Standing Still

Chapter 18: Dude. He speaks Italian.

Five minutes before Dylan knocked on my front door, my mother was just finishing up lathering my eyelashes with mascara. It felt clumpy and weird, like my eyelids were having a harder time shutting, but I tried to ignore it. My whole face felt... different, like I couldn't touch it, like it wasn't even my skin. It didn't feel bad, necessarily. I guess, in my mind, when I thought of makeup, an image of Caroline popped up, with her humungous makeup kit and brushes in every size. She'd wanted to experiment on me for one of her birthday parties, to see which colors would look best. Only, the makeup came out heavy and blotchy, and I looked like a clown. Hers, somehow, ended up much better.

"There," my mother said proudly, stepping back with the tube of mascara clutched in her hands. "Anna, you look beautiful."

I opened my eyes, being allowed for the first time, and stared at my reflection. What I saw was not what I expected. Because I saw me. Only, a prettier version, with shiny lips and blue eyes that looked both brighter, and not too big for my face anymore. I could hardly even notice the pimple, too.

"Wow," I mumbled, brushing my cheek with the tips of my fingers. "If I knew makeup worked like this for real, I would've been using it for years."

"You're beautiful even without it," my mom said, coming to stand behind me and resting her hands on my shoulders. "But holy crap, he's going to need a first aid kit."

I laughed, and I saw in our reflections how similar we looked. I'd always been told I looked more like my father, with his dimples and big blue eyes, but I could see her in me, too. Our smiles were the same, and watching her mannerisms was like looking in the mirror. Technically, I was, but you know what I mean.

"Mom," I said, watching her fix the braid she'd done in my hair. "Thanks. You know, for all this."

"Of course, sweetheart. A girl can't just prepare for a first date on her own. This is serious business."

"Of course," I replied, nodding.

She took a seat on my bed while I fixed my shirt. I was wearing a white tank-top - tighter than I'd have normally liked - and a grey cardigan over it. My favorite jeans clung to my hips, but were loose on my calves, and I was actually wearing shoes that weren't sneakers. They were only flats, but still. The whole outfit was different from what I'd normally wear, a little more girly, but I didn't mind, because I actually looked like I had the shape of a girl's body. I didn't know how my mother was able to piece together such a flattering, yet comfortable outfit. I suddenly doubted my ability to dress myself. And to think, I'd been doing it wrong since fourth grade. Ugh.

"Have you talked to Sam recently? I mean, more than just awkward chit-chat over breakfast." Mom's voice was small, and I paused in the middle of adjusting the hem of my tank-top.

"Not really. Have you?"

Sam had been leaving the house more and more. Of course, he'd always gone out to hang out with his friends, or do some video-game shopping and the like, but now, he was hardly ever home. And when he was, he was always sealed away in his room. He'd begun to ride to school with Mackenzie, now that she wasn't riding with Zeke any more. Her parents had apparently gotten her a car for getting her GPA up. It wasn't brand new or anything, but it was nice enough.

"No," she answered, her shoulders slumping with a sigh. "He hardly talks to me any more. He's just so irritable all the time, you know? I'm worried about him."

I nodded, playing with the sleeves of my sweater. "He hasn't talked to Dad, either."

"I know." She shook her head, her tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth. "Your father really screwed this one up, didn't he?"