The Essence of Awful
“What do you think of this color?” Camille asked me Wednesday in the bathroom right after last period. She was looking in the mirror at her top lip, which was a glossy pomegranate shade, unlike her bottom lip, which was matte berry. In keeping with this unexplained new makeup theme, her left eyelid was charcoal and smoky, while her right lid was gold and shimmery, with an eggplant smudge of Urban Decay crayon lining the lashes.
“Um, I think it’s a good thing that I already know you and love you,” I teased, tugging her long braid. “Otherwise I might mistake you for Cruella De Vil. What makeup memo did I miss? Did we change theme day to Wednesday this week?”
She tugged my ponytail back. “Flan, it’s called options! How else am I supposed to know whether I should dress the girl-next-door part or do the glamorous arm candy thing for my date with Xander?”
“Simultaneously,” Morgan laughed. “Maybe you should go just like this—that way Xander will get an idea of your range. Like you’re capable of being every possible type of girl out there.”
My stomach twisted up in a knot. Camille did look hilarious, but under all that crazy makeup was a girl whose heart was about to be broken when I gave her the news that I’d been putting off telling her about since I got Jade’s voicemail this afternoon.
Jade had scheduled a final, essential (“And you are the essence of essential, chérie”) rehearsal for this evening, which I was not allowed to miss. I was going to have to postpone our double date—again.
Camille noticed my face and hers fell. “I thought you liked this liner when I bought it last week.”
“I do—I love the eggplant,” I said, biting my lip. “It’s not the liner, Camille, and for the eightieth time, Xander’s been in love with you for like five years. I think he already approves of what you look like, no matter what color your lips are. But I have some bad news.”
Her half-purple, half-pink lips tightened.
“You’re bailing on me again?”
“Hey,” I said, getting slightly defensive. “It only happened one other time. You make it sound like I’m a career flake. It’s just that this week is so crazy. You should just be happy that I haven’t scared you with Jade’s threatening voicemail on speaker.”
Camille shook her head, and I started to realize that this wasn’t just something I could keep apologizing my way out of. I was going to have to prove it. She had liked Xander for such a long time—this was a huge deal for her.
“Camille, I promise, this insanity will all be over soon. Things will go right back to the way they’re supposed to be.”
“Yeah, well,” Camille said, slinging her graphic Anthropologie tote over her shoulder. “You let me know when that happens, and I’ll see if I’m free to hang out.” She didn’t say it meanly, just kind of sadly, and then she walked out of the bathroom.
Morgan started to follow Camille, but just before she got to the door, she turned around and took off her headphones. “We were all so psyched when you won Virgil Host, Flan. Don’t be a one-hit wonder, okay?”
I felt terrible. I wanted to collapse in one of the stalls so I could pull myself together. But just when I thought I was alone, I heard a toilet flush, and Ramsey walked out of one of the stalls.
“That didn’t sound too great,” she said.
“Oh, God,” I said, clapping my hand to my forehead. “Ramsey, am I the worst person in the school? I feel terrible. It’s just—”
Ramsey stood with her hands on her hips and her feet spread apart—the stance she used just before she gave us a major rallying speech on the field.
“Don’t be dramatic,” she said. “It’s not like you stole the treasury money or anything. You over-scheduled. Just make sure you consider your batting average. You’re still a rookie at Thoney, you know? We’ve only had one week with you—and we like you a whole lot—but one or two strikeouts without a solid hitting record, well, it can really drag down your stats.”
I nodded. “Thanks, Ramsey. You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. Now go do your fashion thing so we can get you back on the team ASAP. We need your offense for the game against Spence.” She started walking toward the door and called back at me, “Hope you’ve been practicing that hip check.”
I laughed to myself and thought about Alex. Luckily, hip check practice was one area where I hadn’t been slacking. I’d sent Alex a text about tonight just after I’d heard from Jade. I checked my phone but hadn’t heard back from him yet. Hmm. I’d have to give him a call later tonight after rehearsal. I definitely didn’t want to risk lowering my stats with him.
Twenty minutes later, I was just barely on time to Jade’s rehearsal—and still completely consumed with guilt. I hadn’t heard from Alex, which made me worry that he totally hated me. But because I was almost late, I was also worried about Jade hating me. So I panted up the stairs and barged into the drill hall, where a row of thirty brooding French models looked up from their stylists’ chairs at me.
“Fashionably late is not fashionable in the world of actual fashion, sis,” I heard Feb call out to me through her headset. “Come on, let’s get you changed.”
I sighed and thought about spouting off one of my many legitimate excuses—for instance, does anyone here remember that I’m also a high school student?—but I was getting sort of sick of the “Flan’s so busy” pity party, and I decided to just embrace the “Flan’s a model” party while it lasted.
I was glad to see some of the models practicing their words as Feb led me to the back of the room.
“Morp-ohhh-loh-gie,” yesterday’s cranky brunette mouthed into a mirror, showing some real improvement.
Feb shot me a sideways smile. “What’s your word, again?” she asked in a joking tone that let me know that the whole bossy sister act was just for show.
“Essence,” I said dramatically, raising my eyebrows.
Feb laughed. “Awesome.”
I shimmied out of my jeans, and Feb helped me into the newly tailored designer field hockey uniform.
“Très française, non?” I said in my best Jade voice as Feb led me to a full-length mirror to see the final product.
I’m not sure what my first full thought was when I got a glimpse of myself in the uniform. It was a combination of “This finally feels totally functional” and “I cannot believe I’m going to walk down an actual catwalk” and “Well, I do look kind of great”—but it was definitely a thrill.
From a distance, the green and gold outfit did resemble a regular field hockey uniform. But up close, the stitch work was intricate, contrasting nicely with the subtle, elegant fleur-de-lis pattern on the fabric. And I had never put on something that fit me more perfectly. The bodice of the top was snug but not constricting, and the skirt was cut just above the knee and had enough swing to it that I knew we’d be able to both tear up the field and twirl around the runway.
“Models! Places! S’il vous plaît! Vite! Vite!” came Jade’s voice through a microphoned headset.
Feb tousled my hair. “Très chic! Now get out there and become the essence of runway.”
I scurried up the stairs to join the other models on the stage. On our side of the curtain, it was dimly lit and cluttered with technical equipment, but there was a buzz of nervous energy lighting up the air. When a black-clad five-piece jazz band began playing music down below us, everything started to happen so fast. One by one, the girls in front of me started strutting their stuff. I watched their hips jut perfectly from side to side, unendingly impressed that they made walking in crazy platforms look like a barefoot jog on the beach. I just hoped I could keep up.
When it was my turn, I got a nudge from one of the models who’d already gone and started walking. It was hard to see anything past the runway because of all the lights, and I tried not to think about how many people would fill up this room tomorrow. Somehow, through my nerves, I put one gold tighted foot in front of the other and made it to the end of the catwalk. I paused to give Jade what she wanted.
“Essence,” I called out, with as much all-American attitude as I could muster. When I turned on my high heel—gracefully—and walked back up the runway, I definitely felt the rush.
Backstage, I heard my cell phone ringing and kicked off my shoes so I could make it over to my bag in time. I caught it just before it went to voicemail and was glad I did. It was Alex.
“Hey!” I said, my heart still beating fast from the catwalk. “Did you get my text?”
“Yeah, I did,” Alex said, sounding slightly annoyed. “But I got it too late. Xander and I were already waiting for you guys at Wollman.”
“Oh, crap,” I said. This was exactly what I did not want to happen. “Alex, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to keep making excuses about my schedule this week, or else I might never stop. But will you two please come to this fashion show tomorrow night?”
“I don’t know,” Alex said. His voice sounded strained. “I guess I have to see how long lacrosse practice goes tomorrow afternoon. And I definitely can’t make any promises for Xander.”
I sighed. I was in trouble with way too many people who were important to me right now. “Well, I really hope you can make it.”
Alex cleared his throat, and a long moment of silence passed, during which I heard Jade yell out, “Where is Flan? I need her!”
“Sounds like you gotta get going,” Alex finally said. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Fingers crossed,” I said quietly, suddenly feeling like the essence of a bad friend.