Trapped in Forever

27 ~ Yellow Really Suits You

I could feel her bright azure eyes continuing to drift in my direction, whether it was because I could glimpse the freckled, ashen profile of her cheekbones and chin in the reflection on the mirror attached to my vanity before me when the makeup artist was blocking my view or if it was because I could hear her chair squeak faintly in protest as she swiveled it with her toes to see the back of my curled, dark head. Her gaze would immediately flicker away if I shifted my pupils, the chair would squeak again, her pedicured would blur before my eyes, and her profile would disappear in my mirror, her eyes suddenly directed for a random cosmetic brush laid out on the black, smooth surface of the vanity or her phone, pretending it was still on when I could see that the screen was black.

“And . . .,” the makeup artist said, her voice drawing on as she leaned back, pressing her tailbone against the edge of the vanity, a crease forming across her forehead and above her thin eyebrows, and she reached her hand out, brushing back one of the floral scented curls behind my ear and smiled, “done. There. You’re already for your first shoot. Good luck, kiddo.”

I smiled, feeling as if the layers of makeup she applied to my face—the primer, foundation, facial powder, and bronzer all concealing each and every freckle, the faintest indication of acne, and the indistinct scar just below my hairline that split my skin years ago after I fell off my bike, having discarded the training wheels to the side of the yard where I believed they would get tossed with the trash that Tuesday but later learned my mother kept them hidden in the garage, determined that I would need them again—would crackle if my lips curled too far. “Thanks,” I murmured, realizing I didn’t know her name as she smiled back, hers more easygoing than mine, and she turned away, hand wrapping around the doorknob.

As the door clicked shut, the ajar opening revealing her denim back pockets, one of which carried her iPhone, and the back of her graphic T-shirt, hair tumbling down her back, closing, I glanced through the mirror at Debbie. Her thumb was still grazing over the blank, dark screen, lips pressed tightly together, just barely a glossy, thin, pink line, and briefly, her cobalt eyes lifted away from her screen and to her mirror, meeting my eyes almost instantly, but I turned away before she could blink.

“Hi,” I could hear her murmur, the word sounding more like a breath than an actual sentence or voice, and I merely nodded—tilting my chin down, really—even though I wasn’t looking at her, through the mirror or otherwise, but I could tell she was looking at me, that her bright azure had finally lifted off of her dark screen, tilted toward her chest, in a poor attempt to conceal its surface from me, and had landed on me, mascara coating her red light shaded eyelashes as they blinked at me, shifting the shadows on her cheeks.

Even though my eyes were directed for my knees, hidden beneath the silk of a bathrobe that felt smooth and cool against my bare skin, shimmering in the light radiating from the mirror’s direction, I could see her reflection in my vanity shifting as her legs crossed, the neon purple of her pedicure blurring with the ashen shade of her flesh as she tucked her right leg under her left thigh, neon purple toes peeking out beside the hem of her shorts, and the peachy gloss disappearing under her teeth as she bit her lip, turning her gaze away as her fingers picked at the leather of the armrest, scratching at the seams. My eyes flickered upward, averting from my concealed knees to the mirror, feeling an uncomfortable ball of nerves form in the pit of my stomach, and as she continued to pick at the leather seams, I tried to determine if it was because I was going to slip out of my silky robe, clad what my mother would seem an “inappropriate” outfit, and freeze a smile onto my red lips, or if it was because Debbie Beatle was sitting a couple feet behind me, nibbling on her lips, and swinging her bare leg back and forth in the air.

“Look, Amanda,” I heard her murmur as I stared at her reflection, eyes suddenly lifting away from the armrest and aiming for my own reflection in the mirror, not even the slightest indication of shock when she saw I was already gawking at her filtering into her countenance, while the ball of nerves constricted within me. “I’m really, really sorry for what I said at that party a couple weeks ago. I was pretty drunk—not that that’s really an excuse or anything, because it’s totally not—but I felt really bad about it when I sobered up. I promise.”