The Lipstick Laws (9 page)

As we make our way to the bonfire in Troy's backyard, the air gets warm and thick with smoke. The crackling embers drown among the rowdy group of people. The obscene smell of marijuana marinates the atmosphere from a few yards away. A couple of useless stoners are having a powwow behind a patch of bushes. They're probably discussing their less-than-genius philosophies on life and the common cure for a mammoth munchie attack.

Kyle runs up to tackle a group of football players standing near a woodpile next to the house. He's greeted with loud cheers and a few "bro" punches. Warmer now that I'm next to the fire, I quickly give Brandon's enchilada jacket back and have a seat next to Britney on a log.

"Do you girls want a drink?" Brandon accommodates, still praying for a hookup, I'm sure.

"Of course." Britney smiles.

"Sure. I'll take a Diet Coke if they have it."

Brit nudges my ribs. Evidently that was the wrong answer.

"Right," Brandon replies sarcastically. He waddles into the house.

"He's so hot!" Britney whispers to me.

"Who? Brandon?" I gag.

"No!" She points to the group near the woodpile.

"Oh, yeah ... Kyle is pretty hot," I agree.

"No! Not Kyle, him!" She points directly at Troy Hoffman, who's sipping a cold beer looking hotter than the bonfire. "Trust me, someday I'll get him away from that cow."

She shoots a dirty look across the bonfire at Jamie. Jamie doesn't notice. She's in the middle of telling a group of seniors an animated story. Her arms are flapping, and the group is laughing hysterically. I look at Brit with a smirk, reveling in her jealousy.

"This is lame," she says under her breath.

Her attitude instantly changes when Kyle returns. He asks her to go inside with him, and she quickly agrees.

"Hold my coat," she barks at me.

I'm sitting by myself. I don't know anyone here, and the only person who makes an attempt to talk to me is Pedro, a foreign exchange student who's completely saturated in Old Spice cologne.

"Your shoes,
me gusta!
Me like!" he says in broken English, staring at their hideousness.

"Thanks. They're really painful!" I explain with a friendly smile.

He grins and says, "Me wants to—to—" I lean closer, ready to help him translate as he tries to think of the right words. "Get..."

"A drink?" I try to help him.

"No," he continues. "Me wants to—to—get..."

He points to my jeans. My heart goes out to him. I can imagine how difficult it must be to be in a foreign country without a full grasp of the language.

"A pair of jeans?
Pantalones
?" I ask, trying to speak some Spanish.

"No, no!" Frustrated, he points again.

"What? You wanna sit here?" I pat the log next to me, happy to take him under my English-speaking wing.

"No ... No ... Me wants—to—to—get in..."

I lean even closer. "In what?"

"Your panties!" he blurts knowingly.

My mouth drops open in horror. I'm shocked.

"
Si?
" He smirks.

"No! No panties!" I yell, completely disgusted.

Darren, an obnoxiously raucous senior, stumbles up to us.

"
Si
... me-wantsta-get-inyur-panties tooooo! Noooo deal?" he slurs, spilling half of his beer down my shirt. It slowly seeps into my tissues.

"Told ya she'd fall for it, dude," Pedro says with a faint accent in near perfect English. "Me-me-wants-to-to..." he recaps his stammering antics, and bursts into laughter with Darren.

"Goooodjob, PED ... RO ... MY mannnn." Darren pats him on the back and hands him five dollars.

Humiliated, I wipe my shirt off, realizing I was part of a bet. Pedro obviously knew what he was doing all along. This just goes to show that regardless of the country they come from, all guys are pigs! I feel like oinking at them. Instead, I give them a withering look before stalking off.

I walk far away from the bonfire and find a secluded lawn chair to sit on. I'm freezing again, so I slip on Britney's expensive coat, making sure no beer rubs off on it. I can't believe that I'm actually wondering where Brandon is at this point.

Another fifteen minutes go by, and Brandon finally comes out with drinks.

"Why are you all the way over here? Where's Britney?" he asks.

"Kyle took her inside a while ago. I thought you would see them," I say curtly, deciding not to tell him about Pedro and Darren the perverts.

"They probably went upstairs." Brandon smiles sneakily. "I mixed you up something extra special. You can have Brit's, too."

He hands me a big mug. I take a whiff of the cocktail and practically fall off the chair. It smells like nail polish remover.

"Where did Troy get all this alcohol?" I ask, looking around at the crowd of hammered faces.

"Travis came home from college this weekend," Brandon replies.

Troy's brother—that makes sense. Travis Hoffman graduated years before I moved here, but even I know about him. It took him five years to graduate from high school ... and he's going on his sixth year of college. He's definitely not there for the education.

"What's wrong?" Brandon notices the misery on my face.

"I'm..." Oh, no, I feel it. My annoyance cork is about to pop. I decide to let it all out. "I'm freezing, I want to saw my feet off, I've been sitting outside by myself for nine years ... and I have beer down my shirt!"

"I can help you with that."

I smack his hand away from my chest. "Don't even think about it!"

"Well, sor-ry!" He backs up with his hands in the air. "You seem like you wanna get outta here."

"Is that an option?" I ask hopefully.

"Sure, we can go if you want." He smiles, dangling a set of car keys. "Kyle gave me his keys."

"Have you had anything to drink?" I look at him suspiciously.

"Negative." He shakes his head. "I'm on driving duty tonight."

"You think Brit will get mad at me? Will you come back for them later? I wouldn't want her to think I left her."

"Nah, she won't get mad. They won't even know we left. I'll come right back after I drop you off," he says convincingly.

I accept his offer and begin to hobble with him to Kyle's truck. I'm so cold, I decide to sip the gross drink he gave me. It tastes horrible, but at least it's warming me up. As we approach the SUV, we both realize that no less than ten cars have blocked us in since we first arrived.

"Great, we're going to be here all night," I grumble.

"That's not such a bad thing, is it? We can find plenty of things to do to pass the time." Brandon winks.

My stomach bubbles with revulsion. I begin to sip my drink faster to try to soothe it.

"Let's get in the car and turn on the heat. We can at least warm up a little."

His suggestion seems halfway plausible, since my teeth are chattering from the cold night breeze. I open the door and hop into the front seat with my booze mug.

Before I know it, I've finished my first drink, and Brandon replaces it with Britney's. I find that it's easier to look at his face the more I drink. Funny thing is, I don't even like alcohol. In fact, the only other time I've ever tried it was when Haley and I stole a couple of beers from my dad's beer fridge this past summer. We thought it would be fun to give her a bon voyage toast over a couple of brews. We took one sip of the beer and spit it out all over my bedroom. It was putrid! I practically peed my pants laughing that night.

Obviously, since I'm not an experienced drinker, the alcohol hits me pretty quickly. My body becomes warm and tingly and I can no longer feel my feet ... Probably a combination of the alcohol and the tourniquet shoes. It's a super-weird sensation, but at least they don't hurt anymore.

"Is it hot in here now?" I ask, fanning my face with my hand.

"You're making it hot," he says suavely, turning down the car heat.

Brandon starts telling jokes, which I'm finding hilariously funny ... not because of what he's saying, or how he's telling them ... but because I've zoned in on one thick overgrown über-long black hair that's flopping from his chin as he talks. I immediately think of the Three Little Pigs ... and how funny it would be if he were to lean in for a kiss and I were to say, "Not by the hair of your chinny-chin-chin." This thought, of course, is completely amusing to me until he actually moves closer.

"Let's face it, April," he says, "we've been checking each other out all night."

He brushes a few lingering curls away from my face and leans in even closer.

"Uh ... no, I haven't," I challenge him.

"Don't try to play hard to get; I know you want to kiss me." He clasps my neck gently, pulling my face in to his.

"I don't think this is a good idea!" I blurt.

He puts his stumpy finger up to my mouth. "Shhhh ... give in to temptation..."

I see his lips parting. I instantly think of poor Emma and her tube socks and get sick to my stomach. He's coming in closer ... and closer ... My eyes are bulging in fear as he's about to touch my lips with his crusty trout-suckers ... when all of a sudden, my stomach lets out a huge
gurgle ... blurp ... gurgle ... burble ... glurp! Glurp!

He pulls back.

"What was that?" He looks at me with repulsion.

"I don't feel so good," I say as I stumble out of the car to puke by the front tire.

He hops out quickly.

"Oh, shit!" he shouts.

"No, no ... it's okay ... I'm okay," I say, holding my hand up. Then I realize that he's not worried about me.

A bright light is shining toward us, and he screams, "COPS! RUUUUN!"

I dart so fast, you'd think a propeller is attached to my booty. It's hard to run when you can't feel your feet, but I manage, like a crazed convict on the loose. I surge through pricker bushes without even flinching. Soon I find myself wading in a swamp. Okay, maybe it's just a mud puddle, but regardless, it's wet. I quickly look back at the party scene. Kids are scattering everywhere, like a horde of ants dashing from an anteater. This encourages me to continue trucking it.

By the time I'm nearing home, the glow of a streetlamp lights my path. I realize that Britney's chic, expensive green shoes (although they're still hideous) are no longer green.

I remember her warning from earlier: "If anything happens to these, I'll
kill
you!"

I stop by a large tree to throw up again.

"Hi, Brit. It's me again. I'm just calling to see if you're okay. I haven't heard from you, and I'm worried. I'm so sorry about last night ... and the cops ... and everything. Please call me back as soon as you get this!"

This is the eighth message I've left on Britney's cell. She isn't returning my calls, which can't be a good sign.

It was hard, but I managed to get the prickers and burrs out of her jacket. Unfortunately, now it looks like a cat's scratching post. Also, scrubbing her shoes in my bathroom sink wasn't the brightest idea. I don't think the fabric's washable. I pace my room obsessively with a monstrous headache. I'm terrified for Monday ... and I should be.

"It's okay. It'll be fine. I'll just pay her back for the shoes and coat." I try to console myself. "There was nothing I could do. I couldn't help it. She has to understand."

***

"I am going to KILL YOU!" Britney screams after I hand over her ruined coat and shoes. "Don't even look at me! Don't talk to me! You're
dead
in my world!"

She throws them back at me with a venomous look in her eyes. Her once green shoes miss my head by a centimeter.

"I'm sorry! I'll pay you back!"

She stomps up to me. I'm afraid she's going to bite my nose off because she's so close to my face. "You're dead, April! Dead girls don't talk! So, shut it!"

I gather my gym clothes and run to the bathroom. My chin trembles as I lock the door. Sobbing, I panic—oh my gosh, she's going to ruin my life! It's bad enough that Matt refused to talk to me in homeroom and the whole football team is calling me "Pukie." But more than anything, I'm terrified of what Britney is going to do to me ... if she doesn't decide to kill me first.

A couple minutes after the first-period bell rings, I pull myself together as best as I can and walk into the gymnasium. I'm pretty sure makeup is streaming down my face. I don't know ... I didn't look in the mirror, a clear violation of Lipstick Law One.

"Just give her time to cool down. She's just mad. She'll get over it eventually. You'll pay her back." I talk quietly to myself like a crazy person. "Just give her space for now. Keep your distance."

"Ms. Hoops!" Britney yells from the opposite side of the gymnasium.

"Yes, Miss Taylor?" the gym teacher responds.

"I need a new gym partner!"

"Oh, no, I can't do that. If you're having problems, you need to work them out with your partner. That's an important part of becoming an adult, Britney," she explains.

Britney stamps her foot childishly. "But, but ... our problems can't be resolved!" she insists, pointing at me.

Ms. Hoops grows concerned. "What on earth is wrong, Britney?"

"April ... April has foot fungus!"

I gasp. "Liar! What are you talking about?"

"Don't pretend like you don't, April! Admit it: you have mushrooms growing from your toes!" Britney says as the other students laugh.

I cross my arms defiantly and repeat, "Liar!"

"Britney, foot fungus is no reason to switch partners," Ms. Hoops says calmly. "April can get something to take care of that."

"But I don't—" I blurt before Britney's loud voice overtakes mine.

"Well, nothing is going to cure her herpes! That's incurable!"

"What? I don't have
herpes!
" I shout adamantly. I want to rip her hair out!

"Don't pretend like you didn't try to give me your herpes on the first day of school when you gave me your lip gloss!" Britney's head jerks as she yells; her long ponytail bounces viciously behind her.

Ms. Hoops takes us out into the hall. It's too late, though. They all think I have herpes and foot fungus now. I want to kill Britney. After fifteen minutes of unresolved screaming with Ms. Hoopensteiner trying to calm us down, she decides to pair us with new partners.