Part 21 (1/2)

”Oh,” I said, feeling oddly relieved that this stranger hadn't just had uninterested parents who gave their kids numbers instead of names. Why that would matter to me was, at that point, beyond my ability to even wonder.

She took some cream and rubbed it between her hands. ”The last girl came with full makeup. Can you believe it? Where do they get these rubes, you know? Did she think she was going to her prom or something? Can I clean up your brows? You've got some stragglers.”

I didn't really answer, just kind of grunted, and felt her yank hairs off my face.

”I like your hair,” she said. ”Where'd you get it cut? Astor Place?”

”Willow Street,” I said truthfully.

She shrugged and started brus.h.i.+ng powder over my forehead. ”It's easier for some people to change their minds than their hair, you know?”

I smiled. It was weirdly relaxing having her work on my face.

”But I work with these kids, at Sloan? They're in the chemo ward, right, so they have no hair? But I go in Sundays, and you know, they are so sweet, those little girls. I mean, they have no eyelashes, most of them, so mascara is out, but they love the lipstick, I tell ya.”

”You volunteer in the cancer ward?” I asked.

”Yeah,” Seven said. ”I figure everybody should get to feel gorgeous, you know? A little lipstick, some blush...gives us something to hide behind and then, whoosh, out comes our beauty, right? Close your eyes.”

I closed my eyes. She brushed mascara over my lashes, with a slight jiggling movement at the start of each stroke. Kids with cancer. Now on top of feeling c.r.a.ppy about myself for all the terrible stuff I'd done, I also had to come face-to-face with the obscene grandiosity of my petty self-loathing. I had a h.e.l.l of a nerve bemoaning my fate when the last girls getting made up by Seven had no eyelashes no eyelashes. Is it possible to hate yourself more than completely?

”And these kids,” Seven was saying, ”oh, they kill me. One girl, this girl Lisa? She always wants smoky eyes. So cute. Okay, you're good.”

”I'm what?” I asked.

”You want a natural look for these,” Seven said, then leaned close and whispered in my ear, ”Don't let Filonia scare you. She's amazing, the best, right? Go ahead. Good luck. You've got the look, that's for sure. Nico should be here for the interview; I don't know where he is, but I'll stick around in case you start getting s.h.i.+ny, no worries.”

”Can we go?” Filonia barked from the other room.

I stepped out and she looked me up and down. I may have smelled bad, because her nose twitched a little. ”What else did you bring?” she asked.

”Biology textbook?”

A guy walked in holding a tray of coffees. n.o.body seemed to notice him.

”Why are you wearing red?” Filonia asked me.

”Um,” I said. Filonia crossed her arms and waited. ”Because my best friend fooled around with my crush?”

The guy laughed. Filonia rolled her eyes. ”Nico, make yourself useful, would you?”

I couldn't help noticing that Nico's haircut looked a lot like mine.

”You want me to interview her while you shoot her?” Nico asked. n.o.body answered. I a.s.sured myself that n.o.body was going to shoot me with bullets, just cameras. At that point, I wasn't sure which would be my preference, given the choice.

Filonia blew air from her lips up to her hair. ”Clothes,” she said to me. ”That's all you brought?”

I nodded.

She clucked her tongue. ”Sit,” she said. I turned to where she was pointing, a metal stool across the room. Filonia muttered to herself, clamping cords on lights. She held a black thing the size of my cell phone right in front of my face, clicked a b.u.t.ton, looked at it, scowled, and repeated a few times.

I was obviously doing it all wrong already. Then things got worse.

Why? Well, for one thing, she was taking pictures of me. How had I forgotten that having my picture taken, even a snapshot with my sisters or on my birthday as a little kid, had always sunk me armpit-deep in despair and self-loathing? And this was more than a snapshot. She must have taken, like, a thousand shots.

That was the good news, I told myself-out of a thousand pictures there's got to be a good one, right? Even the Fascist would look good in one out of a thousand, especially shot by (supposedly) the best photographer in all of New York City.

The bad news was pretty much everything else. The girl who was there just before me was much better. She really knew how to do it, according to Filonia. She had so much energy, that other girl; she was alive in every picture. I, apparently, was dead. The girl Friday afternoon, Filonia called to Seven and Nico-what was her name? Siddhartha. She was wild. They all exchanged knowing glances, and murmured things like ”accessories” and ”spicy” and then laughed happily together while I shrank on the stool.

But that's not all. Apparently the s.p.a.ces between my fingers are frighteningly pale. Filonia needed Seven to put makeup on them because they were wrecking the pictures. Oh, joy, the one aspect of myself I had never thought of obsessing over, the s.p.a.ces between my fingers and their pallor. Also my knuckles were red. (You'd think they could get together with the s.p.a.ces right there beside them and do a little pigment barter, but no.) ”Your hair looked better a minute ago,” Filonia said at one point. Seven didn't come to fix it, and I didn't know how my hair had changed in the past minute, so I smooshed it, trying to get it to revert to whatever it had just stopped doing, but then Filonia said, ”No, you're making it worse. Why didn't they tell you to get highlights? Dull, dull, dull. Now, try not to blink so much.”

I became a blinking machine. I had never before in my life been so aware of my blinking, and suddenly I couldn't keep my eyes open for more than three seconds at a go. It gave the room a strobe effect, and I started to run a serious risk of falling off the stool.

”Why are you moving that way?”

”Can I stand up?” I asked.

”Just try to smile naturally,” she instructed.

I could not summon a single muscle memory of how my face normally smiled. Had I ever smiled normally in my life? Filonia sighed and stepped away from her cameras.

”Let's try something else,” she said. She set up a chair with a table in front, hoisted my backpack on top, and told me to sit down and lean forward over it. I didn't know exactly what she meant to do, but I tried and, shockingly, did not succeed.

”Look a little more left and a little more right,” she said.

So I crossed my eyes. She snapped the picture.

”Can you do something more fun fun with your left hand?” she asked, causing my left hand to feel as if it were magically growing to twenty times its normal size and weight. I could barely lift it. The one fun thing I could think of to do with it would have been rude. I splayed the fingers on it out, which caused a whole pale-s.p.a.ces emergency again. with your left hand?” she asked, causing my left hand to feel as if it were magically growing to twenty times its normal size and weight. I could barely lift it. The one fun thing I could think of to do with it would have been rude. I splayed the fingers on it out, which caused a whole pale-s.p.a.ces emergency again.

When that was resolved, I propped my head up on top of my backpack. Filonia snapped a few halfhearted frames. ”Turn.” I turned. ”No, the other way. Your nose starts right up by your forehead on that side.”

I didn't ask where it started on the other side, just turned my head and tried in vain to stop blinking.

”Don't do so much of that,” Filonia instructed. ”What you were doing just now. Maybe a little more something else. Now you're blinking again.”

”I can't...” I started, and then stopped and tried to smile naturally.

”What's wrong?” she asked.

”I don't know how to do this,” I said.

”Do what? Just relax.”

”I'm not sure why I'm here. I don't even like to have my picture taken and I am obviously bad at it and I should be in English cla.s.s and my mother is going to kill me.”

All three of them started rea.s.suring me that I was doing a great job. Which made it that much worse.

”No, I'm not,” I insisted. ”It's okay, I'm not as spicy and not as energetic, not as alive as those other girls. Fine, I get it. I have pale s.p.a.ces and red knuckles and too-dark hair and a nose that starts in the wrong place and an oddly unwitty left hand.”

Nico laughed, one loud, barking laugh. Then Filonia and Seven cracked smiles, too. Great, that helped, everybody laughing at me. I sniffed, and realized I'd been crying. I wiped my face, and my mottled, ill-humored left hand came away streaked with mascara. Seven darted forward with a makeup sponge but Filonia stopped her. ”Hold it,” she said, and came in close with her camera, snapping away. I didn't even care at that point, didn't bother with a fake smile. I just looked at her through her camera and thought about how much I hated her right then. So what if I'm not pretty, So what if I'm not pretty, I thought. I thought. Screw you. This is who I am. You want a picture of a mess? Snap away. Screw you. This is who I am. You want a picture of a mess? Snap away.