I So Don't Do Makeup Read online

  I take a deep Frenchish breath and approach the polyester mass by the whiteboard. “Bonjour, Madame Blanchard.” I paste on an international smile.

  “Bonjour, Sherry.”

  I figure French women invented makeup, which explains why so many of them (obviously not Madame Blanchard) personify beauty and sophistication. So, probably makeup terms are all French words. “Kim est Jane.”

  “Pardon?” Madame frowns.

  How can she not get a simple sentence like “Kim is Jane”? This is exactly why we should not be speaking French in French class.

  I start over and say with exaggerated lip movements, “Kim est Jane. Kim est grosse. Yuck. Yuck.” I make a grossed-out face. “Non, non, Kim n’a pas de mascara.” I mime brushing on mascara and waggle my finger to show none. “Non, non, Kim n’a pas de lipstick.” I mime swiping on lipstick and waggle my finger again. “Non, non, Kim n’a pas de blush.” I mime patting on blush while shaking my head. “Oui, oui, Kim est Jane.”

  Madame Blanchard regards me, hands on wide hips and thick penciled-in eyebrows raised.

  I jab my chest with my thumb. “Sherry est Sherry. Kim est Jane. Non projet.” I lift my arms, crossing, then uncrossing them to show, without a shadow of a doubt, that Sherry and Kim do not mix.

  Smiling, I step back. I’ve done an excellent job of getting my point across. In French.

  A flush of anger begins at Madame Blanchard’s double chin, then spreads over her doughy face. She blasts forth a long string of sounds, heavy in the vowel department, which I can only assume is French at freeway speed. Her voice gets louder and louder. Finally, with a sausage finger, she indicates my desk and turns her back on me.

  I did not understand one single word of her tirade, but still the message came through loud and clear. I’m stuck with Kim. There is no democracy in France. Madame Blanchard hates me.

  I slump into my seat.

  “Thanks a lot,” Kim mutters under her breath. “She docked us an entire grade because you insulted her.”

  “What? How?” I sputter. “I wasn’t insulting her. I was insulting you.”

  “You called her fat.”

  “What? How?” I sputter some more.

  “Grosse means ‘fat’ for a woman in French. And Madame Blanchard’s first name is Kim.”

  “How do you know her first name?”

  “She told us.”

  I bet she told us in French. Ooh la la. I bury my head in my hands.

  I think time in France moves slower than it does in our country. And these same minutes crawl along, unhurried and annoying, in French classes around the world too.

  But, finally, the last accent mark is drawn, the last verb is conjugated and the last page of homework is assigned.

  I power outta there, off school property and over to the mall. I cannot wait to be transformed by Amber. I cannot wait to cruise the mall, bestowing Naked Makeup samples on lucky shoppers. I cannot wait to be seventeen. If only for a couple of hours.

  The minute I arrive at the kiosk, Amber’s down to business. “Have a seat and I’ll do your face and hair.” She sticks my backpack in a drawer. “Leave that here so you don’t look so middle school.”

  That Amber, she thinks of everything.

  I end up giving her my huge purse too. No point lugging it and the lotion samples around.

  I perch on the little stool by the cash register. “Where’s Lacey?”

  “Working at Discount Mart. Her shift’s over in about an hour.” Amber tugs my hair back into a ponytail. “We want you over by the main entrance, off Van Buren, with the basket of samples.” She’s like a juggling act with brushes and creams and powder. She’s talking at me, not to me, concentrating on my forehead. “That’s the busiest entrance. I got a bunch of bottles ready.” She gestures with her elbow, not skipping a beat at patting cream into my cheeks. “They turned out cute, dontcha think?”

  I turn to look and she grabs my chin like it’s a handle and pulls my face back to her. A couple more swipes with a sponge and she swivels my head. “See?”

  Miniature white plastic bottles lie nestled on butterfly fabric that spills over the edges of a wicker basket. Wrapped around each bottle is either a lavender or pink ribbon with curled ends. And each bottle has a tiny label: Silky Soft Hand Lotion by Naked Makeup.

  My heart soars. I love those little bottles. I can’t wait to hand them out. It’s my first mall job. Minus the paycheck. “They are adorable, Amber.”

  “Of course they are.” Amber presses powder on my nose. “And, before you ask, I checked the samples yesterday afternoon. No problems.” She chooses a small brush and a couple of shades of green shadow. “Close your eyes.” She dusts my eyelids.

  I figure with each stroke of her brush, Amber’s adding a month to my age. I’m probably up to fifteen years old by now!

  “Open your eyes. Look up. Don’t blink.” She sweeps on mascara. “You know how to act, right? Polite. Professional. Stand straight. Smile. No chatting with your little friends. Only approach women. Yes, some men do buy lotion, even makeup. But most of our clients are women and we have a limited number of samples.” Amber is all adult and business-ish. I’ve never heard her talk so fast. “Make sure they know where the kiosk is. And that the products are botanical.”

  Amber’s one of those people with a knock-you-over personality. When I’m with her I always feel like I’m at the bowling alley. I’m a pin and she’s a fourteen-pound ball.

  With her thumb, she smudges something at the outside corners of my eyes. “And don’t do your giggly thing.”

  “What giggly thing?”

  She rolls her eyes, her eyelashes practically grazing her forehead. “Look, Sherry, we’re counting on you. This morning Lacey had another returned gloss. The woman said she was going to blab to everyone at her office about it. We need some good publicity today. And that’s where you come in.”

  My stomach knots up at the pressure.

  She undoes the ponytail and fluffs my hair. “Perfect.” She hands me a mirror. “You’re done.”

  Wow. I look amazing. Seriously amazing. And at least seventeen. Maybe even seventeen and a half. “Wow. Thanks.”

  She just nods and tosses me a lab coat. She’s too cool to say you’re welcome. “Your skin’s looking good. Junie’ll take longer.” Amber’s scooping up all the tools and storing them in a drawer. Very organized.

  I gently glide my arm through a sleeve of the lab coat, pull it on, then slide in my other arm. Instantly, I feel older and more mature and professional. It’s like magic.

  Amber hands me the basket. “Remember, we’re counting on you.”

  I was recently a bridesmaid in my dad and The Ruler’s wedding, and I’ve still got the whole gliding wedding walk down pat. So I’m coasting along, my wedge sandals barely tapping the shiny linoleum floor.

  I’m trying my best to look professional, but it’s impossible not to slouch because the basket is way heavy, like it’s filled with bricks, not cute little Silky Soft Hand Lotion samples. The handle’s seriously chafing my arm, most likely cutting off important blood supply. I hug the basket closer to my body, where it bangs awkwardly against my left hip. Not helpful. Now I’m walking bowlegged with locked knees. I’m like a cross between a penguin and Little Red Riding Hood. This is certainly not the look Amber was aiming for.

  Far off in the distance, like an oasis, I spot the main entrance doors. Who knew our mall was the size of a mini city? Traveling from Naked Makeup to the front entrance is an Olympic workout. I’m actually sweating and my back, arm and leg muscles are tightening up.

  I pick up the pace. If I can just get near the entrance and a nice comfy bench. Surely, giving out the samples from a seated position will be professional enough. My neck has a crick. My arm is numb.

  I decide to sprint the last mile. Breathing heavily, bent over like a pretzel, I focus on the bench. Bathed in sunlight, it’s my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

  Wedge heels are not worn by runner
s for a good reason. Wedge heels are to ankles like scorpions are to crickets. Deadly.

  My feet race down the wedges and right off the sandals. My left foot turns back to look for its footwear while my right foot continues on in the marathon. My right side has always been a little more competitive. Which explains why I’m right-handed.

  My poor left ankle is all turned in and weak. I fall heavily. The basket thuds to the floor, toppling over. Many adorable bottles of Silky Soft Hand Lotion are released into freedom, rolling every which way. Their purple and pink curlicue ribbons twist like little piglet tails.

  I lie on the floor, grasping my ankle and groaning. Hopefully in a professional manner. I am definitely not doing my giggly thing.

  A circle of concerned shoppers forms around me. A mother turns the basket right side up. She instructs her children to chase down the rolling bottles and return them to the basket. A mall security guy peers down at me. “I have nine-one-one on speed dial.”

  “Sherry, are you okay?” Junie offers me her arm. She’s like a guardian angel who shows up right when I need her.

  I pull myself to a wobbly stand. “I don’t need nine-one-one.” Leaning on my BFF and balancing on my uninjured foot, I say, “Junie, could you pick up the basket?” I look around at everyone. “I’m fine. Seriously. Thanks for grabbing all the bottles, kids.”

  I pick out bottles from the basket. “Samples, anyone? Free Silky Soft Hand Lotion, a botanical product from Naked Makeup.” I point a shaky finger. “The kiosk is by the food court.”

  I am so not following instructions. I’m offering samples that have rolled all over the mall floor and were retrieved by the sticky fingers of small children. I’m giving away lotion to anyone who gets close to the basket—men, women, kids. And the way I’m hanging on to Junie isn’t even close to professional.

  People start reaching into the basket and plucking out bottles all on their own.

  A girl about my age with purple streaks and huge dangly earrings says, “What scent is it?”

  I stop. I never thought to ask. “Good question.”

  Junie already has a bottle open and up to her nose. “Jasmine, I think.”

  I stick my palm up by her. She tips the bottle and white lotion cascades out. A light flowery scent fills the air.

  I rub my hands together.

  “Ahhhhh!”

  chapter

  seventeen

  Ack! Eek! Ike!

  Something’s in the Silky Soft Hand Lotion!

  Something not silky. Something not soft. Something very thin, prickly and pointy. Many of these somethings.

  We’re back at the kiosk. Amber and Lacey are examining my hands. A deep wrinkle of worry creases Lacey’s forehead.

  “How many of the bottles did you get back?” Lacey asks me.

  “About five,” I say.

  “How many did you give out?” she asks.

  “Ten? Maybe twelve? I don’t know.” I’m in such pain I’m having trouble staying with the conversation. “It’s hard to know how many rolled away.”

  Lacey’s eyebrows jump up to her beautiful blond hairline.

  “Think, Sherry,” Amber snaps.

  “Well, basically my feet were racing in opposite directions—”

  Junie jumps in and explains how she was coming through the doors and saw me fall and the lotions go skittering all over the floor. I’m sounding decidedly unprofessional in this story. “Even thought she hit the floor hard,” Junie says, “she still worked at giving out samples.”

  With a paper towel, Amber scrubs at my hand.

  “Ouch! Ouch!” I say. “What’re ya using? Sandpaper?”

  “Sherry, don’t be such a baby,” she says. “I’m just cleaning the lotion off.”

  I close my eyes and grit my teeth in the hopes this will reduce the hot poking pain. Not working. When she stops scouring, I crack an eye. Yikes.

  Amber’s holding tweezers like she’s going into battle. And my poor tortured hand is the enemy. “Close your eyes,” she orders, then proceeds to attack my palm.

  I jerk away. “Ow!”

  She waves the tweezers and smiles. “Got one.”

  I seize the tweezers and stare at a light-colored, needle-sharp sliver. Up close, I can see that my hands are filled with them. They’re under my skin, poking through my skin, some shallow, some deeper. “Junie!” I wail.

  She brings my hands up to her glasses and really scrutinizes. “They’re from a cactus. I think.”

  I swing my hip toward her. “Call The Ruler. Speed-dial two. She’s a gardening expert.”

  Junie pulls my cell from my pocket, presses two, then holds the phone up to my ear.

  “Help! Spiny things are stuck in my hands. Help! Help!” I’m hysterical. And itchy. Itchy like I was stung by a billion mosquitoes.

  Junie grabs my phone and speaks with The Ruler. When she clicks off, she says, “Glochids. They’re very fine bristles found on cacti like the prickly pear. Apparently, there are some prickly pears by the south doors of the mall.”

  I’m flapping my hands in the air.

  “She said you need white glue,” Junie says. “Squirt it all over your hands, let it harden, then peel it off. That’ll pull out the glochids.”

  “White glue? No hospital visit? No painful shots?” I feel better already.

  “She said you’ll be fine.” Junie slips the phone back in my pocket. “But she’s worried because you were freaking out.”

  “I’ll call her back after we do the glue.”

  “Sherry, let me get this straight.” Lacey squints an eye, concentrating. “You stopped giving out samples the second this happened?”

  I nod.

  “You asked for the samples back from the customers still standing around?” She’s counting bottles, grouping them in little families of five.

  I nod.

  “We’re short three bottles.” Her arms fall to her sides. “Three bottles. They could be on the floor where you fell, right?”

  I gulp. “I guess.”

  “Or with shoppers,” Amber says.

  “Hopefully, on the floor.” Lacey looks like she’s going to cry. “If we don’t locate the missing bottles in half an hour, I’ll have the mall make an announcement.”

  “I’ll help you look,” Junie says.

  “I’m going to the drugstore to pick up glue,” I say. “Then I’ll meet you guys.”

  Amber stretches out an arm, “The lab coat, Sherry?”

  I rip it off, glad to be back in my own comfortable clothes.

  Amber stays behind to man the kiosk, check the bottles of lotion to see if they all contain glochids and check the rest of the product.

  I limp to the drugstore, my hands tingling.

  Lacey and Junie take off at a run.

  chapter

  eighteen

  After leaving the drugstore, I stagger to a bench, pull the red cap off the glue with my teeth and saturate my left palm. The glue is actually somewhat soothing.

  Yes, people are looking at me like maybe they should call security. But there comes a point with pain where you just don’t care what society’s saying.

  I stumble to the main entrance. The shopping bag’s slung over my right arm, while I hold my left hand up like it’s balancing an imaginary tray.

  Junie and Lacey are coming toward me.

  “Guess what?” Junie calls out.

  “What? What’d you guys find?”

  “All the bottles are accounted for.” Lacey’s swinging her arms and smiling. She’s carrying two bottles of lotion. Junie’s got the third.

  “Guess what else?” Junie says. “These three bottles don’t even have glochids in them. So not all the lotions are contaminated. That’s gotta mean something.”

  I’m still holding out my left arm, gluey palm facing the ceiling. I shake my poor stinging right hand. “Yeah, like maybe someone was shoving in the prickles and got interrupted.”

  “We checked out the prickly pear cacti.” Lacey tak
es the third bottle from Junie. “The bristles on them look exactly like the pokey things in your hand. It’s impossible to tell if yours came from those same cacti, because the plants are covered in the things.”

  “But, still,” I say, “the habanero juice in the gloss could’ve come from Wacko Will’s kiosk. The bristles in the lotion could’ve come from the mall garden. So, both those items are potentially local.”

  “Maybe the ingredient in the night cream is from close by too,” Junie says. “And we just don’t know yet.”

  We’re back at the kiosk, waiting for Amber to finish up with a customer before continuing our conversation.

  Lacey plunks the three lotion bottles on the counter.

  Amber makes a fist in the air. “You found them all. I checked the rest of the lotion samples. Five more bottles were filled with those pointy things.”

  Lacey’s face falls.

  “But,” Amber continues, “I went through all the opened product in the kiosk. Nothing.”

  “Amber, what time were you done making up the samples?” I ask.

  “Yesterday afternoon,” she says.

  “So the glochids were added between yesterday afternoon and today after school,” Junie says. “Who was working at the kiosk then?”

  “We both were, sometimes together, sometimes alone.” Lacey’s voice falters. “I’m really grateful for all the help, guys, but I’m totally creeped out that someone hates me enough to be doing this.” And the wrinkle crosses her forehead again.

  “Depending on the suspect”—Junie squeezes Lacey’s arm—“it might not be personal at all. More about money.”

  The glue’s dry and cracking on my palm. Junie pulls it off. Miracle of miracles, the slivers really do peel right off with it. And without pain. All that remains is a little tingle. The Ruler knows her gardening.

  “Was there anyone strange around the kiosk between yesterday afternoon and when I arrived today?” I squirt glue over my long-suffering right palm.