The Lipstick Laws (5 page)

This is something I've contemplated for several years. I've always loathed my curls and longed for straight hair. I secretly hope that Britney will agree that straightening my hair will fix everything.

"Not necessarily," she says with her finger up in prime lecture position. "Believe it or not, curly hair is coming back in."

"Really?" I ask incredulously, then sneeze. She hands me a tissue. A look of disapproval crosses her face as I blow my stuffed nose.

"Yeah, don't ask me why." She rolls her eyes. "Anyhow, you're ahead of the hair trend, so I don't think you should straighten; I just think you should tone it down a bit."

"How?" I say, hoping for a miracle answer. I've tried every product on the market to make my hair less ... pouffy. I'd love to tone down my pouffiness factor.

"We'll buy a diffuser and frizz serum at the mall."

"Okay," I say doubtfully. I blow my nose again. This, of course, is met by another look of disgust from Britney.

I smile apologetically, and she continues. "Moving on to your makeup..."

"What's wrong with it?"

"What's not?" She laughs.

The tinge of ego pain emanates through my body again.

"First, I can tell you buy cheap makeup," she says. "Second, I can see your makeup."

"Isn't that what it's for? So people can see it?" I say.

"Yes and no." She puts her finger up again. "Makeup should be subtle enough to go unnoticed. It should enhance, not mask. I mean, look at your eyes ... You have awesome blue eyes, but they don't pop at all behind all that cheap makeup."

"Right," I say, thinking it's easier to agree than debate. "Are you going to teach me how to do my makeup?"

"I'm not," she says. "My mom is."

"Your mom?" I say, quickly followed by a sniffle, sniffle, sneeze, and blow.

After another look of repulsion, Britney says, "Yeah, she's a Chanel makeup artist at Macy's. You have an appointment with her in an hour."

"I do?" My nerves rev up. Mainly because I don't like random people touching my face, thank you very much.

"Yep, so ... we should move along here," she says hastily. "Now for your clothes."

"What's wrong with my clothes? I love shopping!" I say, taking offense.

"Exactly!" she says. "I can tell that you love shopping ... in the clearance racks. Not only that, I can tell that on the rare occasions you're not buying clearance, you buy everything off of a store mannequin."

I grab another tissue and move away from the feather boa culprits as I process what she's said. She's spot on. How does she know all this? I do love good sales. Doesn't everyone? And I do get outfit ideas from the mannequin displays. But what's wrong with that? Isn't that what the mannequin displays are for ... to guide shoppers on what looks good together?

"You're too commercial," she adds. "My friends need to make the trends, not follow them."

"Okay," I say. "But what's wrong with good sales?"

"Some sales are fine. Like buy-one-get-one-half-off sales or holiday discounts. Those are good. But stay away from the clearance racks. They're last season's rejects. It's like a crime scene. You don't want your fingerprints anywhere near a clearance rack. One wrong buy will land you with the fashion police."

I have a suspicion that Britney considers herself a chief fashion police officer.

She proceeds with her lecture. "All of my friends need a fashion niche to stand out. Brianna has sophisticated, expensive taste. She's my designer fashionista friend. Jessica has trendy taste. She's my trend inventor friend. And Erin ... well—"

"She's a hippie chick, right? She likes flowy clothes," I say, hoping to impress her with my keen fashion observation ... and, in turn, distract from my sinus spasms.

"No accounting for taste." Britney laughs. "She only wears that stuff 'cause she's too big to be trendy."

Ugh ... I feel a stab in the heart for Erin. That's an awful thing to say about anyone—whether it's true or not. But in Erin's case, it's definitely not true. She has a flawless body like the rest of them. Maybe compared to Britney, she isn't petite ... but no one, except for Jessica, is petite next to Britney. I glare in the mirror critically, wondering if Britney thinks I'm fat. I feel like a huge, ugly beast next to her after all this talk about prettiness and skinniness factors.

"So, what do you want your niche to be?"

"My what?" I ask—I've forgotten what we were talking about while comparing myself to a large ogre.

"Your fashion niche? What do you want it to be?" she says impatiently.

"Oh ... I dunno," I say, scraping my brain for any possible idea that sounds halfway decent. "Maybe ... uh ... maybe I'll be a pairer?"

"A what?" she says critically. "What does
apairer
mean?"

"Um ... ummm..." I scramble for a definition, as I have no idea what it means myself. "I—um ... I'll pair new and old trends together to make innovative trends?" I say, sounding like a fool. I'm totally bluffing and am sure Britney's going to destroy me.

Instead, she exclaims, "That's a great idea!"

"It
is?
" I say, perplexed. Did she understand what I said? Because I didn't.

"Yeah! I never thought of that before. You could totally create new trends by putting random trends together that aren't usually paired. It's so fashion forward."

Oh, no. I can picture it now—me walking around in a hodgepodge trendy mess all in the name of my "pairer" fashion niche. I can hardly wait to show up at school wearing a fedora hat, Ugg boots, and a Juicy Couture tracksuit topped with a wide waist belt. Just call me fashion Frankenstein. What have I gotten myself into?

"I'll get you started!" Britney says intently, retreating into her overflowing closet.

"I don't think I'll fit in your clothes," I say, partly because it's true, and partly because I don't want to wear a ridiculous outfit to the mall.

"Sure you will," she says, her voice muffled by fabric. "You're not
that
much bigger than me."

A smile widens on my face. Britney thinks I can fit in her clothes. This statement makes me happy, regardless of my fashion Frankenstein future. Gloating, I gaze around her room, taking in all the glitter, sequins, and pink. A large red chair in the corner of her room sticks out like a sore thumb against all the pink. It's shaped like a giant high-heeled shoe. It looks unreasonably uncomfortable and awkward.

My attention then pans to Britney's bed. The pink comforter and silk sheets are crumpled together sloppily. For a girl who seems so neurotically obsessed with order in fashion, looks, and weight, she sure keeps an untidy bed. I notice a pink binder on her bedside table and immediately wonder what's in it. I make sure that Britney is still busy figuring out what crazy outfit to put me in before walking over to check it out.

The words
THE LIPSTICK LAWS
are scrolled over the front of the binder in fancy red cursive. Lipstick? I wonder if this is what Haley was warning me about ... I have to snoop! My hands are sweaty with anticipation as I open it to sneak a peek.

"What are you doing?" Britney interrupts my nosiness harshly.

I shut the binder quickly, knocking a framed picture of her and the girls off of the bedside table.

"Nothing," I say unconvincingly, reaching to pick up the picture.

Britney throws the outfit she's holding on her bed. She stomps over to me, her lips twisted in a scowl. She snatches the binder away and says, "This is off-limits! Like I said, you're a friend in training. You're still in the application phase. You haven't gotten the position yet. You won't see this again until you get the job!" She shoves the binder in a dresser drawer and closes it. "
If
you get the job," she adds with a sneer.

"I'm sorry, Britney. I wasn't trying to snoop. I promise," I fib, feeling embarrassed. At the same time, my curiosity about the Lipstick Laws spikes. What could they be? What could she be guarding so fiercely?

Britney continues to stare me down abrasively. Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, I put the framed picture back in place and try to change the subject. "You guys look so pretty in this picture."

She walks closer to me and evaluates the framed photograph. I've noticed that giving Britney a compliment is a sure way to shift her focus.

She smiles and says, "I know, right? I've got all my bases covered."

"Bases?" I say, confused by her response.

"Yeah. My friendship bases. I have a wealthy friend for VIP status," she says, pointing to Brianna. "A pretty friend for healthy competition." She points to Jessica. "And an ugly friend to always make me look better." She grins and points to Erin.

"But Erin's pretty!" I blurt impulsively. It's crazy to think anyone in Britney's exclusive clique is anything less than gorgeous.

"Trust me—she's not. You've never seen her without makeup. Besides, haven't you noticed that she looks like a ripened orange?" she responds snidely.

How could Britney say that about her own cousin? Yeah, she's slightly addicted to self tanning, but that doesn't make her ugly. She's far from ugly. If Britney says this about Erin behind her back, I don't even want to begin to think about what she says about me. I glance at her warily. "Why would you say that? Do you not like Erin or something?"

"Just because she's ugly doesn't mean I don't like her. God, I'm not
that
superficial." She rolls her eyes. "She's my cousin. I have to like her ... But honestly, I wouldn't be friends with her if we weren't related. Oh well ... You can't pick your family, right?"

A loud car horn honks outside before I have time to answer.

"Speaking of the orange devil," Britney says brightly, peering out her window. "That's her. She's taking us to the mall. Guess you won't have time to change."

A sigh of relief comes over me as I pass the horrendous fashion Frankenstein outfit she picked out for me strewn over her messy bed.

***

Once we get to the mall, Erin circles the parking lot, searching for the perfect parking space. Britney decides to use this time to "enlighten" me some more.

"I need to show you our MPOA before we get out," she says firmly, reaching into her Coach tote.

"What's an MPOA?" I ask.

"Mall Plan of Attack," Erin says, making eye contact with me through the rearview mirror.

Britney hands me a copy of the Eastview Mall directory. She's scribbled all over it with a red pen and yellow highlighter.

"As you can see," she directs me, "there are large red
Xs
over restricted areas. Low-end department stores, drugstores, Gothic stores, dollar stores, and the arcade are all off-limits. Also, keep in mind that the food court is strictly for meatball packers. You should never be within a ten-foot radius of any of these areas."

"Okay," I say, thinking this is bizarre. "So, if I can't go in these areas, where can I go?"

"Stick with the stores highlighted in yellow," she responds quickly.

"I see," I say, pretending to study the map before handing it back to Britney.

"No, no," she says. "That's your copy. Keep it. You need it more than I do."

"Thanks," I say halfheartedly, folding it into my purse.

***

Before long, I'm being painted with various makeup brushes in the middle of Macy's by Britney's lookalike mom. She explains that I have a "great canvas" and that I just need to learn to "paint like Picasso instead of a preschooler." I see where Britney gets her backhanded compliments from.

When she's finished with her masterpiece, she hands me a mirror proudly.

"Take a look," she says. "You're going to love it."

I can't stop staring at my face. Is it mine? Okay, maybe Britney was right. This new look makes a big difference. I look drop-dead ... Mr. Hottie-Body won't be able to resist me! Hopefully I'll be able to reproduce it on my own. In the meantime, I can't wait to see Brit's and Erin's reactions. They took off twenty minutes ago to prowl the store. I wonder if they'll even recognize me...

"Well, what do you think?" Brit's mom looks at me with an air of conceit. "Isn't it fabulous?"

I nod in disbelief. "I love it!"

"And ... the best part is, it's all yours."

"What's all mine?" I say.

"The makeup. Everything we used today is yours. Consider it a present from Britney."

"Oh my gosh! Thank you so much!" I beam as she gathers it all into a Chanel makeup bag.

"You're welcome, April. As a makeup artist, my job is to help people in cosmetic need, so consider yourself helped." She smiles sympathetically at me.

My face drops cheerlessly. Cosmetic need? What the heck does that mean? Wow, Britney really does take after her mom. Anyhow, I can't let that bother me. I look fab-tastic and should be celebrating, not pouting. And that's exactly what I do when the girls return, in complete awe of my transformation.

"Now we just need to tone down your Medusa mop top and you'll be good to go," Britney says, pointing to my hair.

I'm too happy about my new makeup to be upset that she's bashing my hair. If she can spread the magic to my hair that her mom used on my face, I may just be a knockout by the time the day is done. Fingers crossed.

We spend the rest of the day shopping, getting mani- and pedicures, and gossiping. I know Britney says I'm just a friend in training, but it really feels good to have people to hang out with again. Especially people who warrant stares from cute boys and jealous girls. If this gets me a social life worth socializing about, maybe I can put up with Brit's brattiness. I mean, she's the reason I have a hot new look and stocked makeup bag. Maybe, just maybe, Haley was wrong. Maybe Britney Taylor isn't that bad.

Unfortunately, after a few more weeks of being too close for comfort to the popularity princess, I find that Haley was right. Britney Taylor
is
that bad. But not only am I indebted to her for giving me a stellar makeover, I've also found that the fame of hanging out with her is too enticing to pass up. So, even though she's a certified nightmare, I don't want to wake from this popularity dream anytime soon.