The Lipstick Laws Page 6

  "Just like it's not your fault that you didn't call, right?"

  I see this is going nowhere. I need to make amends quickly or my chances of sleeping over at Britney's tomorrow will be zilch.

  "No, you're right. It's my fault. I was going to call you when I got there and I just lost track of time. You're the one who wants me to make new friends, right?" I try to project some blame.

  "Of course I want you to make friends! I want you to be happy—but I also want you to be responsible about it. That's not too much to ask, April. If your father knew about this, he'd have a ministroke!"

  Tad dramatic again ... but I pretend to agree. "I know, Mom, I'm so sorry. It will never happen again. I promise."

  "I love you, sweetheart, and I don't want anything bad to happen to you," she mutters as she squeezes me so hard, my ribs almost crack.

  Oh, Lord, if she only knew the trouble I got myself into signing the Lipstick Oath. I decide not to tell her about it. I just smile and reply, "I know, Mom. I love you too."

  ***

  That same night I wake from another horrible nightmare. I dream that I'm standing on a large stage in the middle of the school gymnasium. A big, bright spotlight is pointing directly at me. I flinch, trying to cover my eyes from the blinding glare. Britney Taylor hops onto the stage wearing an elaborate circus ringleader outfit. She's followed by Brianna, Erin, and Jessica, who are dressed as evil clowns and juggling lipstick. Britney has a whip and a megaphone, and she begins to yell, "Step right up, step right up! Behold the human tissue box! Call her a freak of nature, a useless spectacle, or my lipstick slave. Call her what you must, but just know that I own her!"

  A crowd forms around the stage, chanting, "Human tissue box! Lipstick slave! Human tissue box! Lipstick slave!"

  Britney walks up to me with her whip. She smears blood-red lipstick all over my face. And then, one by one, she proceeds to pull out 110 tissues from my sagging bra.

  It takes me a while to fall back to sleep after the night terror. I finally doze off with both hands protecting my sesame seed chest.

  ***

  My mom drops me off at five p.m. on Saturday.

  Britney erupts as she opens the door, "April, where on earth have you been?"

  She grabs my arm and drags me into the house like a blond tow truck.

  "I-I'm on time ... Right?" I stammer.

  "Yeah—but we've been trying to call you for like the last hour to come early. Oops ... I forgot, though ... someone's stuck in the 1900s without a cell phone," she gripes as I follow her up the narrow stairs.

  "Sorry, I went to the mall with my mom. What's going on?"

  "Kyle Smith and Hilary Snyder broke up."

  "Oh?" I say, not understanding how this affects me.

  Britney rolls her eyes at my naivete and says, "When the senior quarterback becomes single, you have to jump on him like a free cruise to Maui. We're supposed to be at his house in ten minutes. So, you have like three seconds to get your swimsuit on."

  Whoa ... whoa ... wait a second ... Did she just say swimsuit? Is she crazy? Holy crap, not only will my tissue boobs sop up all the water in a pool, it's fifty-four degrees outside and I didn't pack a suit.

  As if she's reading my thoughts, she says, "Don't worry, it's an indoor pool."

  "Ummm ... I didn't pack a swimsuit. I didn't know," I utter, wishing my mother was still in the driveway so I could run back to her car for a quick escape.

  "I've got you covered; I have tons of suits. Erin had to borrow one too. Too bad she looks like a stuffed sausage in it," she announces as she opens the door to her gaudy bedroom.

  "What?" Erin cries, sitting on the unsightly high-heeled chair, looking as if her life dreams have been smashed to a pulp. I shake my head, passing an empathetic expression to her.

  Standing among a pile of at least twenty-five bathing suits in Britney's bathroom, I find myself praying to God: "Dear God, please let this be a dream ... and if, for some cruel and senseless reason, this isn't a dream, but an actual living nightmare ... please let there be a minor earthquake at Kyle Smith's home that drains all the water from his pool before we get there. Amen."

  "Hurry up, April!" the girls yell on the other side of the door.

  Impatient jerks! I try on a bikini top over my stuffed bra. This clearly isn't going to work. After all, I have to leave my bra on. I have nothing to hold up my Kleenex bosom without it. God knows my real woman-sprouts aren't budded enough to hold anything up. I'll have to choose a less trendy, more functional one-piece.

  "Black is flattering," I whisper to myself as I slide on a one-piece halter. I slip my bra straps off my shoulders and tuck them into the boobicle cubicle cups. I hope no one will be able to tell that I have my bra on with about forty-five tissues securely stuffed into both sides underneath Britney's suit.

  "A one-piece? You're like the Virgin Mary, April!" Britney heckles as I emerge from the bathroom. If only that were the case. Carrying the next Messiah would be the least of my problems at this point.

  "What's that?" Jessica points to my back.

  Oh, no! This is it! I'm done for! I'm caught red-handed. My secret world of bosom sculpting is crashing down around me. I'm destined for bra-stuffing rehab in a distant boobicus minimus land, I just know it.

  Britney laughs. "I wouldn't be caught dead in that thing. That's why the tag's still on it."

  Oh, thank you, God; they're talking about the sales tag. Now, just please create that earthquake we discussed a minute ago...

  "Hang on, April, I'll get it off," Britney says, walking toward me with scissors. She shakes her head. "You know you should never wear a one-piece unless you're a lard ass or over thirty, right?"

  "Sorry," I say bashfully, looking at the ground as she cuts the tag off. I really want to ask her why she has one-pieces to choose from if they're such an atrocity. Unfortunately, I don't have the nerve to ask.

  The car ride to Kyle's house is totally uncomfortable for many reasons, among them the following:

  Erin is driving like a bat out of hell, still jacked about the stuffed sausage comment.

  I tied the halter too tightly around my neck ... and I can barely feel anything below my shoulders.

  Jess and Brianna are fighting over whose wrists are skinnier, and I'm in the middle of them.

  And...

  I'm trying desperately to come up with an excuse not to swim.

  ***

  The Smiths are local celebrities because of their big New York State Lottery win five years ago. Their house is sickening, it's so big. Gorgeous Kyle Smith is waiting for us outside. He leads us into the dreaded pool house. I'm too scared to check him out because of Lipstick Law Six. I don't even dare make eye contact with him. I know Britney has the hots for him, and any communication—including nonverbal—is a definite Lipstick Law no-no.

  I wrap a beach towel around my shoulders like a shawl and sit by the edge of the Olympic-size indoor pool. While the others splash and laugh in the water, I'm determined to sit on the deck like an unmovable cement statue.

  "Come in, April," Jessica pleads.

  "That's okay. I can't swim, but I'm having fun watching you." Total lie, but a good one. It sounds like a logical excuse. They wouldn't want to see me sink to the bottom like a bowling ball ... or maybe they would. My paranoia takes hold.

  I'm pretty sure that Britney hasn't even noticed that I'm not in the pool. She should really learn how to play hard to get. Doesn't she know that guys like a challenge? Her incessant flirting with Kyle makes me want to hurl, but at least it keeps her distracted.

  A short, chubby boy who resembles a slug with arms and legs comes sauntering in. He has way too much body hair to be a teenager. On the contrary, I'm sure I recognize him from school.

  "What's this? A party, and I wasn't invited? What's the explanation?" His crackly voice could make a pig squeal.

  "Come in, Brandon. The water is warm, and the ladies are hot!" Kyle says, smiling at Britney. She sucks up the flattery like a s
traw.

  Ick. I know who slug boy is ... Brandon Smith—the popular junior who's only popular because of his brother. Everyone knows one of those kids—not a prize to look at or talk to ... but the random coincidence of having a gorgeous, athletic older brother vaults the younger sibling into popularity through no effort of his own.

  "Cannonball!" the large oaf shouts as he flings himself off the side of the pool in an upright fetal position.

  I quickly move out of the way, but my fast reflexes aren't enough. I'm soaked. Luckily, the towel covering my chest area has protected my tissues from the damage that could have been done by the flooding.

  Dear God, I pray, Thank you for the earthquake. Although I didn't mean for it to be caused by a showoff performing a cannonball, I appreciate the effort. Amen.

  "Why's a pretty lady like you sitting like a wallflower?"

  Shoot, Brandon has spotted me.

  "I can't swim," I explain.

  "Everyone can swim. How hard is it? You just do this." He flails his arms vigorously.

  "I assure you, if I did that, I'd drown," I say, thoroughly unimpressed.

  "Oh, yeah? Would you really?" he mocks.

  It's at this very moment that my whole life and bra-stuffing addiction flash before my eyes. He grabs my legs like a tug-of-war rope and pulls me into the deep end of the pool. Water goes up my nose, my tissues are engulfed by liquid, and I immediately pop to the top of the pool with a bloodcurdling scream. I pull myself up on the deck and speed like a demon to the pool house bathroom. Everything happens so fast: if it hadn't been for my death screech, I'm sure no one would've even noticed.

  "I thought you couldn't swim!" Bandon yells behind me.

  I sit in the huge wood-paneled bathroom for a good while, panicking, crying, and trying to come up with a plausible solution for my lumpy, soggy problem that was once my voluptuous fake boobage. I quickly scoop the mess out from my chest and dump the drenched tissues in the toilet. The weight of all the sponged-up water makes enormous plop sounds as if I'm taking a gigantic poo.

  "I hope no one can hear this," I whisper to myself.

  Knock, knock, knock—Jessica and Brandon pound on the door.

  "You okay in there?"

  "No, I'm not! No thanks to Brandon!" I reply.

  "Sorry, April. I didn't know."

  Yes, he did. I grimace. I told him I can't swim. Sure, it's a lie, but he doesn't know that.

  I look at my flat bare chest against the shiny black spandex of the suit in the mirror. What am I going to do? My clothes are in the other room. I'll have to walk out at some point to get them. Oh—please go away, guys ... so I can sneak out.

  "We're not going to leave until we know you're okay," Jess says.

  "I'm okay!" I whimper.

  "It doesn't sound like it. Sounds like you're taking a massive dump!" Brandon so pleasantly announces.

  "It seems like you could swim all right. So what's the matter?" Jessica asks.

  "I'm fine, guys. I'm just allergic to chlorine," I say brilliantly on the spur of the moment.

  "Oh my gosh! Do you need a doctor?" Jess panics.

  "No! Oh—no ... Please ... I'll be okay ... I'm just sorta sick right now."

  "April, I'm staying right here. You say the word, and I'll call 911."

  Yes, sure, that's all I need ... the paramedics to come and find a perfectly healthy girl who has locked herself in the bathroom, completely hysterical over the remnants of her spongy chestoid tissues in the toilet. That would be a sure ticket to the loony bin, if you ask me.

  "What's wrong with her?" Brianna and Erin squeal outside the door.

  Great, this is becoming a huge freak show.

  "She's sick, diarrhea," Brandon whispers, loud enough for me to hear.

  "Guys, I'm fine. I'll be okay. Go back in the pool."

  I have to think quick on my feet. They aren't leaving, and they're becoming more persistent by the second. I quickly glance down ... and bingo. That's when I see it—a roll of nice, dry toilet paper. I begin unraveling it in heaps and stuffing it into the top of the suit. Yeah, it's soaking up some of the water from the bathing suit, but it's holding up pretty well. It will definitely be good enough for me to walk out to get my sweater and jeans.

  I emerge from the bathroom five minutes later, completely embarrassed and thinking my social life is over.

  "Took you long enough. Are you okay?" the girls ask, following me into the other room, where my clothes are hanging innocently in a closet.

  "I just need to get dressed," I say, shooing them out of the changing room. "Privacy, please!"

  "Damn, she used all the toilet paper and clogged the pot! Funny thing is, her shit doesn't even stink!" I hear Inspector Brandon yelling from the bathroom.

  ***

  "Thanks for almost drowning, April. It gave me some alone time with Kyle," Britney says with a devious grin. "He's an amazing kisser."

  We're finally back at her house. I've changed into my pajamas and am trying to erase the trauma of the night from my mind.

  Jessica comes closer, inspecting me for death bumps. "Why didn't you tell us you're allergic to chlorine?"

  "Well, I know what good friends you are ... and I felt like if I had told you, you might've canceled your plans. I didn't want to ruin your fun," I say, trying to make them feel guilty.

  It's unsuccessful.

  "We wouldn't have canceled," Britney says impatiently. "Don't act like some saint, April. I'm allergic to peanuts, but I wouldn't ban everyone else from throwing a peanut butter party. Anyhow, considering the geek procedure you pulled, I can't believe that Brandon thinks you're hot. I mean, you looked like a total nerd-herding chumpnut tonight."

  "What?" Erin, Brianna, and Jess blurt simultaneously, as if they're sharing the same brain.

  "I'd rather not know," I mutter under my breath.

  "Yeah, Brandon totally digs April. He even asked if we want to go to Troy Hoffman's annual bonfire in two weeks. Yummo! What I wouldn't do to get with Troy. If only I could find a way to bump off his girlfriend," she says casually, picking at her fingernail polish.

  "April, did you hear that? Brandon invited you to Troy's bonfire party! You're so lucky! He digs you, and he's totally popular," Jessica recaps.

  Getting invited to Troy's party is a big deal; he's the most coveted guy in Penford High School. But getting invited to accompany Brandon the slug makes me want to vomit.

  "Ummmm ... no, I'm not going," I state matter-of-factly.

  "Ummm ... yes, you are!" Britney argues.

  I throw up a little in my mouth. "Brit, I think he's beyond repulsive!"

  "It doesn't matter what you think. According to Lipstick Law Seven, your decision is based on the group as a whole. Brandon is totally popular—and you're totally going!" she demands.

  "I don't even know if I'll be available," I reason.

  "Oh, yeah, like you have other plans. What, with your dork-tower brother? If you're not already available, you'll make yourself available!" She twists her lips into a scowl.

  I loathe her. Unfortunately, I lipsticked my soul to the twit.

  "But you know I like Matt, and I'll ruin things with him if I go out with someone else," I say.

  "Boo-hoo! The sacrifices you have to make for friends..." Britney says, antagonizing me with a fake smile.

  I temporarily pause at the word friends. She's right: If I screw this up, I may not have any friends at all. But, on the other hand, friends should want what's best for me, right? And, clearly, Brandon is not what's best for me!

  "Brit, I can't—"

  "You're not even dating Matt! Come to think of it, you haven't even talked to him on the phone, have you?"

  I look down with embarrassment. It is pretty pathetic now that she says it like that. I don't have a cell, and I don't want to give him my home number. I mean, I can't risk my brother answering the phone and humiliating me.

  "You have to get over him!" Britney points her finger at me heatedly. "I've liked Kyle s
ince the sixth grade, and since I can't have Troy as long as he's with that skanky girlfriend, Kyle will have to do. And you're not going to ruin my chances with him!

  "Since Kyle and Brandon are brothers, and Brandon likes you, you'll have to pretend to like him as long as I need you to. That means you can't talk to Matt until I say so! Or else, you'll be violating your Lipstick Oath."

  Enough with the Lipstick Laws already! I feel like strangling Brat-ney!

  "Anyway," Erin says to antagonize me, "you know Brandon is going to kiss you, right?"

  I raise my voice. "No way. I can assure you I will not be kissing Brandon Smith ever!"

  Jessica tries to calm me. "You'll be fine, April. There'll be so many people at the bonfire, you guys might not even be alone to make out."

  "Remember Emma last year?" Brianna recalls hauntingly. "He totally harassed her, and now she's at a private boarding school."

  "I heard she has a lip ring and wears black lipstick now, too. What a freak funnel." Britney laughs.

  "What happened?" I yelp in fear, suddenly forgetting how mad I am.

  "They went on a date last year, and not only did he say she's the sloppiest, most disgusting kisser ... he pulled tube socks out of her bra!" Britney cackles.

  The other girls burst into laughter.

  "Can you imagine? Someone actually thinking that she can get away with stuffing tube socks in her bra?" Erin says. "Pathetic!"

  I glance down at my toilet-paper-padded chest and tremble in terror. The horrifying thought of Brandon the slug releasing tissues from my bra like caged doves keeps me up all night.

  Chapter Seven

  I'm in so much pain, I can barely breathe. My feet are throbbing, and I have no idea how I'm going to get through the night. I don't care if these horrendous lime green torture chambers are from a Paris fashion show. They are hideous, and they hurt! At this point, I'd rather be wearing swimming flippers or clown stilts than what Britney made me change into.

  "Remember Lipstick Law Two, April. Shame on you," Brit scolded earlier this evening. Apparently, she didn't approve of my original shoe choice. "Here, put these on."

  "But Brit ... these are a size six and a half. I'm a size seven and a half."