Never Wear Red Lipstick on Picture Day: (And Other Lessons I've Learned) (4 page)

CHAPTER
5

Makeup Makeover

MOM IS SITTING ON THE COUCH
with her arms folded when I get home from school, and Timmy is right next to her mimicking the move. The twins are on a blanket in the middle of the living room, dumb baby toys all around them, which is just ridiculous because they are lying there like globs instead of playing with them.

“Why are the twins awake?” I ask, dumping my book bag and lunch box next to the front door. “They are supposed to be in bed so we can have ­special you-and-me time.”

“Maybe you should spend more time worrying about what you're doing rather than the twins,” Mom says. “Or Timmy, for that matter. Perhaps you'd care to explain what happened to all of the things you were supposed to clean up in the toy room?”

I glance at Timmy, and he is giving me his best dirty look, but he is not very good at making the face—mostly, he is just squinting his eyes closed. And everyone knows that the best way to give a dirty look is to glare with your eyes open.

“We're waiting, Mandy,” Mom says. “Fess up.”

“If you know already, then why are you asking me?” I say.

“I want to hear it from your own mouth,” Mom says. “What did you do with the toys I told you to clean up?”

“Those were not my toys,” I explain. “They were Timmy's. So I put them in his room.” ­Actually, I put them in Timmy's closet, in one giant pile on top of all of his shoes, but I do not include that detail.

“LEGOs in my sneaker!” Timmy cries out then. “It hurt my toes.”

“You're the one who keeps wanting me to play hide-and-seek,” I tell him. “I was hiding them for you.”

“Nice try,” Mom begins. “I think the words you're looking for are ‘Sorry, Timmy.' ”

I do not say anything at first, because I do not like apologizing to a preschooler for cleaning up his toys. Even if I did not put them in the right spot, he should thank me for helping him at all.

“I'll wait,” Mom says. “The longer you take, the longer it will be before you get started putting all of the things you dumped in Timmy's closet back in the toy room—in the correct bins this time. And if you don't finish, well, guess what? There's a new episode of
Rainbow Sparkle
on TV tonight, isn't there? And I know who won't be watching it.”

I scrunch up my lips and clench my hands into fists, because I absolutely, positively hate when Mom takes away Rainbow Sparkle's TV show as punishment, because she knows it is my favorite show ever.

“Sorry,” I say slowly, but I keep my top and bottom teeth locked together so that it comes out as a hiss.

“Sorry who?”

“Sorry, Timmy,” I finish.

“That's better,” Mom says. “Now scoot upstairs and start bringing everything you dumped up there back to the toy room. And organize it so all the toys are in the right places this time, or else you're going to have to start over.”

I turn on my heel and march up the stairs. When I reach the top, I walk into Timmy's room, which is a place I try never to go. The wallpaper is dark blue with planets all over it, and his bedspread is covered with dinosaurs, which does not even make sense because dinosaurs do not live in outer space. His room is much smaller than mine, so when he gets out of bed, he almost steps into his closet. His closet doors are wide open now, and all of the toys that I dumped inside are spilling out onto the floor.

I bend down and try to scoop up a big handful, but half of the LEGOs fall out of my hands before I can even stand. At this rate, it is going to take me all night to clean up Timmy's mess. I am going to need to find a big container to dump all of the toys in first. Yesterday I used two sand buckets, but they are still in the toy room, and I do not want to go all the way downstairs and pass Mom, Timmy, and the twins again in order to fetch them. Instead, I walk out of Timmy's room and into Mom and Dad's. I know Mom keeps a giant basket in their bathroom for dirty towels—that will be perfect for moving Timmy's toys.

I walk past their bed and into their bathroom, and I do not think it is fair that they get one in their room and I have to share the hallway bathroom with Timmy. I told Mom once that I would share her bathroom with her and Dad could share with Timmy, but Dad said, “Absolutely not” (though Mom seemed to think this was a pretty funny idea).

I tiptoe into their bathroom and stare at myself in the gigantic mirror above the sink. The mirror in my bathroom is big enough to see just my face, and that is only if I stand on a step stool, so I like this mirror much, much better. I take my hair down from its ponytail and lift Mom's round brush from the counter. I run the brush through my hair over and over, and it is pretty tangly at first, if I am being honest. But I count my brushstrokes until I reach fifty, which is how many times Rainbow Sparkle likes to be petted on her show. My hair looks very shiny then, and I open the middle drawer in between the sinks to see what else I can find.

I take out a bottle of Mom's favorite lotion and squirt a gigantic glob onto my hand. I run it back and forth in between my fingers, just like I see Mom do, but there is so much of it that I have to rub it on my face and my neck and my feet, too.

I dig farther into the drawer until I find it: Mom's makeup bag. Mom says I am allowed to wear makeup only on Halloween, but she gets to wear it much more than that, which I don't think is fair. I dig through the bag and find a container of pink blush, which I spread onto my cheeks and forehead and chin with a large, ticklish brush. Then I find the black mascara, and I remove the wand from the tube and try to place the stuff on my eyelashes very carefully, opening my eyes wide in the mirror so I can see better. The mascara ends up all around the outsides of my eyes, but the black dashes look like Rainbow Sparkle's whiskers, so I still like them.

At the bottom of the bag I find my very favorite type of makeup ever: lipstick! There are four tubes of lipstick in here, and I open each of them so I can decide which one is best. One is orange like a bad suntan, and I think Mom should throw it out immediately. Another is pink like a baby blanket, and I hate pink. The third is purple, like a really dark periwinkle, and I am about to put it on my lips, but I decide to open the fourth tube first.

And in the last tube is a brand-new, never-­before-used, beautiful cherry-red lipstick. Slowly, I screw up the bottom of the tube, so that the ­lipstick slides out from the top in a perfect point, just like a rose growing out of the dirt. If this were my lipstick, I would use it every day, and I do not understand why Mom has not even worn it once yet. I wait until the lipstick is poking all the way out of the tube, then I lean very close to the mirror, place the smooth part from the top of the lipstick on my bottom lip, and spread. I do the same for my top lip, pressing my lips together like I see Mrs. Spangle do after she puts her lipstick on after lunch, and then pop them open again. I give my best Picture Day smile into the mirror, rub some lipstick of f my teeth with my finger, and then clap my hands together once with excitement.

And I am fairly certain that I have never looked more beautiful in my life.

I place all the makeup back in the bag, and the bag back in the drawer, along with the lotion and Mom's hairbrush. Then I stick the tube of ­cherry-red lipstick in my pocket, grab the ­laundry basket from the corner, and tiptoe out of Mom and Dad's bathroom.

And I do not even mind too much that I still have to clean up all of Timmy's toys, because I have found it: the perfect new accessory—one that Dennis cannot steal, because he can't scrape it off my lips, and one that Natalie cannot copy, because she is much too boring to wear lipstick.

And I think I am going to be the best-­looking one in our class photo this year, because nobody else will be wearing cherry-red lipstick on ­Picture Day.

CHAPTER
6

Sharper Shoes

WHEN I CARRY THE LAUNDRY BASKET
full of Timmy's toys downstairs and toward the toy room, Mom does not even say,
Thank you for cleaning up ­Timmy's mess, Mandy
. Instead, she says, “What did you do to your face?”

She yells it, actually. Loudly. So loudly that it makes a twin start crying, which serves her right, if you ask me. But before I can even answer, Mom continues, “Are you wearing my makeup?”

“Yes,” I answer honestly.

“Why do you have my makeup on your face?”

“I had to practice,” I explain.

“Practice for what?”

“Picture Day,” I answer.

“You are not wearing makeup for Picture Day,” Mom says. “You are in second grade. This isn't Halloween.”

“I'm not going to wear
all
of the makeup,” I say. “Just the lipstick.”

“Oh no, you are not,” Mom says. “Eight-year-olds do not wear lipstick.”

“But why?”

“Because you're too young.”

“I'm not a baby.”

“I didn't say you were a baby, I said you were too young.”

“But I like it.”

“Just because you like it doesn't mean that it's appropriate, let alone for Picture Day.”

“It makes me happy,” I say in my sweetest voice, but Mom still looks annoyed at me.

“That still doesn't mean it's appropriate,” Mom says. “You can wear lipstick when you're older.”

“How old?”

“Eighteen,” she answers, and my eyes grow as wide as pancakes then, and I drop the laundry basket on the floor with a crash.

I do the math quickly in my head. “That is in ten years. That is way too long.”

“Maybe sixteen,” Mom says. “But definitely not eight. Now go clean yourself up.”

“Please?” I drag out the
e
in “please” so that it sounds like its own word. “Pretty, pretty please?”

“You know, Mandy,” Mom begins, lifting the wailing twin onto her hip, “I was thinking about taking you along to run some errands at the mall tomorrow—just you and me—”

“For Picture Day?” I am suddenly very excited. “To get me a new accessory?”

“No, to buy you and Timmy new shoes. Your feet are growing faster than your shoes can keep up with them. But I thought you'd like to come along and pick out your own pair.”

“Yes!” I answer. “Yes, I would like to go and pick out my own pair. Pretty, pretty, pretty please with whipped cream on top?”

“I don't know,” Mom shakes her head. “With you being so uncooperative these past couple of days, I think I'm going to have to change my mind and bring Timmy—”

“No!” I interrupt her. “I will stop being ornery. I would like to go to the mall. Please.” I scoop the toys that have fallen out of the basket back inside as fast as I can, just to show Mom how cooperative I'm being.

“That's a good word—ornery,” Mom says. “How do you know that?”

“Mrs. Spangle taught it to me,” I say, but I do not tell her the part where Mrs. Spangle
called
me ornery, because I know Mom will ask what I was doing, and that is not something I would like to explain.

“And what are you going to do about your face?” Mom asks.

“Wash the makeup off,” I say. “I will do it in a lick and a split. I promise.”

“That's more like it,” Mom says. “Keep being this cooperative, and we have a mall date for tomorrow.”

“I will,” I tell her, because not many things are worth cleaning up Timmy's toys and scrubbing cherry-red lipstick off of my mouth, but going to the mall with Mom is certainly one of them.

When I wake up the next morning, I stretch toward my toes slowly until I remember: It is ­Saturday, which means it is mall day, which means I get to choose my own pair of new shoes. And this is much better than having Mom choose new shoes for me, because she tries to make me wear shoes with laces, and I hate to tie laces.

“Wahoo!” I call out to myself, and I jump out of bed faster than I have ever jumped. I turn my bedroom doorknob so that the door flies open, and I pad down the stairs quickly.

“I am ready!” I announce as soon as I get to the kitchen, even though I am still in my nightgown and even though Dad is the only one there.

“Ready for what?” he asks before taking a sip of his coffee.

“Mom is taking me to the mall,” I explain. “You are not allowed to come. You have to babysit Timmy and the twins.”

“Sounds like fun. I think we'll all go,” Dad says with a smile.

“No! Mom promised. Only me. No twins.” I say the last two words like there is an exclamation point after each of them. “And no Timmy. You can come, I guess, if you want to leave them home alone.”

“I was just teasing you, but thanks for the halfhearted invitation,” Dad says. “I don't think you're going today, though—Mom said she wanted to clean out the garage.”

“What?! But I can't wait a whole other day,” I tell him.

Dad shrugs. “You can take it up with your mother,” he says. “Doesn't matter to me.”

“
Mooooooommmmmm
,” I yell, dragging her name out so that it is many, many syllables, and then I remember that I am still supposed to be acting cooperatively, and I don't think Mom will think shouting is being “well behaved.” “Where is she?” I ask Dad.

“In the twins' room,” Dad says. “And try to keep your voice down—Timmy is still sleeping.”

I run to the twins' room and open the door slowly. Mom has both of them propped up on the changing table, and they are wiggling like ­octopuses.

“Oh, good,” Mom says when she sees me. “Help me keep a hand on them, will you? They're wiggle worms today.”

“No, thank you,” I answer, because I try to never, ever touch the twins, especially when they are smelly and damp on the changing table. “When are we going to the mall?”

“After you help me with the twins, like I asked you to,” Mom says.

“So today?”

“Yes, today,” Mom says. “Now get over here. Keep a good grip on Cody while I change ­Samantha—careful, he'll try to get away from you.”

I hold the twin down by his thighs, but he tries to reach out and pull my hair, so then I hold his hands down, too. “Knock it off, twin,” I say.

“Mandy, his name is Cody,” Mom says. “How would you feel if he called you only ‘Girl'?”

“I would not care,” I say, because the twins do not even talk yet, so it is a silly question. “What time are we leaving for the mall?”

“After you change Cody's diaper for me,” Mom says, grinning at me out of the corner of her mouth.

“That will never happen,” I tell her.

“Well, it was worth a shot,” she says, fastening the sticky tape on the other twin's diaper. “Here, carry Samantha to your father, and once you're all dressed, we'll get going.”

I grab the twin around her waist like a sack of laundry and haul her to the kitchen.

“Here.” I dump her on Dad's lap. Then I jog up the stairs and change out of my nightgown as fast as I can.

And even though I want to, I do not take the cherry-red lipstick out from under my mattress and smear it on my lips, because I am very good at being cooperative today.

Mom holds my hand as we walk through the mall toward Small-Fry Shoes, and I skip next to her, because I am happy we are out together with no strollers and no diaper bags and no Timmy and no twins.

I also skip because Mom is walking very, very fast and my legs are much shorter than hers.

“Here we are,” Mom says as we walk into the shoe store. “Go see what you like, but remember, only one pair.” I let go of her hand to examine the thousands and millions of beautiful shoes on the shelves. I run my hand over a pair of sneakers with tie-dyed laces, and I pick up a blue shoe with glittery fireworks spreading across the toes. But then I see them: the most perfect, wonderful pair of shoes I have ever seen in my whole life. I lift one of them very carefully, using only the tips of my fingers so I do not leave any smudges, and I examine every inch of it.

The shoes are pale lavender, just like the crayon that sits next to the periwinkle one in my box of 152 colors. And they have flowers decorating the toes—flowers that stick out in every direction, which is much better than just having flowers painted on. Plus, some of these flowers are periwinkle, which is the best color in the whole universe.

But the flowers are not even the best part of this pair of shoes; the best part is that they have a heel—a real heel that would click-clack on the ground. And I have always wanted a pair of click-clack heels.

I carry the shoe over to Mom, who is looking at dinosaur sneakers for Timmy in the boys' section.

“Look,” I say to her.

Mom glances over at me. “Pretty,” she begins, “but impractical. We're looking for shoes you can wear every day. Do you think Timmy would like these dinosaur ones?”

“I will wear these every day,” I tell her. “I promise. Every single day. Did you see the flowers? Some of them are periwinkle and everything.”

“I said they're very pretty, but they're not the kind of shoes we're looking for today.”

“But you said I could pick my own pair,” I remind her. “And these are exactly the kind of shoes
I'm
looking for. I can even wear them on Picture Day.”

“No one will be able to see your shoes in the school picture,” Mom points out.

“But I will know I am wearing them,” I reply, “which is the whole point of good shoes anyway.”

Mom grins at me then, just a little bit. “You have a point,” she tells me. “Well, there's no harm in you trying them on, right? But if they don't fit or they're uncomfortable, we're choosing another pair.”

“They will be perfect!” I assure her, and I bounce up and down on my tippy toes because I am so excited to get these shoes on my feet.

Mom approaches the salesgirl who is leaning against the cash register. “Can my daughter try on these shoes, please?”

“Sure,” the girl says, and she has a string of earrings flowing all the way up her ears. At the very top of each ear is a small flower, and it almost matches the flowers on my perfect shoes.

“Slide your foot in here,” the girl says to me, and she takes off my shoe and pushes my heel all the way back against the edge of the size machine, which is cold against the bottom of my foot. “Size two,” she announces, moving the metal bar on the machine to the tip of my longest toe. “I'll be right back.” She picks up the sample shoe and walks with it into the room at the back of the store.

“Just so you know, Mandy,” Mom begins, “if you really want to get these shoes once you try them on, that's it. No other new shoes and nothing else for your Picture Day outfit. You'll wear your periwinkle dress from the Presidential ­Pageant. Understood?”

“Yes.” I nod my head ferociously. “These shoes are worth it.”