The Lipstick Laws (23 page)

I turn around with a burst of inner maturity and self-pride, finding myself a foot away from Mr. Hottie-Body Brentwood. His smile is contagious. Although, I notice that his face looks a little different ... I can't quite put my finger on what's changed, however.

"April! You look great!" he says, appraising me from head to toe.

"Thanks!" I blush, shoving the small bottle hurriedly into my shiny silver clutch. "I—"

I don't get another syllable out before I hear an intrusive high-pitched voice behind me. "Well, well, well ... I don't recognize you without the Brillo pad on your head."

I turn around to see a fuming Britney Taylor, arms crossed against her chest.

"Perfect timing, Bowers; you wait till I leave to try to steal my date. Get a clue; he doesn't want you."

"It's not what you think, Brit," I say, nicer than usual, hoping we can both act like grownups here.

"No?" she says crossly.

"We're ... we're just friends," I babble, looking at Matt to back up my claim with a nod. "I have a date; I don't want yours."

"Right, some freak funnel, I heard," Erin says, standing next to Britney protectively.

I ignore Erin and look directly at Britney. "I don't want to fight anymore. This whole year has been wasted on us fighting. Wanna call a truce?"

She stares at me blankly. "Nope."

"I know you weren't always like this. You were a good person before the Lipstick Laws."

"What the hell are you talking about?" She blinks wildly.

"I know that you were hurt by your parents' divorce ... and being called Donut. You only created the Lipstick Laws to protect yourself from being hurt again, didn't you?" I say, trying my best hand at psychotherapy.

A troubled expression falls on her face. Her eyes become glossy as she stares at me, frozen in thought. Is my impromptu speech actually working?

"You don't need to keep bringing the pain from your past into the present by hurting everyone around you." I strain a compassionate smile before glancing over at my friends across the room. They look panicked, most likely thinking that Britney has caught me trying to spike her drink.

She breaks her haunted gaze and snaps, "Are you trying to be a therapist, April? 'Cause therapists have to be smart. You must've missed that memo."

"No," I say. "I'm just trying to say that you don't have to be like this anymore. You don't have to follow the Lipstick Laws and hold your friends to these impossible standards. You can't be happy this way, Britney."

"They're not impossible standards for people who are worthy. And you aren't. You don't have what it takes to be one of us."

"Thank goodness," I mutter under my breath. "Listen, it doesn't have to be like this between us."

"If you're trying to make nice all of a sudden, I don't play that way." She glares at me.

"Look, we don't have to be friends. That's not what I'm trying to do here. In fact, we're probably better off not being friends."

Britney laughs exaggeratedly. "You got
that
right!"

"But," I say, feeling drained, "we can at least be civil."

She puts her hand on her hip and points at me assertively. "I'd rather drink poison than be civil with you."

For a moment I consider handing her the peanut oil bottle and suggesting that she chug it. Instead, I shrug my shoulders and say, "Hey, I tried."

I turn to Matt, who looks particularly bewildered by the situation.

"This is my cue to leave. Have a great night." I smile at him and turn to walk away.

Before I get too far, I hear Britney yell, "You may have gotten rid of your fugly frizzy hair, but there's nothing you can do to get the fugly out of your face."

I don't respond, which makes Britney even more annoyed. Her irritated tone is instantly heightened. "Why don't you look at me when I talk to you, freak funnel?"

I hear Matt and Jess plead with her to drop it and leave me alone. I feel like a spineless wimp, leaving the dirty work up to sympathetic observers. Feeling foolish, I turn around with my head held high and walk back to face her.

"Britney, c'mon, it's the spring formal! Let's just forget about us and have fun." I add, "On opposite sides of the room."

She screws her face up nastily and mimics me, "'Let's just forget about us and have fun.' Yeah, right—like that's gonna happen!"

I roll my eyes, half regretting my choice to leave her drink alone.

"Real mature, Brit. Seriously, grow up and get a life." Then I look back at Matt, who looks even more embarrassed now, and say, "Hope you have fun with that mess."

As I'm walking away, I begin to notice the crowd parting around me. People are pointing behind me, and gasps are spreading like wildfire. Before I have time to turn around to see what the fuss is about, I feel a force of air swoosh against my back ... followed by cold manicured hands groping the sides of my dress.

Before I know it, Britney Taylor has successfully captured and pulled out my chicken cutlet chestoid enhancers, presenting them unabashedly to the crowd of surprised onlookers like flopping fish made of flesh-colored Jell-O.

"Look, everyone! It's Boobless Bowers!" she shrieks in hysterics.

Before I've thoroughly processed what happened, I cover my sesame seed chest and drooping dress with my hands and hightail it to the ladies' room. I hear Britney's cackle and quiet gossiping fill the dance hall around me as I run in silent horror.

Tears flood my eyes and spill down my cheeks and onto my billowing dress below. My worst nightmare has come true. Worse yet, it all happened in front of Matt Brentwood. Now he and every other sophomore in the school know that I stuff my bra ... and that I actually have boob buds the size of small paper cuts. I'm a loser ... a boobicus minimus suffering, size 34C-obsessed, bosom-sculpting loser.

I run into the bathroom entrance, sobbing wildly. Not watching where I'm going, I bump into Darci Madison as she's walking out. Her enormous boobage stuffed into a corset-style dress is the last thing that I need to see right now.

"You okay?" she asks, concerned.

I can't process a normal response. I manage to whimper, "No boobs" like a loon before retreating into the last stall of the long bathroom.

Images of Britney Taylor prancing around the dance hall showing everyone my chicken cutlet fake boobs torment my mind as I lock myself into the cramped stall.

Am I out of my mind? Why did I think I could reason with her? She's completely unreasonable! Why didn't I just spike her drink? I was right there—the opportunity practically hit me in the face ... and I didn't do it. I knew she was bound to do something like this to me ... and I had the chance to sabotage her first ... and I didn't take it! If I had just gone through with the plan, instead of dancing around with my chestoid enhancers, she'd be hobbling around like a mutant hived freak!

Panicking, I assess the damage done to my bra and top half of the dress now that my chest has been deflated like popped balloons. My bra cups are sagging dramatically without anything to hold them up. It's at this moment that I realize my new permanent address is this bathroom stall. I am never going to let myself leave it to face the scrutiny waiting for me outside this toileted fortress.

After several minutes of crying and contemplating drowning myself in the toilet, I hear the clanking of dress shoes coming into the bathroom. God, please don't let this be Britney or anyone else ready to torture me some more. The long strides get closer and closer. I cover my mouth, holding back any noise, tears still streaming down my face.

"April?"

Phew ... It's just Melanie. But I don't feel like talking.

"April, are you in here? I know you are," she says, her shoes clanking to my stall. She taps on the door and pleads, "Talk to me!"

"I want to be left alone," I say, adding, "
forever!
"

"What happened?" she asks. "I mean, I heard what happened ... but is it true?"

"Yep," I moan, looking down at my drooping bra and dress top.

"But why: Did she catch you spiking her drink?"

"No! You wanna know why? Because I'm stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid!" I vent. "I was right there! Her drink was right in front of me ... and what did I do? I started feeling bad for plotting something like that! Can you believe it? Look where it got me! My boobs were dethroned in front of our whole school!"

"April, you're
not
stupid!" Melanie emphasizes. "You're
nice!

Nice is a good thing! It takes a strong person to fight back spite. You should be proud of yourself. I am."

"Oh, yeah ... real proud. Proud to be Boobless Bowers hiding out in a bathroom stall," I mumble sarcastically.

I know Mel is just trying to make me feel better, but she's not the one who just had her chest deflated in front of everyone. I don't need pep talks about how "nice" I am and what a "strong" person I am. I can't bear to talk about this any more without puking all over my new dwelling.

Sniffling, I say, "If it's okay with you, I want to be left alone with my flat chest for a little while. I need to think."

"Listen, I'll leave for a bit, but I'm coming back to check on you. I know you're embarrassed, but you have nothing to be embarrassed about."

"Right. Tell me that when it happens to you."

"Britney's the one who should be embarrassed! Who does that? That's sexual harassment. You could sue her!"

"Call my lawyer," I gurgle out.

She ignores my comment and continues, "Well, when you decide to come out, I'll help you adjust your dress. I'll come back in a few minutes."

I don't bother telling her that this stall is my permanent residence. I remain silent while she stands outside the bathroom door for another minute before walking out and leaving me alone.

Shortly thereafter, I'm not at all happy when Melanie returns with many more clanking shoes following her to "check on me."

"I'm still thinking!" I sniffle, annoyed that she didn't give me enough time to mourn my deceased boob buds.

"April, you okay?" Rachel asks.

"No—I'm humiliated!"

"C'mon, April. It's okay ... most people didn't even see it," Ashley says.

"Matt Brentwood saw it!" I shout miserably.

"He's not God! Who cares what he thinks?" Ashley replies forcefully.

"Yeah ... and he totally plucks his eyebrows," Rachel adds, knowing this is a huge turnoff of mine, probably assuming this revelation will make me feel better. It doesn't.

"Does not," I defend him.

Ashley calmly reiterates Rachel's claim. "No, April ... he does. I can tell. Maybe he has a unibrow without hot wax. You never know these days."

Melanie decides to interject some logic. "So what if Matt saw? You make him out to be such a great guy, but he isn't. I mean, look—he's at the spring formal with Britney Taylor—a vile, airheaded brat! He knows you guys hate each other. He obviously doesn't care about your feelings."

"She asked him," I say quietly.

"And he could have said no. He hasn't even hardly talked to you since she asked him anyhow, has he? He's a jerk!" Melanie retorts.

I don't respond; my boobage has already been stripped away, and now my friends want to tamper with my idealistic image of Mr. Hottie-Body Brentwood.

Melanie persists, "Look, we didn't come in here to argue with you. We just came in here to show you something ... something important ... really important."

"What?" I say.

"You'll have to come out," Rachel says.

"If you guys snatched my boobs back from Brit-brat, it's not like I can just go ahead and stuff them back in after what happened."

"That's not it," Mel says. "What we want to show you will make you feel better. Promise."

After several minutes of pleading for me to emerge from the stall ... and promising that they'll barricade the door to prevent anyone else from coming into the bathroom, I decide to open the door. Just for a second.

"Don't look at my chest." I cover it as I peep out the door. "What do you want?"

Melanie smiles. "You have to come out all the way first."

"Fine," I groan, continuing to guard my deflated chest and drooping dress. Immediately, I'm startled to see Mark Rhinehart next to the girls.

"What's he doing here?" I yell in dismay, turning around swiftly to return to my stall.

Melanie grabs me quickly and says, "Don't worry, April, he's harmless! Promise. Just give us ten minutes. That's all."

"Fine," I groan, more self-conscious now that a boy is in the ladies' room with us. "What do you want?"

They all smile, and Melanie moves to the sink. A bit irritated, I tap my shoe on the hard tile floor, waiting for this "important" something to happen.

"We just want to show you that you're not the only one hiding something you don't like about yourself," Melanie says as she opens her sparkling clutch to pull out a contact case.

She then takes out her contacts one by one and replaces them with a pair of glasses that were stowed safely in her clutch. I've never seen her in glasses before ... and I get what she's trying to do ... but wearing glasses is hardly the same as having your chestoid enhancers stolen in front of the school. Besides, Melanie still looks beautiful in a sophisticated, bookish way.

Like clockwork, Rachel takes over from there. "Do you ever wonder why I don't wear skirts, shorts, capris, or short dresses?" she asks me as she pulls her long black dress up to her calves. "I have cankles! Big, fat cankles! Look—my calves have eaten my ankles! I have four knees!"

She dances around goofily, showing her ankles. I can't help but give a little giggle. They're not as bad as she thinks, and they're definitely not as bad as being Boobless Bowers.

Ashley takes the lead after Rachel's ankle jig. "Mark, make sure no one comes in, 'kay?" Mark goes to the door like a security guard, and Ashley continues, "You may wish you had bigger curves, April, but be glad you don't have mine." She pulls up her dress, showing a body shaper underneath it. She pulls it off slowly like a snake shedding skin and holds it up for me to see. "Spanx—I don't go anywhere without them. Look, my dress doesn't even fit now that I'm not being sucked in. I have more rolls than a bakery." She points to her midsection, where her dress fabric is now tugging and creased.