A Purple Winter

Chapter 2-2

A few hours later, I’d learned two things about myself. One: I looked pretty good in make-up, and two: My vivid imagination was a perfect match for playing Barbies. I’d made up so many wild stories for Lene, that she’d nearly cried when I’d told her the fun was over.

“Can you braid my hair?” She was now sitting on the bathroom counter, swinging her feet.

We’d been in the washroom together for half an hour, because evidently, I’d lost my mind, pride, and will, and allowed Lene to turn me into Lucille Ball. “I—I need to—to clean up this mess.” I surveyed the other half of the tiled counter. It was full of lipstick tubes, open eye shadow containers, glitter power, eye liners, and foundation power. “You have a lot of m—make-up for a—a nine-year-old.”

“My mother was a beauty queen in Norway. She gave me all her make-up when I turned eight. But I don’t think I’ll wear much make-up when I’m older. I believe in a woman’s natural beauty.”

This girl was something else. I shot her a look. “How do I get this off?” I tried wiping a wet Kleenex over my eyes. Lene had insisted on black eyeliner and green eye shadow, swearing it would bring out my features and make my green eyes pop.

“It’s water proof.” She leaned back on the wall next to the cracked mirror I was staring into, and narrowed her eyes. “How come your hair is so red?”

I shot her another quick look from under the tissue. I’d never asked myself that question. My hair was the color of dark rust. Or a new penny. My mother said I’d gotten it from her side of the family. She always insisted I should be proud of my redhead genes. She believed we were soon to be extinct. My mother was strange that way.

“Here, use this.” Lene fumbled through the mess and handed me a tube of cream. “Is your mom sleeping?”

I squirted the make-up remover into a fresh tissue and rubbed my eyes clean. But there was still a trace of eyeliner under my eyes.

“My mother says that your mom needs to see a psychologist.” Lene was watching me remove my make-up with curious eyes. I really enjoyed her company. That was probably weird. I was sixteen. But somehow, I could be myself around her. “I’m gonna be a psychologist when I grow up,” she said, in a matter-of-fact tone. “So I’ll take care of her.” When the doorbell rang, Lene slid off the counter. “It’s time for my figure skating lesson!”

I quickly shut containers and lids, then found a plastic bag under the sink to dump all the make-up into. When I heard Nick’s deep and smooth voice in my apartment, I froze, my stomach tightening into a hot fist. Why would God punish me this way? I looked at my reflection—I’d slipped some jeans on earlier, but was still wearing that fitted U2 shirt. Was it too tight? I’d really gained some muscle mass this summer. But the make-up. Had to do something about the make-up. The more I rubbed, the more the eyeliner smudged.

“Derek, my things!” Lene ordered from the entrance.

Cornered by fate, I grabbed the bag and stepped out into the hall.

Nick was crouched down in the living room, with his back to me, gathering Lene’s dolls.

I set the make-up bag by the front door and waited, hoping he’d step out without looking directly at me, as he was in the habit of doing these days.

But Nick stood, his eyes widening a little at the sight of me. “Oh, hey,” he said, quickly looking away. Was he blushing? Flustered?

“Derek played Barbies with me.” Lene looked up at her tall brother, craning her neck. “You and Boone never play with me. And he let me do his face up.” She threw her pink bag over her thin shoulders and walked off, but passing me, stopped to throw her arms around my waist. “Adieu,” she said, into my shirt. She left in a huff, her curls bouncing.

Dumbfounded, I stood there with my mouth open.

Nick scoffed, the pale light of the afternoon dancing in his blue eyes. “Did I just get the third degree from my nine-year-old sister?” In his worn jeans and black T-shirt, he looked like a picture I’d have like to cut out of a magazine and stick on my bedroom wall.

I looked over at the open front door. There was a cold wind blowing into the apartment, but I couldn’t make myself move. I was trapped by Nick’s presence. I could catch the scent of him in the air. Ivory soap and some kind of coconut base cream. His energy was overwhelming and, affected by it, I held my breath, my face feeling hotter and hotter. Nick tipped his head, watching me for half a second as though he was debating on something. Then he moved, taking a step forward.

Contrasting emotions of desire and panic took me over, and I retreated into the hall table, something clanking there, my glass probably, and then stuffed my hands down my pockets to stop myself from gripping his shirt.

Nick stepped out of my home as though he was being chased. Why? Had the intensity between us scared him off?

I stared at the open front door, my heart beating fast and hard. If Nick should ever kiss me, I’d die. If I ever got the chance to hold him in my arms, I’d cry the whole time.

“Shut the door, Red!” my mother screamed from the end of the hall, jerking me out of my melodramatic daydreaming.

I’d spilled my glass of milk.