The Lipstick Laws (7 page)

Well then, that pretty much sums it up. I'm either doomed to follow their ridiculous Lipstick Laws, or I'll be condemned to misfit-dom for the rest of my life. I sit in silence, weighing my options.

The girls gather around me.

"Are you going to sign?" Britney inquires, holding up bright red lipstick. I have a sinking feeling that this is the lipstick Haley warned me about.

My heart races as I contemplate my doomed choices. I could either have a first-rate social life but be controlled by these crazy laws ... or I could have Britney on my bad side, making sure I'm the laughingstock of Penford High School. I picture being tortured and laughed at through the halls. I picture Mr. Hottie-Body Brentwood running away from me in repulsive disgust ... and ... I give in. I just can't risk the alternative to the Lipstick Laws.

"Yeah, okay—I'll sign." I quickly apologize to Haley in my head. "So, what do you want me to do, sign my name in lipstick?"

"No, silly," Britney says. "First you have to pledge your loyalty. Put up your right hand."

Reluctantly, I follow her order and raise my right hand.

"Repeat after me: I, April Bowers."

"I—I ... April Bowers," I choke out stiffly.

"Pledge my commitment to the Lipstick Laws and fellow members."

Feeling somewhat helpless, like a car stuck on the tracks of an oncoming train, I repeat it word for word: "Pledge my commitment to the Lipstick Laws and fellow members."

"I promise to follow all seven laws strictly, knowing that my popularity is dependent on my ability to fulfill them," Britney says slowly.

I repeat it all word for pathetic word, kicking myself with each syllable that escapes my lips.

She smiles, hands me the lipstick, and says, "Good! Now, put the lipstick on your lips and kiss the bottom of the paper—underneath the Lipstick Laws. Then we'll all do the same."

"It's like a blood oath, but with lipstick ... same color, cuter idea," Erin says.

I smear the hideous blood-red lipstick over my lips and grab the paper in contempt. I don't want to go through with this, but with Britney's wicked eyes staring me into a coma, coupled with my fear of mass rejection at school, I bite the bullet and smooch the bottom of the paper. Yes, that's right; I kiss my rights away into the hands of a sadistic popularity nazi.

The girls follow my lead. One by one, their kisses join mine underneath Lipstick Laws One through Seven.

"Now, April, is there anything you want to tell us?" Britney says aggressively. "Remember, your secrets are our property now."

She taps her designer shoe on the dull hardwood floor. I immediately picture my manic bra-stuffing and thousands of innocent tissues being shoved into my boobicle cubicle bra cups. I begin to panic behind my frozen stare. To buy myself some time, I ask, "Wouldn't you guys like to share your secrets with me first?"

I smile and nod at them hopefully, thinking this is a perfectly normal request. They stare back at me in bafflement.

Britney rolls her eyes. "April, don't you get it? Sharing your dark secrets from before the Lipstick Laws is part of your initiation. We all had our initiations long ago."

"So, this is a one-way secret street today? Isn't that sort of unfair?" I say.

"Life isn't fair. It's not our fault that you're joining our group after us. You'll get to know our secrets over time, but it's your turn to fess up right now, not ours." Brit smirks.

"Make it good!" Erin adds, her muted blue eyes wide with anticipation.

My bottom lip quivers with dread. Oh my gosh ... Haley was right. They
are
evil circus clowns, aren't they? I have to divulge something, because the bottom line is that I need friends ... even if they're evil circus clown friends.

"Well?" the girls urge impatiently.

"Okay," I yelp out of frustration. "I have a secret."

But I just can't bring myself to tell them that I'm a bosom sculptor.

"I ... errrrr ... I like Matthew Brentwood!" I blurt out.

Britney sighs. "Please, April, that's not a secret."

"Tell us something juicy!" Brianna prods.

"Ummm ... well ... I kind of made up this name for him." I put my head down. "It's sort of stupid, though."

"Tell us! What is it?" they beg.

"It's ummm ... Mr., errrr..."

"Mr. what?"

"Mr. Hottie-Body Brentwood," I divulge in sheer embarrassment.

Erin and Brianna burst into laughter.

"That's pathetic!" Erin derides.

Great, that's particularly compelling coming from a girl who could pass as a tall Oompa Loompa.

"How juvenile," Britney ridicules. "You shouldn't tell people that; it's totally embarrassing!"

No kidding. I mean, it's not like I was enthused about telling them or anything. They had to practically beat it out of me.

"What else, April? There has to be something else. Don't tell me we just inducted a boring chumpnut into our group." The look of disgrace on Britney's face is pressure enough.

"Okay, I have something else," I say, trying to impress her.

The girls creep in to me as if I'm going to reveal a huge, juicy scandal. I take a deep breath, wondering if I'll muster the courage to confess my true secret.

"I'm a ... I'm..."

"You're a what?"

Ugh! I just can't do it! So, I say the first thing that pops into my mind that sounds halfWay decent: "I'm a virgin!"

Britney shakes her head and laughs.

"April, April, April ... What are we going to do with you? That's all you have to tell us? You're a
virgin?
No kidding? I woulda never guessed it," she says sarcastically. "Well, at least we know you're not a skeez. You could probably teach Brianna a thing or two."

I glance over at Brianna, who's grinding her teeth with spite.

"Hopefully you're not keeping anything from us. 'Cause we can kick you out at any time," Britney warns. "So, I'd strongly suggest that you follow all of the laws all of the time. If you do that, we'll be your BFFs."

"Best friends forever?" I ask, feeling relieved.

"No, April! Unconditional acceptance leads to letting yourself go. We'll be your best friends til you F up!" she barks.

Gulp. I feel my heart pounding out of my chest. Yes, it's a fact; I have sealed the deal. I stamped, certified, and lipsticked my life in a package sent through Priority Mail directly to the devil herself ... and there's no turning back.

Three and a half hours later, my mom is having a conniption fit.

"Mom, I don't have a cell because you and Dad took it away!" I argue. "That's why I couldn't call!"

"Oh—so this is my fault all of a sudden? You're telling me it's my own fault that I thought my baby was taken by a hooligan?"

"Aren't you being a tad dramatic?" I reason with her.

"Dramatic? Next, I suppose you'll tell me that Britney lives in the backwoods and has no phones in her whole home. Do you go to the bathroom in an outhouse there too?"

"No, Mom." I huff.

"And look at your face! Look at your lips! Since when do you wear cheap, tacky bright red lipstick? It's like I don't even know you anymore!" Her eyes become glossy. She grabs a few tissues and blows her nose. I feel really bad for making her upset, but I also can't help but cringe at the fact that she's using up my boob bud fillers.

"Mom, please ... don't cry," I plead. "It's really not what you think. It's not even my lipstick!"

"Just like it's not your fault that you didn't call, right?"

I see this is going nowhere. I need to make amends quickly or my chances of sleeping over at Britney's tomorrow will be zilch.

"No, you're right. It's my fault. I was going to call you when I got there and I just lost track of time. You're the one who wants me to make new friends, right?" I try to project some blame.

"Of course I want you to make friends! I want you to be happy—but I also want you to be responsible about it. That's not too much to ask, April. If your father knew about this, he'd have a ministroke!"

Tad dramatic again ... but I pretend to agree. "I know, Mom, I'm so sorry. It will never happen again. I promise."

"I love you, sweetheart, and I don't want anything bad to happen to you," she mutters as she squeezes me so hard, my ribs almost crack.

Oh, Lord, if she only knew the trouble I got myself into signing the Lipstick Oath. I decide not to tell her about it. I just smile and reply, "I know, Mom. I love you too."

***

That same night I wake from another horrible nightmare. I dream that I'm standing on a large stage in the middle of the school gymnasium. A big, bright spotlight is pointing directly at me. I flinch, trying to cover my eyes from the blinding glare. Britney Taylor hops onto the stage wearing an elaborate circus ringleader outfit. She's followed by Brianna, Erin, and Jessica, who are dressed as evil clowns and juggling lipstick. Britney has a whip and a megaphone, and she begins to yell, "Step right up, step right up! Behold the human tissue box! Call her a freak of nature, a useless spectacle, or my lipstick slave. Call her what you must, but just know that I own her!"

A crowd forms around the stage, chanting, "Human tissue box! Lipstick slave! Human tissue box! Lipstick slave!"

Britney walks up to me with her whip. She smears blood-red lipstick all over my face. And then, one by one, she proceeds to pull out 110 tissues from my sagging bra.

It takes me a while to fall back to sleep after the night terror. I finally doze off with both hands protecting my sesame seed chest.

***

My mom drops me off at five p.m. on Saturday.

Britney erupts as she opens the door, "April, where on earth have you been?"

She grabs my arm and drags me into the house like a blond tow truck.

"I-I'm on time ... Right?" I stammer.

"Yeah—but we've been trying to call you for like the last hour to come early. Oops ... I forgot, though ... someone's stuck in the 1900s without a cell phone," she gripes as I follow her up the narrow stairs.

"Sorry, I went to the mall with my mom. What's going on?"

"Kyle Smith and Hilary Snyder broke up."

"Oh?" I say, not understanding how this affects me.

Britney rolls her eyes at my naivete and says, "When the senior quarterback becomes single, you have to jump on him like a free cruise to Maui. We're supposed to be at his house in ten minutes. So, you have like three seconds to get your swimsuit on."

Whoa ... whoa ... wait a second ... Did she just say swimsuit? Is she crazy? Holy crap, not only will my tissue boobs sop up all the water in a pool, it's fifty-four degrees outside and I didn't pack a suit.

As if she's reading my thoughts, she says, "Don't worry, it's an indoor pool."

"Ummm ... I didn't pack a swimsuit. I didn't know," I utter, wishing my mother was still in the driveway so I could run back to her car for a quick escape.

"I've got you covered; I have tons of suits. Erin had to borrow one too. Too bad she looks like a stuffed sausage in it," she announces as she opens the door to her gaudy bedroom.

"What?" Erin cries, sitting on the unsightly high-heeled chair, looking as if her life dreams have been smashed to a pulp. I shake my head, passing an empathetic expression to her.

Standing among a pile of at least twenty-five bathing suits in Britney's bathroom, I find myself praying to God: "Dear God, please let this be a dream ... and if, for some cruel and senseless reason, this isn't a dream, but an actual living nightmare ... please let there be a minor earthquake at Kyle Smith's home that drains all the water from his pool before we get there. Amen."

"Hurry up, April!" the girls yell on the other side of the door.

Impatient jerks! I try on a bikini top over my stuffed bra. This clearly isn't going to work. After all, I have to leave my bra on. I have nothing to hold up my Kleenex bosom without it. God knows my real woman-sprouts aren't budded enough to hold anything up. I'll have to choose a less trendy, more functional one-piece.

"Black is flattering," I whisper to myself as I slide on a one-piece halter. I slip my bra straps off my shoulders and tuck them into the boobicle cubicle cups. I hope no one will be able to tell that I have my bra on with about forty-five tissues securely stuffed into both sides underneath Britney's suit.

"A one-piece? You're like the Virgin Mary, April!" Britney heckles as I emerge from the bathroom. If only that were the case. Carrying the next Messiah would be the least of my problems at this point.

"What's that?" Jessica points to my back.

Oh, no! This is it! I'm done for! I'm caught red-handed. My secret world of bosom sculpting is crashing down around me. I'm destined for bra-stuffing rehab in a distant boobicus minimus land, I just know it.

Britney laughs. "I wouldn't be caught dead in that thing. That's why the tag's still on it."

Oh, thank you, God; they're talking about the sales tag. Now, just please create that earthquake we discussed a minute ago...

"Hang on, April, I'll get it off," Britney says, walking toward me with scissors. She shakes her head. "You know you should never wear a one-piece unless you're a lard ass or over thirty, right?"

"Sorry," I say bashfully, looking at the ground as she cuts the tag off. I really want to ask her why she has one-pieces to choose from if they're such an atrocity. Unfortunately, I don't have the nerve to ask.

The car ride to Kyle's house is totally uncomfortable for many reasons, among them the following:

• Erin is driving like a bat out of hell, still jacked about the stuffed sausage comment.
  
• I tied the halter too tightly around my neck ... and I can barely feel anything below my shoulders.
  
• Jess and Brianna are fighting over whose wrists are skinnier, and I'm in the middle of them.
  And...
  
• I'm trying desperately to come up with an excuse not to swim.
  

***

The Smiths are local celebrities because of their big New York State Lottery win five years ago. Their house is sickening, it's so big. Gorgeous Kyle Smith is waiting for us outside. He leads us into the dreaded pool house. I'm too scared to check him out because of Lipstick Law Six. I don't even dare make eye contact with him. I know Britney has the hots for him, and any communication—including nonverbal—is a definite Lipstick Law no-no.