heart.
Libby jumps up and down in the saucer when I come back. “Aanah! Aanah!” she chants.
I bend over and brush my hair, ignoring Libby’s cries.
“Hailee, I need you to pay attention to her.” Mom stands in my doorway.
I’m upside down looking at her through my legs. Mom’s mouth is where her eyes should be and her eyebrows are her lips and tracks of watery gray mascara streak her cheeks.
I flip right side up. Without thinking, my hand rubs my own cheek, which causes Mom to say, “I know—my mascara.” She shakes her head.
“Maamee! Maa-mee!” Drama Queen Libby raises her hands for Mom. Her little face is red and bubbly with tears and snot.
Mom lifts Libby from the saucer and nestles her against her hip. “What’s wrong, little girl? What’s the matter, you? You’re in here with your big sister and your saucer—no crying, okay, no crying.” Libby shudders with a big finishing sniffle. Mom says, “I’ll take her. Bring the saucer for me, will you?”
I scoot the saucer behind Mom. As I pass Libby’s room, Happy Hannah Hearts glares at me.