Z: Sister Wears Makeup

Chapter: Kid, Sister Decides to Wear Makeup

My big sister stands in front of the bathroom mirror, giggling while I
hold up tubes and jars from my mother's makeup bag. My little sister
sits on the toilet, watching us. She's wearing red lipstick. Too
bright, my big sister decided.

"How about this one?" I ask, holding up a tube of pink lipstick that my
mother wears all the time. It's very light, and frosty looking. My
sister tries it.

"Now smack your lips," I tell her, demonstrating what I've seen my
mother do countless times. "Sometimes you can blot it with a tissue."
At this my little sister pulls off a square of toilet paper and holds
it out. She's watched my mother get ready, too.

My sister studies herself in the mirror, turning from side to side and
looking at herself with her eyes wide open. She is fifteen, and this is
the first time she's decided to wear makeup. For the occasion she has
put a purple bandana over her hair, hiding the long bangs that usually
cover her forehead and eyes. Her ears stick out, and I notice that she
has tiny bits of gold in each of the little holes in her ears. They're
the same ones my little sister has, permanent now that the swelling and
pus have stopped.

"What next?" my sister asks, opening a compact with a little sponge
that looks dirty but is really just covered in the chalky powder my
mother puts on her face.

"I think you put that on later, if you want," I tell her. I'm being
very careful in what I say, mostly because she is very picky about how
she looks but mostly because I want to see how she looks at the end of
all this. One wrong word and I know my sister will walk out of the
bathroom and probably out the front door of our apartment, going to
meet up with the friends I've never met. I have a feeling these friends
are what made her want to put on makeup, something she's never wanted
to do before. Today she walked into the apartment and took me and my
little sister into the bathroom, pouring all of my mother's makeup out
of its bag and onto the counter. Some of it is still sitting in the
sink.

"You can put this on, but Mama says it's not good for your skin," I
say, giving her the bottle of skin-colored liquid that covers freckles.
My sister looks at it and then takes it, unscrewing the top and tilting
it too fast onto one finger. Some of it spills on the floor.

"Shit," she says, but we leave the mess where it is while my sister
smears the liquid on her face. At first it streaks from her nose to her
cheekbones, but after more rubbing she gets it to look smooth. Her
freckles are so light now that I know they will be invisible once she
is out from under the bathroom light.

"This is just like drawing," my sister says, finishing up. She has left
a line between her jaw and her neck, but I don't say anything. Instead
I hold up my mother's eye shadow, the only kind she uses. It has tiny
compartments of greens and blues, and a smaller square of white. It
comes with its own brush, which is so heavy with powder that it almost
looks black. "Sometimes Mama uses a Q-Tip," I tell my sister, but she
picks up the little brush and rubs it in some green.

"Wait," I say, "You need to start with the darker color, and the put
the lighter ones on the outside."

My sister stares at me for a couple of seconds, then hands me the brush
and sits on the edge of the bathtub. "You do it," she tells me, and
closes her eyes.

I crouch down in front of her, and try to copy what I've seen my mother
do. I don't press too hard, and at one point I catch my sister watching
me with the eye I'm not working on. I laugh, and my breath sends some
of the powder on my sister's closed eyelid into the air.

When I'm finished with the eyes, my little sister and I stand up and
decide what should come next. "That eye is darker than the other one,"
my little sister says. I take a Q-Tip and dust of my sister's eyelid,
nodding when I'm finished.

"I think I need something more around my eyes. What's missing?" my
sister asks. She's back in front of the mirror, and in a good mood. I
show her a black eyeliner pencil and a brown one. I suggest the
black.

"Okay, black then," she says, "Does it go under or above my
eyelashes?"

I haven't watched my mother close enough to know the answer. My little
sister just shrugs when I look at her. "I think you can do both," I
say, hoping I'm right.

My sister works with the eyeliner for a while. She has a steady hand,
and does it well, on both her right and left eyes. With the eyeliner
and under the bright bathroom light, her eyes become a different color,
almost light green. I can't see any of the blue or brown that's
normally there.

I show her how to take a piece of toilet paper, wind it up into a
little point, and smudge the eyeliner where it comes together at the
corners of her eyes. I tell her she can use the brown eyeliner to put
on her eyebrows, but she shakes her head. "They're dark enough," she
says, frowning at her new face. She turns from side to side again, but
I can tell she is really looking into her own eyes.

"You look nice," I tell her. My little sister agrees, standing on her
toes so she can see into the mirror. I say, "You just need this, and
this," holding up a tube of mascara and a small pink case of blush. The
blush is almost the same color as the lipstick she's wearing.

My sister figures out the mascara on her own, leaving clumps in her
eyelashes but mostly doing what my mother does. To put on the blush she
makes a fish face, demonstrated by my little sister, sending pink
powder into the air as she brushes it onto her cheeks.

"That's it," I say. Since she's finished, I start putting my mother's
makeup back in its bag. I don't think my mother will notice, and in
fact I think my mother will be pleased.

My sister takes off the bandana, uncovering her hair, and folds it
neatly on the counter into a long band. Then she ties the band around
her forehead, hiding the red marks that have been there for so long
that I have trouble remembering her without them. She looks completely
different, like a grownup. She turns sideways twice, following her
image in the mirror, and walks out of the bathroom and into her room.
My little sister and I follow and stand outside her doorway.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

"To the arcade," she says.

"Do you have money to play?"

"I'm not going to play games, stupid," she says. She sprays herself
with the perfume that has a unicorn etched into the glass. It smells
like baby powder and rubbing alcohol.

"Can we come?" I ask.

"No, you stay here. Make dinner or something."

"I can go to the arcade if I want," I say. This is true, but my sister
stops and stares at me. She looks like my mother and father all at
once, not saying anything but pushing past me and into the living room.
She walks out the front door.

I wait for what I think is a long enough time, then grab my little
sister's hand and pull her outside. We walk quietly on the concrete,
keeping a lookout for my sister. I duck between buildings, or behind
cars, just in case.

We sneak up to the side of the arcade through the parking lot. I'm out
of breath as I press up against the bricks. The way my little sister
and I are standing, hands against the walls and our heads turned to the
side, is a sure giveaway that we're up to something. I nudge my little
sister and nod, telling her she should follow me. We make our way
around to the window closest to the edge of the arcade. My little
sister pulls herself up, balancing on her bare feet on the thin metal
ledge at the bottom of the window. I am tall enough to see through the
window, and spot my big sister right away.

She is standing by a stool next to the snack counter, and even if I
can't see her face I know it's her. Her feet are wide apart, her hands
in her pockets. She's laughing. A man, not a boy, sits on a stool
across from her. He's wearing a baseball cap over his long hair, and
has bushy sideburns and a moustache. A bag, maybe potato chips, dangles
between his legs. He runs his free hand along my sister's arm, and her
shoulders bunch up like she's being tickled.

I want to go inside the arcade, but I know I can't. Even if I send my
little sister into the arcade, my big sister will not come out. I could
make up a story about how there is something wrong in the apartment or
with one of the cats, but my sister would not come. She doesn't move
away from the man in the baseball cap, even when he touches her.
Instead she holds her ground, and keeps laughing.