Alexis and the Perfect Recipe (8 page)

Dylan was looking down. It looked like Dad's words were sinking in.

“The most important thing in life is how we treat people,” he continued. “And you have not been treating any of us nicely. So before things get any worse, your mother and I say stop! Stop it right now! And bring back the wonderful daughter we had before all of this started.”

I looked sideways at Dylan, but couldn't tell what she was thinking.

A heavy silence hung over the table. Then finally, Dylan said, “I'm sorry,” in a very quiet voice. “It's just . . . oh, never mind. I'm just sorry.”

My mother came around the table to give her
a hug. She kissed her on the top of her head and said, “We love you, honey. The real Dylan. Not this party-planning nightmare person, do you understand?”

Dylan nodded, tears filling her eyes. My father reached over and took her hand. “We know you want this party to be special, and it will be,” he said. “We will all work hard to make it so. You just need to do your part and be gracious. Take a deep breath and know that everything will be fine. Okay?”

Dylan nodded again, then picked up her fork. I think she finally realized how mean she'd been lately. My parents and I chatted about random stuff as we ate, but we all finished quickly. I went upstairs to shower again and get rid of the makeup. Then I changed into my pj's and went back to my room. When I got there, I found Dylan sitting at my desk! My Project M. T. notebook was on the table in front of her and she was staring at me.

“Oh my God,” I said.

Is She Really My Sister?

D
ylan had the notebook in her hand and started walking around me. “What is this?” she asked in a teasing voice.

I thought I might throw up. I studied Dylan's face to see if I could tell which way this was going to go. Was she going to mock me? Pity me? Blackmail me?

“Um . . . ,” I said, stalling for time.

“Are you . . . Do you like someone?” she asked.

I decided to take a breezy, confident tone. “Well, what if I do?” I asked.

“So what is all this . . . math and stuff in here?”

“Oh, just data!” I waved my hand dismissively. The less she thought I cared, the less she would press me. Probably.

“Who is it?” she asked.

I didn't know if the talk at dinner made her turn over a new leaf or if it made her resent me. I wasn't sure I should tell her. What if she ended up using it against me?

“Um . . .”

“You can tell me,” she said encouragingly. “I won't say anything.” Dylan even looked sincere, so I decided to tell her.

“Um . . . it's Matt.” Maybe if I didn't say his last name . . .

“Matt Taylor?” she guessed immediately.

I looked down at my feet and nodded, feeling my cheeks suddenly getting hot.

“He's cute,” she said, and for some strange reason I was happy that she “approved” of my choice. “Does he know you like him?” she asked, flipping through the pages.

“No!” I said quickly, horrified by the idea.

“Do you want him to know?”

“What? No way!” I'd rather die.

“So where are you going with all this?”

“I just . . . I just want him to notice me. And like me, I guess.” There. I'd said it.

Dylan was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, “Do you want my help?”

I eyed her suspiciously. “What do you mean?” I could just picture her telling Matt flat out that I liked him, and that would be a disaster.

“I know what it's like to have a crush who hardly knows you exist, that's for sure!” Dylan said, laughing.

I paused. Was this a trick?

Dylan continued, “I also know some stuff about boys and what they like. And about how to present yourself.” She looked at me critically. “And I do think you're ready for a more mature look. The makeover you did wasn't a bad idea. You just went too far, too fast.”

I kept looking at her, not sure if I could really trust my own sister.

“Come on,” she said in an encouraging tone. “I owe it to you. Let me try.”

“Okay . . . ,” I finally agreed. “But in the morning. I can't do it again tonight. I have too much other stuff to do.”

“Fine. We'll get up early and do it, okay?”

I nodded, still waiting for this to turn into some sort of prank.

Dylan got up and headed for the door, then turned around. “And Alexis?”

“Yes?”

“I'm sorry.”

Wow. An apology from Dylan, and I didn't even have to ask for it!

“For which part?” I asked.

“Everything.” And she closed the door.

I sat down and sighed loudly, part of me wondering if I had just imagined the past five minutes. Dylan had really turned around! I started to finish entering the new data and notes on some new techniques, like hair-flipping, arm-grabbing, and lunch-inviting—not that any of them were my style.

I chewed on my pen cap as I asked myself the question Dylan had just asked. What did I want? What was my goal with Matt? Was it that I wanted him to just notice me? He already had. But wanting him to like me back seemed major, and maybe too big of a goal. Like more than I really wanted. I think.

My parents always tell us, when we have a big project due, to break it into smaller, more manageable chunks or goals. So if my big project is for Matt to fall madly in like with me, what would a smaller chunk be?

Chew, chew, chew. I looked at my pen cap. It was totally mangled. I twirled it around, and it
looked like it was dancing. And then the answer came to me.

A dance. One wonderful, dreamy dance with Matt. Then he'd see how graceful and talented I was, and I'd have the chance to really charm him.

I smiled just picturing it, like a scene out of a Disney movie:
Cinderella
,
Beauty and the Beast
,
Enchanted
. One dance with the prince, and the rest is history. That was my goal.

Relieved to now have an actual goal, I put the notebook away, then did a huge e-blast to all of the Cupcake Club's previous clients, advertising our new flavors (s'mores being one of them), wrote out forty vocabulary flash cards, did a math crossword puzzle, reorganized my planner, and cleaned up my room.

Later that night, when I went to brush my teeth, I nearly tripped over a pile of teen magazines that Dylan had left outside my door. “Get Him to Notice YOU!,” “7 Days to a Brand-New You!,” “Flirty Tips & Tricks to Wow Him!” the headlines screamed. Well, I certainly had my work cut out for me.

The next morning Dylan gave me a crash course in flirtation and a real makeover. I think even my
parents were happy that we were doing something together and not bickering. It was like when we were little and we used to play Barbie dolls together for hours. My Barbie would run the clothing store and Dylan's Barbie would come in to shop. My Barbie would bargain and haggle and put stuff on sale, and her Barbie would try everything on and leave it in a pile on the dressing room floor.

First Dylan and I looked through the magazines together to find a good new look for me. She talked about what I had heard her discussing with Meredith and Skylar, about pretty colors (no black, gray, or brown), touchable fabrics (fuzzy, floaty, silky, smooth), and patterns (floral is good; plaid, not so much). She went through my closet and also brought out some of her own(!) clothes to put together five new school outfits for me—complete with shoes and accessories!

I have to say, she was really getting into it, and she was being a big help. I think she liked that I was agreeing with everything she said.

Next Dylan made me shave my legs, which was gross and hard and took forever (I cut myself twice), but the result was pretty dramatic. She gave me a mud mask for my face and a quick manicure/pedicure (just clear nail polish because, she said
knowledgably, boys don't like colored or fussy nails). Then she had me wash my hair and deep condition it, and she set it in hot rollers we borrowed from our mother. They were heavy and felt like they were pulling out my hair, but when she took them out, my hair fell in soft waves, like a Disney princess!

Finally she taught me how to put on makeup. “The point,” explained Dylan, “is that no one should notice you are wearing makeup. You should look like yourself, only better.”

Dylan gave me a tiny hint of pink blush to perk up my face and make me look healthy. (According to Dylan, boys respond to healthy looks. It has to do with the evolution of the species.) Then she gave me a cinnamon-and-ginger-laced pale pink lipstick with what she called “blue undertones” to make my lips plump up and my teeth look even whiter. Finally, she drew the faintest lines with brown eyeliner at only the outer corners of my eyes, and then she curled my eyelashes and lengthened them with a little brown mascara. When she turned me around to face the mirror . . . I loved what I saw! I looked great!

“Wow! Thanks!” I exclaimed. It was me, just a better-looking me!

Dylan smiled proudly at me, her handiwork.

“Now let's talk flirtation,” she said. “There are two ways to get guys,” she said, holding up two fingers. “You can be a normal girl or a supergirlie girl. The supergirlie girl technique tends to work well on younger guys and dumber guys; guys who don't really understand girls and are too shy to pursue them. The normal girl technique attracts the better guys, but it takes longer. Like sometimes years longer. Do you follow me?”

“Um . . .” I wasn't sure what she was talking about. “Do you mind if we go in my room, so I can write all this down in my notebook?”

Dylan laughed. “Fine, whatever,” she said.

I made her wait outside while I took the book out of the drawer. “Okay!” I called, and she came in and continued her lecture. I scribbled madly, happy to have specific directions to follow.

From what Dylan was telling me, it seemed that Sydney and Callie go with the supergirlie girl technique, and I prefer the normal girl way.

The supergirlie girl approach meant you had to be aggressive, giggly, loud, super touchy-feely, overdressed, made-up, and perfumed, and you always traveled in pairs, never alone. Supergirlie girls often act grossed out or incompetent
to try to get help from boys, and this would in turn make the boys feel good about themselves. However, the supergirlie girl way could backfire because it makes girls appear so different from boys, and some boys could get scared off. But it often worked because boys are so shy and clueless, especially when they're younger, that the girls just go after them and grab them, and the boys never see it coming. They think girls are supposed to be like that, and they're just happy to not have to do the work of asking girls out and stuff. The supergirlie girl approach was based on the idea that boys and girls are totally different and foreign creatures to each other, and girls had to do a lot of planning to get what they wanted.

Whew! I was so glad that Dylan explained all this to me. I never would have known. And I was beginning to think that there might be a perfect recipe for finding love after all.

The normal girl technique was more subtle. You dressed pretty but not overly fancy (you could still ride a bike or play catch in whatever you're wearing), and you might wear a little makeup, but never so the boys could notice it or, God forbid, see you putting it on. You are chatty and fun but not silly or giggly, and you are friendly but not aggressive. You
don't travel in big packs and you try to be friends with a boy first. Some boys might be too clueless to realize when a normal girl likes them—that's the bad part—but in the long run, Dylan assured me, you attract better boys with this approach. Most important, the normal girl approach reminded you that boys are not that different from girls. They are people with feelings who are often shy and they just need to be treated with the same consideration you'd give a friend.

“I think I'd rather be a normal girl,” I told Dylan.

“Good,” Dylan said. “Slow and steady wins the race.”