I wasn't supposed to have an opinion on things like mascara, especially if it were for me.

 
Butterscotch

23. Figueroa

by Erin Halfelven

I should have known Mom would cheat. We didn't go through the doors right away. Instead, she pulled me into an out of the way corner and took out her own makeup repair kit.

"Stand still," she ordered me when I tried to get away. She kept it to a minimum, a bit of eyebrow pencil, and then she handed me a brand new mascara wand she'd apparently had in her purse.

"It's green," I said.

"I know, I bought it by mistake."

"Green mascara…." I did not want to say how cool I thought that idea was. I wasn't supposed to have an opinion on things like mascara, especially if it were for me. I used her compact mirror to apply the color, and it went on smooth, thickening and lengthening and creating distinct, colorful lashes. I couldn't believe how good my eyes looked from just a bit of mascara. I suppressed a squeal.

She handed me a lipstick next, Honestly Red. "Oh!" I gushed, cringing at the same time to hear myself. "I've got this color, too!"

"It's a perfect red," said Mom as I applied, blotted and re-applied. "Not orange or purple, just a real red."

"Uh, huh," I said. "It looked great yesterday when I used it over my Tahitian Bronze, which is really copper." I held a hand up, "Like my nails, but darker."

Mom grinned, and I sighed, glancing over at the earring kiosk. "We might as well get my ears pierced now, huh?"

#

The tiny Asian girl in the booth made four holes in my head with little puffs of air, two in each ear lobe. I refused to flinch, but my expressions seemed to amuse my mother, and she left with a hand over her mouth. It hurt but was soon over, leaving only a little discomfort. I'd already picked out the studs, one pair plain gold and one pair with ruby-colored gems. Ruby is the birthstone for July.

Mom came back from wherever she had gone (probably to indulge herself in an evil cackle) while I was getting tortured. She presented me with a brown-and-red fold-over purse for putting my ear care products in. "And take the stuff out of your pockets. Only a slag walks around with lumps in her jeans."

"What the heck is a slag?" I asked.

"The sort of girl who keeps condoms in her back pockets," Mom explained. "Not that you shouldn't keep a couple in your purse," she added.

The blush was working again. "Mom! Jeez!"

We went into VS, and I tracked down a cute lace bra, 32A, gold and cream with tiny orange hearts around the cups. "Pink moons," I whispered even though I knew that wasn't what the caterpillar said. Caterpillar? I meant, leprechaun.

Mom had found a padded panty and some of the same chicken fillets (for the bra cups) Marjie had bought in Le Trend. These panties had silicone in them instead of foam, and I wondered how that would feel. Probably more convincing if someone patted my ass.

I tried not to think about that image while I looked for a changing room, but Mom pointed out that half of the store was devoted to young casual fashion. "Uh—?" I said. "Do we have time?"

We both pulled out our phones to check, and I saw that I had messages from…Marjie (2), Rory (1), Marty (2) and Armand (4). When the heck did I get so popular? And how did Marjie get my number? And how did my phone know which was hers? And Armand? What was he calling about?

I must have had my phone set to refuse calls. While I was trying to figure that out, I forgot to look at the time.

"We've got at least a half-hour," Mom said. "Time to pick out one cute outfit for you. You've got that card attached to your debit account?"

I nodded.

"Good, we'll let Marcia pay for this."

"Mar—? Oh." Was she getting the name wrong on purpose? It was such a petty form of spite I had to giggle.

Mom actually shops much more like a guy than like your stereotypical woman. She decides what she wants before setting foot in the store, goes there, gets that, and gets gone. I guess I'm a little the same way, or can at least tolerate that style.

With Mom's help (read direct orders), I picked out a pair of green shorts with cuffed legs and a yellow tank top with a green, orange and blue beach scene. "You've got ten minutes to get changed—go, girl," Mom commanded after collecting all the tags and my card. She already knew the four-digit security code I used.

So off I went, wondering again just how I got roped into all this, but the tiniest bit excited about—about wearing a new outfit, I guess. I'd never worn shorts or a tank top as a girl before. I suppressed another squeal.

While getting dressed, I had time to wonder just why Mom was doing this? Some sort of revenge on Dad for leaving us? Didn't seem like her, despite her fake forgetting of Marjorie's name. But she was being just as pushy as Marjorie about dressing me up. Why?

The padded panty went on over my own underwear—should have thought of that yesterday—with little irrelevant bits tucked up inside again. Then the shorts, whose waistband and cuffs were high enough and long enough to hide the panty. Bra, chicken fillets, tank top. I bumped an ear pulling the tank down, Ow! I did flinch at that and resolved to be more careful.

Where was my hat? Oh, I didn't wear one today. I looked in the mirror. If I were going to be outside in the sun, wearing this for long, I definitely needed sunblock and a hat. But Kissy looked back at me and grinned. I put a hand over my mouth in case I really did squeal.

Then I stuffed my boy clothes in a store bag, grabbed my purse, and fled. Besides paying for my clothes, Mom had also bought me a pair of orange and green flip flops. "Wear these," she ordered me. "We've got to go, I forgot about time to walk back to the car."

I dumped my boat shoes in the bag and slipped on the thongs. "Mom, these have a three-inch heel," I complained. I didn't even know they made high heel flip flops. I glared at them there on the ends of my legs.

"It's a one-inch platform and only two inches of added heel. You'll get used to wearing them by the time we get to the car."

"I duwanna," I whined. But she was tugging me toward the door. I hurried to keep from being dragged. "If I fall and break something—"

She did slow down a bit; I think only because of the foot traffic on the street. Once we got around the corner, she let go of my hand and power-walked toward Seventh. "I'll go get the car," she said. "Catch up when you can, slowpoke."

I hurried as fast as I could (distracted only a little by the bounciness of the silicone jelly wrapping my butt), and I only fell off the heels once but didn't lose a shoe. When I reached the corner of Figueroa and Wilshire, I stopped and waved the store bag at her coming down the street.

"Hey, lady! I need a ride!" I shouted. We were both laughing when she picked me up.

It was right down Wilshire with one dogleg to get back to the medical offices, and Mom pushed it. "We didn't have time to get your hair done," she complained, glancing sideways at me.

I made a New York gesture with my open hands. "We did enough! And what's wrong with my hair?" It wasn't very long, but I thought it looked nice.

"No style, dear," she said. "And no volume."

"Mom," I said seriously. "My hair is red—how much louder can it get?"

Though she tried to look sour, she couldn't fake it, and we both got the giggles over that.

I did a little more thinking while Mom dealt with traffic. This near downtown, it was murder, and "Friday-light" just meant rush hour started two hours earlier. I decided Mom was pushing me to be more girly to see if I would throw a fit and refuse. And I hadn't. Why hadn't I? Maybe I am a wimp.

I pulled down the vanity mirror and glared at my reflection. "Damnit," I said. "Being out in the sun without sunblock or a hat has caused twenty-six new freckles." So we laughed about that.

"I've still got your card," Mom said. "Let's use the valet park if they'll take it—"

"They will."

"—Good. So Marjo can pay for that, too. I'll let you out, and you go ahead." She pointed at the time on the dash: 1:28. "You're going to be a teensy bit late.

"Rie, Mom," I said, smiling. "Marjo-Rie."

She waved a hand and made a face.

When she pulled into the valet stall, I was already opening the door before it stopped rolling. The valet helped me out, and I made a dash for the sidewalk, almost missing the little step there like before. But the other valet—the one with the curly eyes who had caught me last time—saved me from another accident.

"Hi," I said. "I'm Kissy Parker, and we keep meeting like this. You're Paul."

"Uh—," he said, but he couldn't deny it. His name was right there on his shirt.

"Gotta run," I said, starting off. I couldn't really run in those flip flops, but I made the best speed I could until I got to the medical building. Had the dang door gotten heavier?

The guard hurried over to open it for me. "Back again, you must like them poking you with needles."

I thanked him and giggled, then hurried on to the elevators. How did he know I'd been poked with needles? "Oh," I said. I still had a cotton ball in the crook of my elbow and a bandaid on my left index finger.

I rushed into Dr. Forbes's office at 1:35, and the woman behind the window said, "Where's your mother? She needs to sign."

"Um, she's right behind me on the next elevator," I said. "Can't I go ahead, so we don't keep the tech waiting?"

She agreed and directed me to the ultrasound lab, which was on the same level. I saw Mom getting off the elevator as I hurried down the hall. "You have to go sign," I said, pointing toward Dr. Forbes's office.

"Okay," Mom agreed. "Do you need your purse? You forgot it." She held it out.

"Uh—thanks, but no, you can just catch me up."

"You look cute, honey," Mom said, smiling as I hurried past without slowing down.

I stopped in front of the right door and looked both ways, up and down the hall. Then I opened the door and went in.

A tall man at a high-tech desk stood and turned around. He had wavy brown hair, blue eyes and a big smile. Something caused my panties to get tighter. I'm pretty sure he was wearing clothes, so it couldn't have been that.

"Are you going to do an ultrasound on me?" I asked.

"Uh—," he grabbed a paper off his desk, glancing at my legs. "No, no. My next patient is David Kissee." And he blushed.

This had suddenly gotten complicated.