The Lipstick Laws (20 page)

Mrs. McGerk greets me at the front door. She curiously glances at the cover-up makeup caked on my black eye before bursting, "Come in, April!" She chokes me into submission with her overwhelming perfume and strangling hug. "I just always knew you and Delvin would make the cutest couple!"

"Oh yeah?" I mutter absently, standing motionless in her death grip, smothered against her plump bosom like a bug smashed on a windshield.

"Your mother and I had so much fun in college," she whispers, leaning down. "Probably too much fun ... but we won't tell the misters that."

She walks through the front hallway, motioning for me to follow her. It's like a museum of the evolution of Delvin. His pictures are plastered on every inch of the foyer walls. I stop to inspect a grade school picture of him. Apparently, this is when he became a permanent resident of Loserhood. The poor boy didn't have a chance sporting an oversize polka-dotted bow tie and those green suspenders ... not to mention the same floppy, parted brown hair he's still famous for.

Mrs. McGerk pauses briefly to admire another framed memory. "He's just grown up so quickly!" she gushes, lovingly stroking a horrendous picture of a young Delvin in front of the Magic Kingdom at Disney World. Her eyes gloss with nostalgia. While she's reminiscing, I pray that the bright orange fanny pack he was wearing in this picture has since been donated.

Delvin's mom pats down her overprocessed blond hair like she's stuffing her wistful remembrances back into her head, and smiles.

"I'm sure that you guys will have so much fun together." She nudges me. "Not too much fun, though, if you know what I mean..."

Eww! The thought of whatever she's hinting at nearly makes me lose the caesar salad I ate for lunch. She leads me into their kitchen, where I take a seat on a tall stool at the large kitchen island. Mrs. McGerk saunters to the refrigerator in her tight pants. I guess Delvin isn't the only one with an affinity for Saran Wrap trousers.

She opens the fridge and asks, "Can I get you something to drink, honey?"

"No, thanks," I respond with a polite smile. Mrs. McGerk seems like a nice hostess, but clearly, I'm here to work, not visit over drinks.

Soon after, Delvin enters the kitchen, looking awestruck by my presence. He smiles awkwardly at me.

"Mom," he says, "why are you trying to kidnap my date?"

They laugh, looking at me to share in their amusement. I choke out a chuckle ... which is more like a gurgle that's bubbled up nauseatingly from my stomach at the thought of Delvin calling me his date.

"We were just having some girl talk, Deli. I'll let you two have some time alone now." She winks at me.

Walking into Delvin's room is like a time warp. I feel as though I'm being sucked into his boyhood bedroom by a large, musty vacuum. The baby blue walls and big stenciled airplanes covering the room make me woozy. Other than his mother, I have no doubt that I'm the only girl who's ever entered his juvenile pilot palace.

He points to the walls. "I used to like airplanes. Still do, actually."

"You don't say, Deli," I tease.

"You caught my nickname."

"Yeah. I'd like to order a pastrami sandwich, please."

He stares at me curiously for a second, until he realizes that I'm joking. Then he snorts like an out-of-shape ape trying to run on a treadmill. This indigestible snort is the catalyst that makes me delay the closet raid and head right to my lesson on social skills.

"I made this for you," I say sharply, pulling out a chart from my large tote. "It summarizes how you should act"—I pause, handing it to him sternly—"and how you shouldn't."

Delvin's face becomes red as he studies it.

"No science talk?" he mutters.

"None! Leave that for class."

He continues to read, shaking his head, "No snorting? I don't snort!" He laughs, ending it with a snort.

"Clearly"—I point to him—"you just did."

Reading more of my long list, he argues nervously, "I-I can't help it if I stutter when I'm excited."

I cringe and plead, "Well, maybe you can try."

He reads more and inquires, "You don't want me to let you know when our mothers talk?"

"Delvin, they're friends! Friends talk! This isn't news!" I explain impatiently.

Then his shoulders slump as he reviews the "Do" portion of the chart.

"I don't know anything about sports; how am I supposed to hold an educated conversation about football?"

I say to clarify, "It doesn't have to be educated. Just show an interest in it."

He finishes reading my lengthy list and looks up at me gloomily. "You don't like anything about me. Do you?"

"Well." I'm caught off-guard and begin to feel bad. "That's not true."

Delvin shakes his head, pointing at my social chart. "That's not what this tells me."

"Delvin, it's just a simple guideline," I reason with him. "You told me you're up for a makeover. Are you going to back out on our deal?"

"I-I ... just didn't think you meant a personality makeover, too."

"I'm not trying to change you ... just enhance you," I lie through my teeth.

He doesn't respond.

"You're a formal date in training right now. This is just part of your orientation," I say brightly, thinking this line sounds strangely familiar.

He looks down, still unresponsive.

"It's nothing against you. Don't take it personally." I smile.

Halfheartedly, he mumbles, "I guess."

I start to feel guilty. Even though Delvin's annoying, I'd never want to purposefully hurt his feelings. Maybe I am being a bit harsh. I mean, I listed every annoying thing he does (which happens to be twenty-five tremendously irritating Delvin quirks) in the "Don't" area of the chart ... and I listed all of their opposite actions in the "Do" area. That is a bit of a personal blow, I guess. But ... this is in his best interest, right? Of course it is! I'm not trying to be mean. I'm doing what's best for him. I shouldn't feel bad. I'm helping him out! Some people pay for this kind of a service! He's lucky! He's a big boy and needs to be able to handle constructive criticism!

"Stop pouting, Delvin; I'm not trying to hurt your feelings. I'm just trying to
help
you. But if you don't want my help—"

"No ... I do!" he says desperately. He scans the social chart again and smiles sheepishly. "It's okay. You're right. I'll try to work on it all."

"There's no harm in trying, right?" I say, feeling a combination of relief and guilt. "Okay, now, on to your closet..."

***

The next day, we go to the mall for a brand-new wardrobe. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing much to save in Delvin's closet. I couldn't very well leave him to create outfits from the sparse couple of T-shirts, one pair of gym pants, swim trunks, and the few pairs of socks that I'm allowing him to keep.

"It's always best to start with a clean slate," I assure him, piling more and more try-on choices onto his outstretched arms.

"Sure," he mumbles through the trendy apparel stacked up to his head.

"I think it's time to try it all on." I guide him to an open dressing room.

I'm anxious to see Delvin's first outfit. I grow concerned after many minutes go by and several thumps, bumps, and a few clunks come from behind his door.

"You okay in there?"

"Fine!" he squeaks.

Eventually he emerges, looking like he's just changed in front of a giant windmill. His face is flushed, and his floppy hair is disheveled ... but the new jeans and polo shirt look great!

"I love it, McGerk!" I jump excitedly as he approaches the three-way mirror to look for himself.

He pulls the sides of the jeans out by the pockets and shakes them to show their roominess. "Aren't these too baggy?"

"Jeans aren't supposed to fit you like tights! They're perfect," I say forcefully. "This outfit's a keeper! Next outfit, please..."

Delvin continues to appraise each new look skeptically in the three-way mirror. Luckily, he's easy to convince, and we leave store after store with a steadily growing wardrobe in tow.

"I promise you, McGerk, you're gonna love your new look."

He glances at me, struggling with his overflowing bags. "As long as you do."

Next, we make our way to a tux shop to pick out his spring formal duds. He immediately migrates to a hideous royal blue zoot suit with a matching cane.

My mouth drops in horror. "Are you kidding?"

He looks at me with a kid-in-a-candy-store grin, and I soon realize he isn't.

"Oh, no, no, no!" I scold, pulling him far away from the atrocity. I redirect him to a conservative, stylish black tuxedo that I can't help but picture Mr. Hottie-Body Brentwood looking delicious in.

"You can never go wrong with classic black," I explain.

"Once you go black, you never go back ... or so I've heard." He snorts like a swine, quickly slapping his hand over his mouth. "Sorry. Didn't mean to snort."

"It's okay. You're trying." I humor him, handing over the tux.

"Black is supposed to be slimming, right?" He holds it up to his thin frame.

"Yeah, but you don't need any help in that department."

He tries the tuxedo on, and I'm actually pleased with it. Excluding his deplorable hair and hampering social skills, he could potentially trick an overgrown nutterputz into thinking he's a decent catch.

Holding his arms up awkwardly, he asks, "Does it pass the test?"

"Hmm." I smile, admiring the crisply pressed tux approvingly. "Looking good, Delvin ... but let's do something different with your mop top."

"Mop top?"

"Yeah—your hair. Judging from the pictures plastered all over your front hall, you've had the same cut since first grade."

He pats his floppy dark mop and says, "Yeah ... so? What's wrong with it?"

"Ummm ... you're in high school now." I state the obvious. "You need a new 'do."

Reluctantly, he agrees. "Call me Play-Doh."

I drop him off at a hair salon in the mall, leaving his vulnerable out-of-date hair in the hands of a hairdresser named Jade. Her skunk-patched hair threw me off at first, but she promised she could give him a modern, stylish "Abercrombie model" haircut that I'll love. I pray that she sticks to the plan and he doesn't come out with a rainbow mohawk. On the other hand, even that would be an improvement at this point.

Finally having some time to myself, I browse the mall on my own behalf. I decide to use the free time to look for a new bra, since none of my bras work with the low V front and crisscross back of my formal dress. Not to mention, even though I'm a tissue-stuffing savant, I need to find something more natural to help me in the woman-sprout department for the spring formal. Haley told me about these amazing boobicle cubicle chestoid enhancers at Victoria's Secret that look like raw chicken cutlets. They're flesh colored and they even jiggle—oh, what I wouldn't give to have some bona fide jiggle!

On my way to the lingerie store, sale signs in the glass windows of Express scream my name. I'm pulled to the store like a magnet to a fridge, and I begin to peruse the sale racks. Before long, I regret my store detour when I hear a familiar voice.

"Erin, you are
so
not a size four. Stop trying to pretend like you are!"

Oh my gosh, it's Britney Taylor and the Lipstick Lawlords looking at jeans near the front of the store. How could I be so shortsighted to venture into Express on a Sunday? This store is their place of worship on the holy day.

What should I do? Where should I go? There's no way I can leave without them seeing me. They're between me and the exit. Ducking behind a circular floor rack, I pray they don't come any closer.

"Have you dropped something?" a fellow shopper asks curiously.

"No ... no ... ummm ... just tying my shoes," I say quietly, trying not to be heard by the encroaching Lawlords.

Peering down at me suspiciously, the lady notices my shoelace-less shoes; she huffs and mutters something snarky about teenagers before moving on to the next rack of clothes.

The Lawlords' voices grow louder. I can tell they're approaching steadily.

"Stay away from the sale racks, Jess; you know it's always last season's trash," I hear Brianna lecturing.

I just don't understand Bri's phobia of sales. I'm sure it's just another way for her to brag about money. Her family is richer than double chocolate fudge, and she uses every opportunity she can to display that. Mel and I are positive that the only reason Britney is friends with her is for her generous holiday and birthday gifts.

I gulp with worry as the circular clothing rack begins to spin in front of me.

"Yeah, but this stuff is fifty percent off," Jessica points out on the opposite side of my hiding spot. "Last season or not, that's a good deal!"

God, help me. If they see me, I'll never hear the end of it. How will I explain hiding like a moron behind a rack of clothes? And no way, no how am I going to pop up like a jack-in-the-box to face them. I have to find a better hiding place, but they're way too close for me to crawl inconspicuously to another spot.

"Shut up!" Brit says. "Fifty percent? That's like half off!"

I see the girls' feet joining Jess on the opposing side of my hiding spot. At this point, I feel I have no choice but to scurry inside the circular rack like a mouse burrowing into a hole. I tunnel my way through the hanging clothes, crouching quietly near the metal stand in the middle of the clothing carousel.

"This thing's sort of wobbly," Erin mentions, most likely noticing the force of my tunneling.

I hold my breath, hoping they don't investigate further ... as this, out of all hiding scenarios, would be the hardest to explain. "Oh, don't you know? The best sales are always inside the rack." "Don't mind me; I'm just fixing the stand. I work here now." "Hiding? No, I'm not hiding! I'm simply trying to see if the colors look as vibrant in dim light." I try to think of ways to explain myself—all completely useless.

This has to be the lamest thing I've ever done in my life; well, second to signing the Lipstick Oath. Why couldn't I just walk past them with my head held high like they don't bother me? Why don't I feel confident when I'm outnumbered? Why does Britney still affect me like this? Why am I huddled between sale items?