"Why the fuck are you answering the door?" Bridgette irritatedly asks when I open the front door for her. Cases full of make-up and hair stuff sit at her feet while she's got her dress slung back over her shoulder.
At first I don't understand why she's toting all of this make-up around when she's clearly put some on today already. She's got a white, lace skirt on with a blue lace blazer. She's dressed for summer, not the middle of December. Her red hair is piled on top of her head in an messy, yet elegant, bun.
When I look down at my ratty, blue, too-long sweats and my purple v-neck, I understand exactly why she's toting all of this shit around: she's here to do my hair and make-up.
"Because you rang the door bell?" I answer her question with a tone of smart-assness.
"No, I mean why are you answering the door?" She starts to pick up her assorted cases of junk and begins to stumble inside. I side-step her so she doesn't trample me, and so I don't have to help her. "You need to be getting ready."
I peer behind her at the clock in the living room. It reads 2:14. I look back at her with total confusion because the dance doesn't start until 7 o'clock this evening. "Why weren't you getting ready?" she persists even though she clearly notices the bewildered state of my face.
"Because I had to make and clean up breakfast? Because I had laundry that needed my attention?" I shoot back. Bridgette doesn't go the sympathy route like most people would if I used those as my excuses; she knows me too well to pity me. Instead, she rolls her eyes and hands me a make-up case that weighs about as much as a cinder block.
She starts up the stairs, and I follow her obdiently. In my room, she starts to pull tubes of lipstick and mascara, pots of eyeshadow, and sticks of eyeliner out of the three cases currently holding my bed down. She sets the various torture tools out on the counter in the bathroom while I take a seat next to the cases.
When she comes back in my room, her heels no longer clicking against the tile in the bathroom, she puts her hands on her hips and gives me a once-over, evaluating just how much time she's going to need. Pressing a finger to her lips in a contemplative gesture, she suddenly goes to my closet and pulls out the dress.
I haven't looked at it much since we brought it home a couple weeks ago for fear of it getting some god awful stain or chancing that Jay might see it, so it's nice to see the thing that has yet to give my father a minor heart attack when it shows up on the Visa bill. It's nice to see that it's all mine and nobody else's.
"Ah, just as magical as the day we picked it out," Bridge sighs. She carefully lays it across the bed, admiring it more once she releases it. "I'm so glad you resisted to show the ungrateful male this beautiful masterpiece."
"When did he become ungrateful?" I lean back on my elbows on the bed, making sure I don't squish the dress, and ask Bridge.
"He's not ungrateful yet, but he will be when he rips this dress off you later tonight," she looks at me and winks. I roll my eyes this time.
But as much as I hate that she thinks she knows what'll happen later on this evening, I know she's right. On Wednesday, I made a few calls around to see who would be willing to watch a pair of rowdy ten year-olds tonight. As I figured, most people either had plans to go to the dance or were spending time with family since it's the holidays, so I was forced to implement the if-all-else-fails plan, a plan I have never had to use and, quite frankly, never wanted to use.
Bridgette's mom has always told that if I ever need anything to just call her and she would gladly help, but the problem with Bridge's mom is that she doesn't have much of a filter and will say whatever comes to mind. I love the woman dearly, but I'm still scarred for life when what was supposed to be a simple ride home turned into a full on lecture about sex education. I think I was about fifteen then, and that was the first day I had ever met Mrs. Valencia.
So when I talked to her Wednesday evening, she was more than happy to help. She was so happy, and so unfiltered, that she let it slip that she was worried I was never going to find love, or leave the house for that matter. I disreguarded her blunder and asked her if it would be all right if they stayed the night. She said that she was beyond excited to have "young 'uns" in the house again, and then she tried to tell me all about how her and Mr. Valencia wanted to have another after Bridgette but his erectile dysfunction wasn't going to make that happen, and I had to cut her off by quickly saying good-bye and hung up the phone.
She swung by at about noon today to pick them up and told me all she had planned. Ice cream, toy store, and indoor camping were among them, but what wasn't mentioned was what I was worried about. Would she try and give them a very graphic lesson on the dangers of STDs? Or would she regail to them her years of being a manager at one of the most high-end lingerie shops in the state? Who knows.
"You made your mom promise to behave around the boys, didn't you?" I randomly blurt out.
Bridgette glances at me and shrugs, waving me off, "I can't make the woman promise anything. You know how she is, Sarah, chatty as the day is long, and boundaries as thick as a sheet of paper."
I groan in agony; I'm definitely going to have to bake some cupcakes to smooth it over tomorrow morning with the boys. "Come on," she says, hustling me off the bed and into the bathroom, dragging the desk chair behind her. "We're wasting precious time."
She pokes and prodes at me with make-up tools for a good hour, not allowing me to look at the finished product whatsoever. She comes to close to my eye for comfort with one of those eyelash curlers, and I practically smack her until she puts it down whilst muttering, "Calm the fuck down."
We glare at each other for a split second before she returns to perfecting my eyeshadow, clearly having given up on the eyelash curler for now.
When she starts on my hair, she actually gives me a choice of how I want it to look, not like with my make-up when she just started in without asking my opinion. But I probably wouldn't have been able to give her much of an opinion on the make-up because I don't wear hardly any, so it was probably a good thing she blatantly disreguarded my non-exsitent opinion on that one.
"Up or down?" she says, twisting my curls this way and that.
"Up. We can't have anything distracting people from the dress," I smirk at her. She grins back, "I like the way you think."
"I learned from the best," I whisper.
She pulls the bulk of my hair back and secures it into something of a bun. Then she weaves my curls around to the back and pins them into the bun. She's quiet and focused as she intricately handles my hair. She stops abruptly, and without a word, walks back into my room. I can hear her rummaging through one of her cases, and I can barely keep myself from looking in the mirror.
I trust Bridge, I really do, but I'm not one for surprises. After your mother leaves in the middle of the night, you come to the point where surprises are more of a dreaded activity than an exciting activity. In the end, though, I restrain myself because I don't want to ruin the magic for myself.
She comes back with a handful of decorative bobby pins with either white or teal flowers on them. As she places them evenly throughout my hair, I'm realizing that she was right in how much time it takes to get ready. I can't believe people do this three or four times a years whether it's Prom or Homecoming or a SweetHearts dance. And then they spend what I spent on three or four different dresses. Goodlord, it's a good thing I haven't able to date throughout my two and a half years of high school because I would've bankrupt my parents by now.
When she steps back with a smile too big for her mouth to contain, she looks like she might pass out or cry. Bridge leans against the counter, gesturing with her hand for me to look in the mirror. I get out of the chair, my legs completely asleep after sitting for so long, and linger a moment before looking in the mirror.
Any semblance of my mother is gone, erased. I still have the blue eyes and the blond curls as before, but now they're more blue because of the silvery eyeshadow and my hair is up and out of my face, revealing my sharp features. Pinkish blush highlights the cheekbones I didn't know I possessed, and the soft pink lipstick expertly covers up my usually chapped lips. Bridge has performed a double miracle: she made me look like Sarah, not my mother, and made me look I just walked off the pages of a magazine.
I hug her somewhat awkwardly because I don't want to mess any of her masterpiece up. She hugs me back, and when we pull away, there's a little bit of water around the rims of her eyelids. "You look beautiful."
"Don't you dare cry," I gulp, "Because I'll cry too."
She slaps on a smile, takes a deep breath, and dabs under her eyes a little. "Alright," she sighs. "Now move because it's my turn."
She plops herself down in the chair I was just occupying and begins the same magic she just used on me. I hop up on the counter and hand her things as she asks for them. I feel a little guilty I can't help her like she helped me, but she doesn't seem to mind doing her own make-up. If anything, it seems to soothe her and shut her up, which is a feat in itself.
Bridgette shocks me when she doesn't pull a curling iron out of her absurd amount of baggage when she's sifting around in them after she's finished her make-up, instead she pulls out a thin, bejeweled headband with alternating green and white gems all around the top half. She sits back down and undoes her make-shift bun on top of her head and brushes out her naturally straight hair and slides the headband in with ease.
Generally, Bridgette Valencia opts for curls when she's got a special occasion, which is classified as an occasion in which has the potential for meeting a "smoking hot babe." So she basically curls her hair everytime we go out into public. But I guess since she has Heather, she doesn't need to spend 45 minutes a day curling her hair. Heather is a true savior for inadvertenly making Bridge give up the curling iron.
"Finished," she stands from the chair and smooths down a piece of hair.
"You look beautiful," I say to her as she checks herself out in the mirror. She glances over at me and smirks, "I know. I always look beautiful."
I roll my eyes at her smart-ass comments and make a break for my dress. Bridge is right behind me, claiming the closet for herself to change in. Whenever we change in front of each other, she always takes the nearest closet or bathroom to give me some privacy for her sake and for mine because even though we've never discussed it, we just feel more comfortable that way.
I slide my shirt extra carefully over my head and shimmy out of my pants. I grab a strapless bra and hook it on. Unzipping the dust cover on the dress feels like unwrapping presents on Christmas, even if I do already know what it is. Once the dust cover is wide open, I run a hand over the jewels on the torso and then down the teal chiffon of the skirt. I might just love this dress as much as I love Jay.
I gently take it off the hanger and slide into it delicately. I pull it by the sweetheart neckline up and over my chest. I can't seem to reach the zipper until I hear the closet door open and I feel Bridgette's hand brush my fingers away. She zips it and turns me around. Examining me, she appears satisfied.
She looks dazzling in her forest green A-line. It compliments her "wretched red hair" wonderfully. "I don't even think we need dates. We look fucking great on our own."
"You, my dear Sarah, are absolutely correct," she grabs a shoe and pulls it on, "But it's social convention that we need dates, and that's the only social convention that I agree with."
We finish off with accessories and shoes. She hands me a bracelet that goes seemlessly with my dress. I help her with her big, flashy necklace. And by the time it's all said and done, it's 6:15. Jesus, four hours of my life down the drain.
But, damn, do I look awesome.
I help her pack all of her shit up, and we are barely able to make it down the stairs in our heels and lugging the cases with us. It's a dangerous and treacherous journey, but we make it without twisting an ankle. I'm even nice enough to haul it back out to her car.
We're grabbing our coats and doing final checks when the limo rolls up in front of the house. Heather insisted on doing a girls-only limo because she didn't want to have to deal with guys tonight, or ever for that matter. So, when asked by Bridge and Heather, I accepted because I want to wait until the last possible moment to unveil my dress.
Jay really wanted to do the whole flowers and croisage ritual usually associated with formal, high school dances, but I told him I wouldn't have a parent to take pictures of me coming down the stairs and neither would he. It was a little harsh, but unfortunately, that's our reality. Four absentee parents between the two of us makes sticking to conventional rituals extremely difficult.
So, he's bro-ing down with Tony and some of the other guys whose dates are going in the limo with Heather. Lord only knows what they're doing prior to the dance.
Bridge takes my hand and leads me out to our awaiting chariot. Heather gets out of the limo as we cross the driveway. "Well, you certainly clean up nice."
Bridge beams as she gives Heather a once-over. Heather looks ravishing in a short, purple, one-shoulder number. Bridge and Heather embrace, and Bridge sneaks a kiss onto Heather's cheek. They look lovely together with their dresses accentuating one another, not clashing in any way. They're perfect for each other, in every way possible.
"Sarah, beautiful as always," Heather nods in my direction, arm around Bridgette's waist.
All three of us clomp over to the limo. I slide in first and find eight other girls and fabric of all colors and styles bunched up in every nook and cranny of the limo. I spot Vanessa Hollbrook, who I mistook for being interested in Jay a while back, and a few other cheerleaders who I'm not really familiar with. "Vanessa, you look radiant," I smile.
"As do you, Sarah," she smiles back. Heather and Bridge finally join us; their lipstick smudged on the corners of both of their mouths. I shake my head because I know how much time they each spent getting ready.
If Jay thinks he's going to kiss me and effectively screw up all of Bridge's hard work, he's thoroughly mistaken.
They slide in next to me in the back seat. A girl in a sparkly, pink dress nearest the driver tells him we're good, and he puts it in gear and pulls away from the curb. Everybody's chattering away about their dates and their dresses, you know, normal girl things, while I take it all in. The mixing of various perfumes and hairspray weighs heavily in the air, and the sparkles on dresses dance on the ceiling of the limo. There's music coming from speakers above and beside me, but I can't make out whatever Top 40 hit they're spewing; the only distinct sound I can hear is ten different versions of the same giggle.
"Sarah?" someone calls, pulling me out of my haze. "Did you hear me?"
I shake my head "no" at no one in particular because I have no clue whose voice it was. "Well, I was congratulating you on that show you put on in the cafeteria the other day. Somebody needed to put those sophomore skanks in their place," Vanessa laughs.
"It was the least I could do," I smile.
"If you weren't dating Jay, you could've had the pick of the litter boy-wise because they all wanted you after that. You left 'em droolin', Sarah O'Henry."
Quite honestly, I had no clue my actions garnered so much attention. I knew everyone in that cafeteria stopped and watched, but I didn't know it had a lasting impact or anything. I guess my fifteen minutes of fame have stretched themselves out approximately 119 hours and 45 minutes longer than I had ever imagined.
And here I thought I needed to spend $500 on a dress in order to have all eyes on me for once, and when in all actuality, I just needed to throw myself at my boyfriend in the school cafeteria.
Maybe not how I wanted to be remembered by my peers, but, hey, I'll take what I can get.