Lipstick Apology (22 page)

“Why didn't you show me this?! Who is this guy? Are you hiding anything else? What do you know?” I fired questions at her, but she just stared out at the Hudson.

“LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU!” I yelled. It was my mother's words; we both knew it.

Jolie's face crumpled into her hands.

“Just tell me,” I said, softer. “What do you know?”

Jolie picked up the letter and tore it in half. “That's what I know.” The letter floated to the ground.

I eased myself back down on the couch and laid my head on the soft, green, chenille pillows. My mom had married the nice, shy kid who kept his coins neatly stacked on the dresser. Then on the sly she romped around with the charismatic golden boy. I wiped my eyes on the pillow, thinking of my golden boy. Bits and pieces of the previous night re-entered my mind. Laughing. Lamb chops. Kissing, groping. Oh God, the water bra. Did it pop? I don't think it popped. Sitting on the toilet. Projectile vomiting. Something crashing. Red puke on Trent's leather seats.

I rolled over and buried my face into the couch. I didn't know which was worse: the splitting headache, the throbbing jaw, listening to Jolie cry, or the tortuous fragmented memories of a ruined opportunity.

 

“SO, HOW'S MY GIRL?”
Owen cooed through the phone that night. “The one with zero tolerance for vodka?”

Uhhh. So it was vodka. My stomach turned. But did Owen just call me
his girl
?!
Even after the disastrous date?

“I've been through half a bottle of Advil,” I moaned. “But at least I can stand now.”

“You are so lucky that your puke didn't stain my mom's carpet or you'd be over here, steam cleaning.” Owen laughed.

Oh God. “I am so embarrassed,” I said. “I took a muscle relaxer . . .” I started to explain.

“Yeah, I know. I saw Lindsey at the gym this morning.”

“Owen? Can I ask you a favor?”

“Shoot.”

“Could we keep the muscle relaxer/alcohol disaster our little secret? Please? I'm so horrified.”

“You got it, kid. I was thinking, maybe you should come over tomorrow, hit the re-do button.”

“I really want to, but I have to work on my chem lab report,” I said. “It's due really soon and we're totally behind. It's kind of my Sunday ritual from now until Thanksgiving.”

“Oh, too bad.”

“Maybe sometime next week?” I suggested.

“That works. The only thing that'll get me through the next week is knowing that we'll be picking up where we left off.”

I giggled. “I'll see you at school.” I hung up both exhilarated and frightened. I thought about what Jolie said.
Think about what you're doing and who you're doing it with.
I wanted to make out with Owen and have fun. I wanted him to think I was sexy and confident. But I also needed to be smart, to recognize what his true intent was. I wanted to know how to set limits, how to be a girlfriend to someone popular and experienced but remain true to myself. I needed my mother to sit with me on our back porch and tell me what to do. I needed her to make me her best buttery noodles and say, “Just trust your gut and let the blank canvas guide you.” All at once I was furious at her. I was furious that she wasn't alive and I was devastated that the memory of her was tarnished by a few letters. How could I be so mad at my mother but somehow still need her to be there, to be the way she was, the way I knew her before I laid my eyes on those words of deception?

I reached into my purse for a tissue and saw the metal picture frame I had broken in Owen's bathroom. I took it out and studied it. Owen was squinting into the sun, kneeling down next to a boy in a wheelchair. They both had Special Olympics T-shirts on, and a volunteer badge hung from a string around Owen's neck.

The phone rang in my purse, startling me. It was Anthony.

“Hey,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure we're still on for tomorrow. And you still want to come to my house?”

“Um, sure. And where exactly do you live?”

“Brooklyn.”

I recalled the black and white photo of the Brooklyn Bridge hanging on the wall in Trent's salon. I imagined myself sauntering across the bridge, the cityscape a theatrical backdrop and the breeze rustling my hair.

“So you get on the F train at Washington Square Park.” He broke my reverie.

F train?
“Now when you say
train
. . .”

“Oh, jeez. The subway, Em.”

Crap. Who was I kidding? I couldn't navigate myself out of a cardboard box; I certainly couldn't travel to another
borough
. Anthony was spitting out directions. I was about to suggest we meet at a more central location when Anthony interrupted my thoughts.

“Hey, Em? Thanks so much for coming my way. That's really cool of you.”

I dropped my head, defeated. “No problem.”

I wrote down the directions, asking for spellings and clarifications.

“I promise you won't get lost.”

As if I weren't lost enough already
.

I WALKED DOWN THE CONCRETE STEPS
into the underground world of subway travelers. I looked around nervously. Anywhere that was dark at noon creeped me out. I pressed through the cold, silver turnstile. The metal gave me an electric shock and my hand shot back like a slingshot. The man behind me cackled. I looked over my shoulder.

“My dad used to say when you got shocked, it meant you were full of spark. Ha ha.”

The man gave me a crazy look.

Why am I talking to random people in the subway terminal? Okay, shut up and act like you know what you're doing!
I looked at all the signs and tried not to panic
.
There was no mass transit in Newtown, Pennsylvania, and aside from one disastrous ride with Georgia on Amtrak, I had never been on a train, much less a subway, so this was all uncharted territory. How would I know when to get off?

I boarded the train and found a seat. I clenched and unclenched the written directions in my hands.
I can do this,
I thought.
I'm not a complete idiot.
Sure, I had failed to recognize my OJ was spiked. And I had allowed my falsified cleavage to be discovered. And I had drooled on Owen while attempting to kiss him. But
surely
I could travel to Anthony's house without handholding or a GPS.

They announced my stop and I got off, again rereading the directions.
Head west toward Clinton Street.
I hated when people gave directions like that; why couldn't they just say go left or right? Did he assume there was a compass floating in my water bra?

I looked further on the written directions.
Just past the park on Clinton Street . . .

I tapped a safe-looking man on the shoulder. “Excuse me, is there a park close by?”

He turned toward me, stuck out his pointer finger directing me, then walked on without a word.

I followed the line of his finger. “Right, obviously. Thanks!” I called, but he was already halfway down the block. I walked down the street, passing restaurants and local shops flanked by beautiful old brownstones. As I rounded the corner onto Anthony's road, I saw a group of guys playing basketball in the street, a portable net resting on the edge of the sidewalk. The sight of it made me ache for my days of kickball on Arbor Way.

As I walked closer, I could make out Anthony, dressed in old jeans and a gray sweatshirt. His face was flushed with activity and his ears were red from the cold. One of the other b asketball players motioned to him. Anthony stopped dribbling, held the ball in his hands, and turned around.

I waved.

He walked toward me.

“Go on,” I said. “Finish your game. I'll watch.”

He smiled and turned back to his game, tossing the ball to his friend.

I took a seat on the stoop in front of an old, four-story brownstone. A copper mailbox with
Rucelli
engraved on the front hung next to the door.

The basketball game was competitive, with lots of yelling and high-fiving. They teased each other with such familiarity, it was clear they were old friends. Watching Anthony here, in his own environment, was such a contrast to how I perceived him at school—as a loner. I felt like an idiot for assuming that Anthony's actions within the confines of Darlington's walls paralleled how his life was elsewhere. And suddenly I understood. He didn't ostracize himself to the library because he had no friends. His friends just weren't available at lunch. He didn't care what people at Darlington thought about him because his security was here. I envied him, wishing I had the pride to not obsess about how others viewed me.

Across the street, two pretty girls walked by, slowing down as they approached the basketball net. One of Anthony's friends tapped a sweaty teammate on the shoulder, then nodded his chin toward the opposite sidewalk. The sweaty guy smiled, seeing the girls, then said, “Molly and Adrienne,” to no one in particular.

Anthony's head swung around toward the girls.

The taller girl, with long, wavy black hair, waved and smiled, then whispered something to her friend. The shorter girl, the prettier of the two, had olive skin framed by shiny, stick straight auburn locks. Her eyes were wide and dark, and she had a sexy, pouty mouth. She smiled then called out, “Hi, Anthony.”

I couldn't see Anthony's face when he responded, “Hey, Adrienne.”

The short, pretty one, Adrienne, smiled toward Anthony, then nudged her friend with her elbow, gesturing across the street in my direction. The girls looked at each other and burst into a fit of laughter. They waved goodbye to the guys and sauntered down the road.

My face burned.
Were they laughing at me?

The guys stood there, motionless, the basketball resting on the street, and watched Molly and Adrienne walk, their curvy backsides swaying as if to music, until they turned the corner and disappeared out of sight.

I felt a sudden surge of inadequacy. I always thought I had a decent butt, small and firm, but I was quite certain it lacked the raw sex appeal of those two curvy, confident girls. And I was abruptly aware of how the cold weather leaves me looking so pasty and lifeless. My hair darkens to the color of soggy Cheerios. How bland is that?
Note to self: Harass Trent for highlights that don't fade!
Compared to those girls, I was about as appealing as unbuttered toast.
Second note to self: Buy some self-tanner! Buy
Buns of Steel!

Anthony walked over toward me. “You survived the subway!” he teased.

I'm sure Adrienne rides the subway every day and doesn't require a map or written notes,
I thought bitterly. I mustered up a smile and nodded. “Didn't wind up in Queens, did I?”

He laughed and opened the door. I followed him inside the long and narrow brownstone, dropping my backpack on the couch. The living room had beautiful architecture, archways and elaborate moldings, but the paint was chipping in spots and the ceiling looked old and musty. Only the kitchen showed signs of recent updates, with a huge gas range, double ovens and an enormous counter top, cluttered with cookbooks and baking accessories.

“This is really nice,” I said. “Your home. The neighborhood.”

Anthony smiled. “Yeah, we lived here way before it was cool to live here. They've cleaned it up pretty nice. All the yuppies started moving in from Manhattan a couple of years back. It's been really good for the bakery. Hey, do you mind if I take a quick shower before we get started?” he asked, pointing down the hall.

“I was hoping you would,” I teased, feeling more relaxed to be inside and away from the two voluptuous local beauties.

I went back into the living room and sat on the couch. I knew I should review my chemistry notes, but I opted instead to read through a
People
magazine.

The phone rang.

I heard the water shut off, and the bathroom door swung open. Steam poured out, followed by Anthony, dripping wet, a towel wrapped around his waist. He raced into the kitchen and picked up the cordless phone.

He scribbled on a pad of Post-it notes, saying, “Uh, huh, okay, okay. Great. I'll let her know. Thanks.”

I tried really hard not to stare in total shock and amazement, but his body, oh my God, his body. A broad chest with a sprinkle of dark hair across the top and huge, sculpted biceps. Did he do push-ups and arm curls while baking muffins every morning? It had never occurred to me that under his boring hunter green school polo hid such a masterpiece of perfection.

Anthony set the phone down and I averted my eyes.

“That was a really important call for my mom,” he explained. “She threatened my life if I missed it.”

I nodded, absentmindedly staring at the ceiling.

He walked back toward his room.

Anthony walked back into the room, jeans and a white T-shirt on. Why had I always just felt like Anthony was the big brother type and not some poster-worthy heartthrob? How had I never noticed his sleeves stretch taut over his biceps before? And why did I assume that just because he ate lunch in the library that he wasn't datable? I thought back to the day I pushed him out of Jolie's apartment. Had he really intended to kiss me, or was I just delusional from post-traumatic stress? I looked at him rifling through his chemistry notebook. I wanted to talk to Anthony about finding Mom's letters, but suddenly I felt myself closing up. I always assumed Anthony and I had a special relationship—that I held an important place in his life. But that was before I saw his life outside of Darlington, filled with neighborhood friends and voluptuous girls. Maybe I wasn't special to him at all.