why her mother couldn’t drive. What did steering and pressing the gas pedal and brake have to do with her face? Perhaps simply the sight of her mother behind the wheel might cause an accident.
“He’s the quarterback?”
“Yes,” said Sukie, pride sneaking in. She shifted her glance to the mirror and noticed a puncture. The mirror had a hole in it. She pivoted, blocking the mirror with her back.
“Don’t make that face,” said her mom.
“What face?” said Sukie.
“Where your lips go down. If you do that, you’ll get deep grooves from here to here.” With the edge of her thumbnail she traced a line from one end of Sukie’s lips down to her chin, and then did the same on the other side.
Sukie forced her lips slightly upward.
“I regret every frown,” said her mom. “You can’t cut out smiles, that’s not practical, but it’s better to smile only when you mean it. I regret how polite I am, really I do.”
“Mom, I have to get ready. I have to do myself up.”
“Of course,” said her mom, and mercifully left.
Ramp
S UKIE examined the hole in the mirror. Had it been there yesterday? This morning? How could she not have noticed it? Had she poked the mirror? With what?
“My beautiful mirror.” Sukie, distressed, saw her reflected face full of awful creases her mother had warned against. She tried not to show her upset, to will her features into indifference, but expression (and creases) kept creeping in. “Did you do this, Señor? Somehow, did you?”
Señor rolled on his side and closed his eyes. Conversation was useless. Besides, she was late.
She assembled various liquid bases and experimented. On the first try, she glopped it on her noseas thick as peanut butter. She scraped it off and began again…and again…and again—patting it lightly, wiping with minisponges, lighter on the sides, heavier on the ramp, striping not blending, blending not striping. Her eyes strayed to the hole in the mirror.
She pressed her body flat against the glass. Such an odd thing to do, she didn’t know why the urge came upon her or why she acted on it. The hole in the mirror was approximately at the location of her heart. She stepped back and touched it lightly with her fingers. It was small and perfectly round. For a second she lost herself in fantasy. This puncture was proof—she’d dueled with Bobo in an enchanted forest. The tip of his sword had pierced her heart. Or perhaps it was an omen—the surrender was yet to come.
Stop, she scolded herself, get real, and she returned to the serious problem, her nose. Remixing the makeup, lightening “sand” with a bit of “bisque,” she sponged on a few dabs. After viewing her nose in various lights, natural and artificial, she was finally satisfied. She’d neutralized “ramp.” She’d successfully doctored her most exotic feature. It was now innocuous. Bland. Finally she was ready to take her nose to meet Bobo.
As for the rest of her face, she kept it simple: sixcoats of mascara (letting each dry before the next), lip pencil brightened with a coral gloss selected from a minicompact of four corals mysteriously named Pink Devil. “The devil is in me,” she told the mirror before diving into her closet and the problem of what to wear. She made a radical choice: a short red suede jacket with a fringe, something she’d almost forgotten she owned. “Hello, what is this?” she said upon spying it. Solving her nose made her brave, even jocular, and she completed the rest of her choices quickly—skinny jeans, her pink grapefruit heels of course, and snug-fitting layered T-shirts (tawny over tangerine). She blew kisses to Señor as she left. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” She was so grateful to him for wrecking her flatman and knocking her to the floor.
“Come in, darling, let’s have a look at you,” called her mom.
Her parents were in the living room but not together. In her journal Sukie had noted the difference between being
“He’s the quarterback?”
“Yes,” said Sukie, pride sneaking in. She shifted her glance to the mirror and noticed a puncture. The mirror had a hole in it. She pivoted, blocking the mirror with her back.
“Don’t make that face,” said her mom.
“What face?” said Sukie.
“Where your lips go down. If you do that, you’ll get deep grooves from here to here.” With the edge of her thumbnail she traced a line from one end of Sukie’s lips down to her chin, and then did the same on the other side.
Sukie forced her lips slightly upward.
“I regret every frown,” said her mom. “You can’t cut out smiles, that’s not practical, but it’s better to smile only when you mean it. I regret how polite I am, really I do.”
“Mom, I have to get ready. I have to do myself up.”
“Of course,” said her mom, and mercifully left.
Ramp
S UKIE examined the hole in the mirror. Had it been there yesterday? This morning? How could she not have noticed it? Had she poked the mirror? With what?
“My beautiful mirror.” Sukie, distressed, saw her reflected face full of awful creases her mother had warned against. She tried not to show her upset, to will her features into indifference, but expression (and creases) kept creeping in. “Did you do this, Señor? Somehow, did you?”
Señor rolled on his side and closed his eyes. Conversation was useless. Besides, she was late.
She assembled various liquid bases and experimented. On the first try, she glopped it on her noseas thick as peanut butter. She scraped it off and began again…and again…and again—patting it lightly, wiping with minisponges, lighter on the sides, heavier on the ramp, striping not blending, blending not striping. Her eyes strayed to the hole in the mirror.
She pressed her body flat against the glass. Such an odd thing to do, she didn’t know why the urge came upon her or why she acted on it. The hole in the mirror was approximately at the location of her heart. She stepped back and touched it lightly with her fingers. It was small and perfectly round. For a second she lost herself in fantasy. This puncture was proof—she’d dueled with Bobo in an enchanted forest. The tip of his sword had pierced her heart. Or perhaps it was an omen—the surrender was yet to come.
Stop, she scolded herself, get real, and she returned to the serious problem, her nose. Remixing the makeup, lightening “sand” with a bit of “bisque,” she sponged on a few dabs. After viewing her nose in various lights, natural and artificial, she was finally satisfied. She’d neutralized “ramp.” She’d successfully doctored her most exotic feature. It was now innocuous. Bland. Finally she was ready to take her nose to meet Bobo.
As for the rest of her face, she kept it simple: sixcoats of mascara (letting each dry before the next), lip pencil brightened with a coral gloss selected from a minicompact of four corals mysteriously named Pink Devil. “The devil is in me,” she told the mirror before diving into her closet and the problem of what to wear. She made a radical choice: a short red suede jacket with a fringe, something she’d almost forgotten she owned. “Hello, what is this?” she said upon spying it. Solving her nose made her brave, even jocular, and she completed the rest of her choices quickly—skinny jeans, her pink grapefruit heels of course, and snug-fitting layered T-shirts (tawny over tangerine). She blew kisses to Señor as she left. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” She was so grateful to him for wrecking her flatman and knocking her to the floor.
“Come in, darling, let’s have a look at you,” called her mom.
Her parents were in the living room but not together. In her journal Sukie had noted the difference between being
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