December

SKIN PROBLEMS & MAKEUP

No teenager is ever stuck with the face she was born with, in view of the ways she has to make up her features to their best advantage . . .

I’ve only worn makeup in plays or ballet recitals, but dragonfly and flower costumes don’t really give you a feel for how the world of “big girl” makeup works. Of course I’ve experimented. When I was six my aunt bought me a whole set of makeup that included orange and purple lipsticks and mountains of glitter. But every time I wore it I’d end up looking like the prostitutes who hang out on 14th Street in downtown Brownsville.

Mom, who is naturally gorgeous, rarely wears makeup. Once a year, she goes all out for a wedding or some other special occasion. But other than that—nothing.

So you can understand why I’m sweating as I stand with Mom in the grocery store makeup aisle, leaning over a MATCH YOUR SKIN TONE poster, trying to figure out what color powder matches my undertones.

“There’s no way you’re porcelain,” my brown-skinned mother says, holding my hand under the plastic guide. “There are a lot of people lighter than you.”

“That’s what it says.”

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to get it then,” she concedes, tossing it into the grocery cart. “What else do we need?”

I think back to Betty Cornell’s list:

My head is swirling with information.

I recite the list to Mom who finds a tube of red lipstick. “Are you sure you don’t need rouge?”

“Betty Cornell says that I don’t.”

Few teen-agers need to add color, for their skins have a glowing light of their own derived from an active outdoor life.

I’m counting on PE to provide this.

After we finish shopping, Mom and I get into the car. She looks at me really hard and smiles. “Wow, Maya. You are seriously ballsy.”

“Thanks . . . I guess.”

“I mean it. When I was in middle school, I never would’ve dreamed of doing a fraction of what you’re willing to do.”

I smile. Growing up, I was the quiet girl who no one talked to. I was the one who would blend in until the teacher called on me. And if I volunteered answers too often, the class would go silent, drawing an even larger barrier between us.

And now, look at me. I’m sitting in a minivan with new makeup on my lap, trying to earn the approval, the trust, and the admiration of those who I’d gone out of my way to avoid all my life.

Saturday, December 3

“Come on out, Maya, show us your makeup!” Dad’s voice drifts in from the living room, where he sits waiting with the rest of the family.

“No.”

“Come on! We haven’t got all day!”

They have to get bored sometime. Maybe if I just stay in the bathroom with the door locked they’ll forget about me.

“Hurry!” Brodie shouts.

I hear Mom walk to the door. “Maya, it’s okay. Come on out.”

“I look like a clown-whore.” I whimper.

Even through the wood, I hear her stifle a laugh. “I’m sure you don’t look like a clown-whore, baby.”

I look in the mirror and shudder. I followed Betty Cornell’s advice exactly. How did it go so wrong?

Finally, I unlock the door and walk outside.

Mom looks at me. She bites her lip. My cheeks go red, but she probably can’t tell.

“Honey, you have powder streaks all over your face. The goal is for it to be subtle.”

“Oh.”

She helps me fix it and pushes me into the living room to show the rest of the family. Brodie looks up at me and whistles before proceeding to make pigeon noises in Natalia’s face. Dad smiles. “You look very nice.” He’s just saying that because he feels obligated to. Or Mom is behind me whispering threats.

Kenzie will think I’ve gone nuts!

Monday, December 5

I wake up this morning a dithering, sweaty mess. My hand shakes as I apply my new red lipstick (with a new lipstick brush so that I can shape my mouth into “the most enticing one possible”). Soon, I force myself out the door. The red and yellow lights of the school bus pull around the corner. When the door screeches open, my heart stops. Slowly I climb the steps to my doom.

Keeping my face down, I sit behind Kenzie. It’s rather dark outside, so after a while I think she just doesn’t notice. Then her forehead wrinkles.

“Are you wearing . . . lip . . . stick?” Her voice is dangerously calm.

“Um, yeah?”

“Why?”

“Uh,” I stammer. Finally, I think of a response. “It’s for fun!”

She watches me carefully. “Are you wearing . . . eye shadow?” On the last word, her voice comes out as a high-pitched shriek.

I look around nervously, but no one’s paying attention. Everyone on the bus is either passed out or on their phones. Betty Cornell makes it very clear that we shouldn’t use eye makeup at our young age:

As to making up your eyes, don’t. Young eyes need no enhancement. They have their own sparkle and flashes of fire, so why bury them under gobs of goo? Mascara and eyebrow pencil . . . are artifices best left to others. Teen-agers who come to school with colored blobs above each eyelid look plain silly. If you are going somewhere extra special . . . and you feel that you just have to look glamorous, then try a little Vaseline or cream on each eyelid. Just this little touch will bring out all you need to give your eyes a triumphant twinkle.

“Actually, it’s Vaseline.” I smile innocently, even though my heart is pounding out of my chest. I giggle nervously.

Kenzie’s lip begins to twitch . . . literally. “So, you’re wearing Vaseline . . . on your eyelids.” It’s not a question. She’s just working through it.

She stares at me for a long time and finally just shakes her head. “You’re cute,” she says, and turns around.

From the way she glowers, I can tell it’s not a compliment.

Tuesday, December 6

I have zits. Quite a few of them. It’s not a medical condition like that poor girl in my science class (her name changed from Diane Acbey to Diane Acne overnight), but I still have tons of clogged pores.

Betty Cornell says washing my face is the best thing to do for zits. I have some super-fancy facial soap, but it doesn’t really work unless I use it, which I often forget to do. I’ll have to be better this month. I mean seriously, I spent the entire summer with a fiery red zit in the middle of my forehead. It looked like a bindi.

Betty Cornell says that I should wash my face with hot water to open my pores and then scrub it with soap, applying it in upward strokes (because “pulling down on the facial tissues will, after a period of time, tend to make the muscles go slack”). Then, I rinse with cold water. Twice a week I’m supposed to use ice cubes to fully close my pores.

Betty Cornell doesn’t use the word zit, though. She calls them “hickies.” This makes me chuckle every time I read it, because I doubt that modern “hickies” and 1950s “hickies” are the same thing. If they were, it could put a whole new spin on this chapter.

 . . . . . . .

“Are you still wearing your jelly?” Kenzie inquires in front of our PE locker. “You know . . . petroleum jelly.”

“Yep.”

“You’re insane,” she says. It’s true. Did you know that when you wear Vaseline on your eyelids, it smears onto your glasses and then melts so that it covers the entire lens? Try it some-time.

I pull off my pants and I hear a snarl of disgust behind me. I turn around to see Flor, the leader of the Goth Art Chicks, glaring at me. “Maya!” she yells. “Every time I turn my head I see your giant ass in my face! I don’t know what the hell you think it looks like, but it’s not pretty! So MOVE!”

She shoves past me to change on a different side of the room. Tears sting my eyes. But I steady myself and pull on my shorts.

Maya’s Popularity Tip

Never cry at school. Ever. Especially when it could smudge your Vaseline.

Friday, December 9

How do models deal with fading lipstick? Mine seems to disappear within ten minutes. Betty Cornell says to use a little powder on the lips before applying it and then blot any extra with a tissue. But that doesn’t work very well. Maybe it’s because I wear cheap grocery store makeup.

I spend two hours on a teen fashion website searching for answers. After taking seven or eight quizzes, I find out the following:

It is horrifying to realize how much time I’d wasted on the website. Normally I prefer reading classic works of literature. I don’t know what kept me looking at the stories and articles for so long. I guess it was kind of like that time my cousin and I looked at gossip magazines for an afternoon. It was more like a guilty fixation with something so otherworldly and unachievable.

Sunday, December 11

I wear makeup to church today. Every time I see Ethan, it hurts. As he passes, Dad grabs my wrist.

“What are you doing?” I ask, angry.

“Your pulse sped up when he walked by. You still like him.” He smiles, obviously thinking that he’s being clever. He’s not.

“It sped up because I was nervous because you grabbed me,” I babble. I lower my voice. “I don’t like him anymore, so leave me alone.”

“So who do you like? Dante?”

“No one, okay?”

He raises his eyebrows. “You can’t just not like anyone. When I was your age I had crushes on at least five girls at a time. And not one of them liked me back.”

He doesn’t understand what I feel. Whenever I have a crush on someone, it can last years, and it’s always just for one person.

The day I realized I had a crush on Ethan was when some of the girls at church locked me in a closet for the first time. They were mean. They tried to turn others against me, painted all over me at slumber parties, and lied about me to adults.

As I sat huddled in the corner of the dark closet, I heard Ethan telling off the girls for being awful to me. He shouted, “Go away. Leave her alone!” and he unlocked the door.

Then he smiled at me. My heart melted and my head turned to jelly, petroleum jelly. I knew that I liked him. A lot. Ever since that day he stood up for me, I’ve liked him. A lot. And as much as I try to convince Dad, Mom, and myself of the opposite, I still like him.

A lot.

Monday, December 12

“Come on, Brodie, I need you!” I shout down the stairs to my little brother.

“What do you want?!” he screams back.

“Come here and I’ll tell you!”

“FINE!”

He makes his way upstairs stomping his feet on every step.

“Can you help me do my fingernails?” I ask in my sweetest voice.

“No way!” He pretends to gag himself and heads back toward the stairs.

“If you do, you get to watch TV. I won’t tell Mom.”

He freezes. Then he turns and comes back to help me.

When your nails are filed and the cuticles softened, you are ready to put on the nail base . . . Cover the whole nail with the base and let it dry thoroughly before you start the polish. After the base has dried, the next step is to apply the first coat of polish. Cover the whole nail; it is easier than trying to describe an accurate curve around the moon.

Ten seconds later I’m explaining Betty Cornell’s nail regime, telling him I’ve already filed them into shape and applied a base coat. But I make a mess with the color and gloss layers and need some help. He nods sympathetically and begins applying the polish.

“Are you surprised that I’m doing so good?” he asks after a few minutes.

“Yep, you’re amazing.”

“I don’t like makeup, but I’m still really good.”

I was there when Mom got the ultrasound confirming that Brodie was a boy. I wigged. Hard. The only thing I wanted was an older sister or a puppy. The last thing I expected was a little brother. In fact, I didn’t even think it was possible and was convinced my parents were doing it just to spite me. So when Brodie was two or three years old, I dressed him up in my clothes and put all sorts of “pretty” stuff on him (thanks to my aunt’s gift of sparkly makeup). He’s had an irrational fear of lipstick or anything “girly” ever since.

“Maybe you can pay me,” he says, finishing the right hand and moving on to the left.

“Uhhh . . .”

“Oh, not a lot, you know, just a shiny penny.”

I agree. He does his best, but it turns out quite lumpy and goopy.

“Wow, I’m doing super good. And I just learned!”

“A regular professional,” I say, trying to make him feel good.

He’s silent for a while, and he finishes the red and goes on to the gloss. He’s very proud of how it looks. It makes me smile.

“Okay,” he says, as if asking me to listen up. “The key to a perfect nail job is making it look lush. The more color you do, the more lusher it is.”

“That’s nice.”

“So . . . how much are you going to pay me?”

Friday, December 16

It’s the last day of school before Christmas vacation, and I’ve applied a special coat of red lipstick. Kenzie and I sit next to each other on the bus ride home. She’s going to London over break to see her cousin. The perks of being the only child of gainfully employed parents, I guess.

“I’m so sad though, because I’m going to freeze my butt off,” she whines.

“Oh you poor baby. My heart weeps for you,” I say. “You’re going to LONDON! You don’t get pity.”

She smiles. “And Paris. So did anything interesting happen today?”

I nod. “Carlos Sanchez has become the new teacher’s pet in our reading class, because he was the first to answer a question about metaphors. The teacher told us that we ‘should all be more like Carlos Sanchez!’ I’m not kidding. It really happened!”

I sigh, “I’m so mad! You don’t come back till the Thursday after school starts again! I’m going to miss you, Kenzie.”

“You too, Lipstick Girl,” she says through a mouthful of cupcake she stole from the sixth grader behind us. It turns her teeth red. She wipes some frosting on my shoulder, so I wipe it back on her. The bus pulls up to my stop.

“Bye!” I shout as I get off and watch my best friend through the window.

She waves. Bye, Maya, she mouths.

Sunday, December 18

Piano recital tonight. And since Ethan and I have the same teacher, he’s going to be there too. As much as I hate myself for it, I still take extra time to make sure that my makeup is nice. Putting on lipstick and powder has become almost second nature to me now. I don’t even think twice about it in the mornings anymore. It’s very interesting how I’ve changed.

I wear a red sweater, black slacks, and flats. Dad looks at me funny and raises his eyebrows, knowing that Ethan is going. I ignore him.

We have our recital at a little Unitarian Church downtown. It’s very pretty, but very small. There are only chairs set up for twenty people. When Ethan gets there, I feel my brain melt, and when he sits next to me, I know that it’s probably trickling out my ears.

“Are you nervous?” I ask.

He shrugs his shoulders. “A little.”

“You’ll do fine.” I try not to sound so devoted. “I, on the other hand, will suck.”

He laughs and shakes his head.

Was that funny? Oh damn, what’s wrong with me?

“I’ve heard you play the piano,” he says. “You’re going to do really well.”

“Am not! Look at my song!” I say, unfolding the four-page Mozart sonata.

His eyes widen. He’s only been playing for a month or two. Uh-oh, I didn’t mean to intimidate him. Crap!

But he smiles. “That’s impressive,” he says. Okay, my brains are officially a puddle on the floor. There’s nothing left in my skull. Completely vacant. I feel the need to click my tongue like Natalia does in a room with high ceilings just to hear the sound bounce around the far-off edges. Click, click. Click, click.

Then the piano teacher is moving everyone, so the students sit in the order of the program. Ethan is moved to a chair a few yards away. He shrugs at me and talks to the gorgeous girl next to him. She bats her mascara-coated eyelashes at him and smiles with perfect white teeth.

Click, click. Click, click.

Sunday, December 25

It’s four o’clock in the morning.

I wake up out of habit. Every Christmas Brodie runs screaming into my room right about now and tells me it’s time to get up. I’d throw something at him. He’d leave, but not before my sleep was ruined. I guess he’s finally grown out of it.

I’m almost disappointed.

It’s times like these when family traditions mean the most to you.

 . . . . . . .

Three hours later Brodie and I jump on Mom and Dad’s bed. “Wake up, it’s Christmas!”

Dad grumbles something and rolls over. Brodie and I head downstairs.

The tree is lit, and even though the ornaments have been up for weeks, they seem especially gorgeous. Brodie and I go through our stockings (the only thing we can open until the whole family is present) and dump out our goodies.

Natalia comes down with Band-Aids all over her hands. Last night she somehow managed to break a framed picture of Jesus and was playing in the sharp fragments. There was blood all over. Fortunately after cleaning her off we could see that she only had cuts on her fingers, and they weren’t too deep. It was not fun to clean up her room after the whole ordeal. Imagine Jesus looking out at you through splinters of wood, broken glass, and smears of your little sister’s blood. Merry Freakin’ Christmas.

Finally Mom and Dad come downstairs. We gather together, read Christmas stories, sing carols, and then start opening presents. We take turns, one by one, so that we can savor this once-a-year experience. I get a ton of books, classical music CDs, and some clothes. Mom also pays for all my make-up expenses as a gift. We eat a brunch of French Toast Casserole, omelets, and Mexican hot chocolate around eleven o’clock.

Brodie has been begging us for months to have a Family Game Night, so as a Christmas gift to him, we all sit around the dining room table playing Clue. Brodie acts out his accusations using my game piece, Mrs. White (I always get stuck with the creepy maid).

“I believe it was Mrs. White with the wrench in the library,” he says, trying to rip off Mrs. White’s head with the miniature tool. He laughs hysterically.

We (minus Brodie) are all so bored that I pick up the little metal revolver and pantomime shooting myself in the head. For a murder mystery game, Clue is unnaturally dull. We finally guess and see who’s closest. Brodie wins.

“Let’s play Monopoly!” he shouts.

“NO!” We groan simultaneously. In comparison to Monopoly, Clue is Disneyland.

We end up playing Rummikub, which Dad wins. He does a victory dance which involves him pulling down the back of his pants to moon Mom. This would normally embarrass me, but Mom is sitting right in front of the open window, so that keeps everyone’s spirits high.

Maya’s Popularity Tip

Never invite friends over to Family Game Night, unless you have close contacts in the psychiatric profession. All in all, it’s been a wonderful Christmas.

Monday, December 26

Ethan’s parents invite us to their riverside cabin tonight for a barbecue and hot chocolate along with some other families. I’m so excited. And nervous.

I dress warmly and put on an extra layer of powder and lipstick to act as a shield against the cold. It’s forty degrees tonight and I’ve realized that makeup serves as a great insulator. I’m really starting to like wearing it. It makes me feel different. Not necessarily more attractive, but more confident. Like I’m a secret agent. I enjoy putting it on.

As we drive I feel my heart race. I’m determined to talk to him.

When we pull into the driveway we greet everyone: a kiss on the cheek for the women, and a hug for the men. It’s the way everyone says hello and good-bye down here. It makes you feel wonderfully close to perfect strangers.

I huddle in a chair and concentrate on staying warm. Dad sits next to me. All of a sudden, I feel a tap on my headband. I look up, ready to chastise Brodie for touching me, but instead he is there. Ethan.

Oh. My. Gosh.

I bite my lip and am pretty sure I get lipstick on my teeth.

“Hey there,” he says, sitting on the opposite side of me.

“Hi,” I say, trying to sound normal. I wipe my teeth with my sweater but the sleeve gets caught in my braces. I yank at it for a little while until the thread comes loose. I am so cool.

“Hi, Ethan,” says Dad from his seat next to me. Ugh! I forgot he was there. I try to will him silently to leave, but as always, Dad doesn’t (or won’t) take the hint.

We talk a little about school, but all I can think about is the smug look on Dad’s face. I glare at him. Oh, if looks could kill.

Finally, he gets up for an additional round of hugs and kisses as more friends arrive. Gratefully, his opportunity to ruin his daughter’s life through embarrassment is gone. For now, at least.

I don’t know if it’s the cold or the fact that Dad’s no longer watching me, but I suddenly find myself hardly able to control what I say. Tina Fey describes this phenomenon as “word vomit.” So when Ethan mentions that the hot chocolate burned his tongue, I feel words come up my throat in uncontrolled heaves.

“When I was ten, my best friend made me hot chocolate, and she put it in the microwave for five minutes and of course I took a big gulp. I couldn’t taste anything for a week. But she was nothing compared to the friend I had in fifth grade. She was the shyest girl in school. She had a wild home life. When I went over to her house, her uncle was slaughtering a porcupine on their front porch. There was so much blood and guts and it was disgusting—”

I clamp my hand over my mouth to prevent myself from continuing.

I swallow down the rest of the story (which goes something like this: When I got home that night I was really tired so I went straight to bed. Sometime after midnight my mom received a phone call from my friend’s mother who told her I should check my crotch area for porcupine ticks.).

Ethan mumbles a “See ya,” then gets up to go fishing. Feeling mortified by my oversharing, I watch him catch a shiny sheepshead. After he lets it go, it leaps into the air, and in the moonlight becomes the purest silver I’ve ever seen. With a swift kick of its tail, it falls into the black river where it disappears.

I get up to try and find some mint gum. I need something to get this acidic taste out of my mouth. Oh well. At least I didn’t mention the crotch ticks.

Maya’s Popularity Tip

If your mouth gets you in trouble, flail your way into the nearest body of water. I wish I had.

Wednesday, December 28

Brodie’s convinced us to go to the beach even though it’s too cold to swim. Instead of going out to South Padre Island, we make the longer drive along the Rio Grande down to Boca Chica Beach. The reason Brodie likes this beach so much is because, sooner or later, everything washes up here. We’ve found so many “interesting” things on past visits:

  • A gunflint from the U.S.–Mexico War
  • An orange oil rig helmet
  • A dying pelican
  • Lots and lots of shoes
  • A fossilized horse tooth
  • Several crusty bathing suits
  • An inner tube filled with empty plastic milk jugs used by an undocumented immigrant to cross the river

AND . . .

  • On one eventful day, a brick of marijuana wrapped in plastic

The beach extends all the way down to the mouth of the Rio Grande and you can wade across the shallow river over to Mexico. It is for this reason that we have to pass through a Border Patrol checkpoint. Our family’s beach trips come complete with drug dogs and scary federal officers asking, “Mind if we check your vehicle, ma’am?” Usually though, all they want to know is your citizenship. Whenever we come here we play a very special game in the car. It’s called, “What Not to Say When Asked ‘Are you a U.S. citizen?’”

Here are our top five answers that would most likely get you taken away in handcuffs.

  • Qué?
  • I plead the Fifth.
  • Is there a right answer?
  • The question is, are you?

AND . . .

  • I am, but I’m not sure about the two kids in the trunk.

Me, Natalia, and Brodie at Boca Chica Beach with half a boat we found

Thursday, December 29

I got burned at the beach yesterday. After a month of washing my face, not eating greasy foods, and closing my pores with ice cubes (freezing my face so badly my cheeks went numb)—none of which worked—it turns out the sun baked all the zits off my face. I now have perfect skin. Minus the flaking and redness of course.

I wonder if this is the “active outdoor life,” that Betty was referring to. I have to admit, it’s a little bit painful.

Saturday, December 31

It’s the last day of the month, but more importantly, it’s the last day of the year. We’re all going over to the Montero’s house. Mr. Montero has made sushi, including vegetarian ones for me. I have on my powder, lipstick, and Vaseline. At the beginning of the month it felt like a mask. Now it just feels like me. It’s become a part of my appearance. I don’t jump back when I see my reflection.

The evening moves into nighttime at their house as I do homework on the couch. Mom has left early with Natalia who can’t handle the noise of fireworks. As I’m finishing a holiday algebra work sheet, Ethan and his family come through the door.

He smiles at me, obviously forgetting (or choosing to ignore) the earlier porcupine story incident. I smile back, trying to seem composed and normal. We talk for a while and he teaches me and some of the other kids card games. He really is gorgeous.

Finally, it’s time to go outside and light fireworks.

The sky is orange-gray with smoke. Dad stands next to me as someone begins a countdown.

“Ten!” So makeup is over and I’m still not popular.

“Nine!” The paint on my face was hardly noticed (except by Kenzie).

“Eight!” But I think there’s been a greater change.

“Seven!” It feels like I’m less afraid.

“Six!” I’m deciding now to be more confident.

“Five!” I’m going to be popular!

“Four!” And it’s okay if I hit some stumbling blocks.

“Three!” Because I’ll catch my balance and not give up.

“Two!” And whatever I’m doing will be fantastic!

“ONE!”

All the couples at the party start kissing. Dad pulls me close into a big hug. I secretly watch Mr. and Mrs. Montero and I think that if I ever made out like they are, Dad would pop a blood vessel, and my lipstick would disappear before you could say, “Popularity, here I come!”

Fireworks blaze through the darkness, and gunshots echo through the night.

Happy New Year, Betty!