have been talking for ages and you are unusually quiet. I think you might want to tell me a bit more about your mum now, after hearing so much from me, but you shake your head. ‘Nah, let’s try on some make-up,’ you say, jumping up from the bed.
You open my drawer where I keep various bits of make-up I’ve bought with pocket money when Niamh remembers to give it to me. You find a purple eyeshadow and stand in front of the mirror using your little finger to rub it on. After that you take the liquid eyeliner and apply it in one perfect, steady sweep of your hand. Then you take a step back to study your work.
‘How do I look?’ you ask me.
Your eyes are enormous; the purple eyeshadow has turned the blue darker and stormier. I have to look away before they hypnotise me.
‘Stunning,’ I say, wishing I had your eyes.
You turn to me with your head tilted to one side.
‘Purple’s not your colour, Rach,’ you say, rummaging for something else in the drawer. ‘But this one is perfect.’ You hold up a light green eyeshadow. I screw up my face. ‘Trust me, it’ll look amazing with your eyes.’
‘Yeah right,’ I laugh. But really I’m just playing along because I do trust you, implicitly. I marvel at how you know what looks good and what doesn’t, how you always seem to make me look better than I could ever have imagined.
You sit me down on the edge of the bed and you start work on my eyes. ‘Ten minutes,’ you say, ‘ten minutes is all I need for the full makeover.’
I nod my approval. I would happily stay there all evening just to be the centre of your attention. Sometimes I have to pinch myself that you chose me to be your friend when you could have chosen anyone. I’ve watched you in the playground, I’ve seen the way people gravitate towards you, eager for your approval. You’re not even aware of the power you have, but I see it. You could turn your sunshine smile on any one of them and make them glow, but you don’t, you save it for me and that makes it all the more beautiful. Maybe one day I’ll be able to explain this to you properly; I’m like one of my sunflowers under your gaze, Clara. Your friendship makes me feel special and alive where before I was empty and grey.
Finally you’ve finished the makeover. Pulling me up from the bed, you shuffle me towards the mirror, your hands covering my eyes.
‘Dah dah!’ you say, finally moving your hands away. ‘You can look now.’
The person looking back at me isn’t me, it can’t be. The eyes that have always been dull and pale seem to look green now, and big and wide. I catch them twinkling back at me. My whole face has been transformed. I can see my cheekbones and my lips glisten under a thin coating of gloss. I almost look pretty. I think I might cry.
‘You see, Rach, I’m never wrong.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. It doesn’t even begin to capture how I feel but it’s all I can manage.
You come and stand next to me in front of the mirror, pulling a model face, all sultry and pouting. It makes me laugh and I try to do the same. Then we fall back on the soft bed, gazing up at the Artex ceiling with its swirls and peaks. I feel like I’m floating through clouds with you next to me, just the two of us. I hope it’s always like this.
‘You know, Rach, I’m going to be an actress one day. I’m going to star in those big budget films in Hollywood. I want to be famous. My dad says I can start drama classes next term.’ And then you laugh, ‘Well that’s my dream anyway.’
I think of you creating ripples of excitement wherever you go, swishing up the red carpet, wearing one of those dresses with slits up the thigh and the back all scooped out. I see your hair, snaking down your bum, and the paparazzi calling out your name,
Clara, Clara, Clara,
the
flashbulbs going off in your face.
‘I reckon you will be famous,’ I say, rolling over on to my side to look at you. ‘Just don’t forget me when you are.’
‘As if,’ you give
You open my drawer where I keep various bits of make-up I’ve bought with pocket money when Niamh remembers to give it to me. You find a purple eyeshadow and stand in front of the mirror using your little finger to rub it on. After that you take the liquid eyeliner and apply it in one perfect, steady sweep of your hand. Then you take a step back to study your work.
‘How do I look?’ you ask me.
Your eyes are enormous; the purple eyeshadow has turned the blue darker and stormier. I have to look away before they hypnotise me.
‘Stunning,’ I say, wishing I had your eyes.
You turn to me with your head tilted to one side.
‘Purple’s not your colour, Rach,’ you say, rummaging for something else in the drawer. ‘But this one is perfect.’ You hold up a light green eyeshadow. I screw up my face. ‘Trust me, it’ll look amazing with your eyes.’
‘Yeah right,’ I laugh. But really I’m just playing along because I do trust you, implicitly. I marvel at how you know what looks good and what doesn’t, how you always seem to make me look better than I could ever have imagined.
You sit me down on the edge of the bed and you start work on my eyes. ‘Ten minutes,’ you say, ‘ten minutes is all I need for the full makeover.’
I nod my approval. I would happily stay there all evening just to be the centre of your attention. Sometimes I have to pinch myself that you chose me to be your friend when you could have chosen anyone. I’ve watched you in the playground, I’ve seen the way people gravitate towards you, eager for your approval. You’re not even aware of the power you have, but I see it. You could turn your sunshine smile on any one of them and make them glow, but you don’t, you save it for me and that makes it all the more beautiful. Maybe one day I’ll be able to explain this to you properly; I’m like one of my sunflowers under your gaze, Clara. Your friendship makes me feel special and alive where before I was empty and grey.
Finally you’ve finished the makeover. Pulling me up from the bed, you shuffle me towards the mirror, your hands covering my eyes.
‘Dah dah!’ you say, finally moving your hands away. ‘You can look now.’
The person looking back at me isn’t me, it can’t be. The eyes that have always been dull and pale seem to look green now, and big and wide. I catch them twinkling back at me. My whole face has been transformed. I can see my cheekbones and my lips glisten under a thin coating of gloss. I almost look pretty. I think I might cry.
‘You see, Rach, I’m never wrong.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. It doesn’t even begin to capture how I feel but it’s all I can manage.
You come and stand next to me in front of the mirror, pulling a model face, all sultry and pouting. It makes me laugh and I try to do the same. Then we fall back on the soft bed, gazing up at the Artex ceiling with its swirls and peaks. I feel like I’m floating through clouds with you next to me, just the two of us. I hope it’s always like this.
‘You know, Rach, I’m going to be an actress one day. I’m going to star in those big budget films in Hollywood. I want to be famous. My dad says I can start drama classes next term.’ And then you laugh, ‘Well that’s my dream anyway.’
I think of you creating ripples of excitement wherever you go, swishing up the red carpet, wearing one of those dresses with slits up the thigh and the back all scooped out. I see your hair, snaking down your bum, and the paparazzi calling out your name,
Clara, Clara, Clara,
the
flashbulbs going off in your face.
‘I reckon you will be famous,’ I say, rolling over on to my side to look at you. ‘Just don’t forget me when you are.’
‘As if,’ you give
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