swallowed me whole or was somehow
beaten back completely, I was blessed with suck in the form of the traditional
Snow White coloring: skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as
black as coal.
In the
cartoons and the storybooks, they make it look almost cute. Of course, when
artists and animators design a Snow White, they essentially give their
incarnation of my story a spray tan and some neutral lip liner. A true
seven-oh-nine was nowhere near as marketable as those animated darlings. We’re
too pale, and our lips are too red, and we look like something out of a horror
movie that didn’t have the decency to stay on the screen.
“Pancake
makeup and theatrical lipstick,” replied Demi, without missing a beat. “You’d
look more realistic if you’d bothered to blend the color at all, you know.”
“Oh, believe
me, I know.” My teen years had been an endless parade of foundation creams and
blending powders, all geared toward the simple goal of making me look less like
the vanguard of an impending alien invasion. Some of them had even worked for a
little while, as long as I remembered not to touch my face. I held out my hand.
“Andy, can you give me that box of tissues?”
Andy, bless
him, knew what I was about to do. “Here you go,” he said, pressing the box into
my hand.
“Thank you,
Andy.” I didn’t take my eyes off Demi as I pulled a tissue from the box and
held it up for her to examine. “Note that this is an ordinary tissue. Does it
look like an ordinary tissue to you?”
“I suppose,”
she said, somewhat grudgingly.
“Good.” I
wiped the tissue hard across my lips, and then held it up again. “No lipstick.
No nothing, because I’m not. Wearing. Any. Makeup.”
“Lip stain,”
she said, without missing a beat.
“Fine, then.
Lip stain is a thing; I’ll grant you that, but there’s no such thing as skin
stain, not unless you want to get into paint. Regardless, if you’ve got makeup
that thick on your face, nothing’s going to get through it, am I right?”
“Yes,” she
said. This time she sounded almost suspicious, like she was sure I had a trick
up my sleeve, but wasn’t sure what that trick could possibly be.
“Just so we’re
agreed.” I turned. “Sloane, I need you to slap me, if you would be so kind.”
“You know
what? I take it back.” Sloane bounced to her feet, moving with the speed that
she reserved for violence and free food as she closed in on me. “The new girl rocks .”
Then she pulled back and slapped me hard across the face. The sound was
incredibly loud. It was nothing compared to the pain that immediately followed.
Sloane might take a half-assed approach to a lot of things, but when it came to
hitting people, she was fully committed, no questions asked.
Gritting my
teeth to keep myself from swearing—or worse, whimpering—I turned to show my
rapidly reddening cheek to Demi, who was staring at the two of us like we had
just lost our minds. “If I was wearing pancake makeup, would there be a
handprint on my skin?”
“Look, Ma, no
special effects,” added Sloane, holding up her palm for inspection. I gave it a
sidelong glance. Her skin was a little reddened, but it was fading fast,
replaced by a normal Caucasian pink.
Demi’s only
answer was the sound of the back of her head rebounding off the floor with a
hollow bonk sound, like someone had dropped a coconut. She didn’t move
after that. The four of us stared at her for a moment.
“I just want
it noted for the record that I was not responsible for killing the new girl,”
said Sloane to break the silence. “Can someone please put that in writing right
now, before there’s some sort of inquest?”
“She’s not
dead,” I said, crouching down to check Demi’s pulse. It was strong and steady.
“She just fainted, which probably proves that she’s the smartest person here.”
“Isn’t it
customary to check someone’s pulse before you declare that they’re
alive?” asked
beaten back completely, I was blessed with suck in the form of the traditional
Snow White coloring: skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as
black as coal.
In the
cartoons and the storybooks, they make it look almost cute. Of course, when
artists and animators design a Snow White, they essentially give their
incarnation of my story a spray tan and some neutral lip liner. A true
seven-oh-nine was nowhere near as marketable as those animated darlings. We’re
too pale, and our lips are too red, and we look like something out of a horror
movie that didn’t have the decency to stay on the screen.
“Pancake
makeup and theatrical lipstick,” replied Demi, without missing a beat. “You’d
look more realistic if you’d bothered to blend the color at all, you know.”
“Oh, believe
me, I know.” My teen years had been an endless parade of foundation creams and
blending powders, all geared toward the simple goal of making me look less like
the vanguard of an impending alien invasion. Some of them had even worked for a
little while, as long as I remembered not to touch my face. I held out my hand.
“Andy, can you give me that box of tissues?”
Andy, bless
him, knew what I was about to do. “Here you go,” he said, pressing the box into
my hand.
“Thank you,
Andy.” I didn’t take my eyes off Demi as I pulled a tissue from the box and
held it up for her to examine. “Note that this is an ordinary tissue. Does it
look like an ordinary tissue to you?”
“I suppose,”
she said, somewhat grudgingly.
“Good.” I
wiped the tissue hard across my lips, and then held it up again. “No lipstick.
No nothing, because I’m not. Wearing. Any. Makeup.”
“Lip stain,”
she said, without missing a beat.
“Fine, then.
Lip stain is a thing; I’ll grant you that, but there’s no such thing as skin
stain, not unless you want to get into paint. Regardless, if you’ve got makeup
that thick on your face, nothing’s going to get through it, am I right?”
“Yes,” she
said. This time she sounded almost suspicious, like she was sure I had a trick
up my sleeve, but wasn’t sure what that trick could possibly be.
“Just so we’re
agreed.” I turned. “Sloane, I need you to slap me, if you would be so kind.”
“You know
what? I take it back.” Sloane bounced to her feet, moving with the speed that
she reserved for violence and free food as she closed in on me. “The new girl rocks .”
Then she pulled back and slapped me hard across the face. The sound was
incredibly loud. It was nothing compared to the pain that immediately followed.
Sloane might take a half-assed approach to a lot of things, but when it came to
hitting people, she was fully committed, no questions asked.
Gritting my
teeth to keep myself from swearing—or worse, whimpering—I turned to show my
rapidly reddening cheek to Demi, who was staring at the two of us like we had
just lost our minds. “If I was wearing pancake makeup, would there be a
handprint on my skin?”
“Look, Ma, no
special effects,” added Sloane, holding up her palm for inspection. I gave it a
sidelong glance. Her skin was a little reddened, but it was fading fast,
replaced by a normal Caucasian pink.
Demi’s only
answer was the sound of the back of her head rebounding off the floor with a
hollow bonk sound, like someone had dropped a coconut. She didn’t move
after that. The four of us stared at her for a moment.
“I just want
it noted for the record that I was not responsible for killing the new girl,”
said Sloane to break the silence. “Can someone please put that in writing right
now, before there’s some sort of inquest?”
“She’s not
dead,” I said, crouching down to check Demi’s pulse. It was strong and steady.
“She just fainted, which probably proves that she’s the smartest person here.”
“Isn’t it
customary to check someone’s pulse before you declare that they’re
alive?” asked
Similar Books
