Perfect Fifths_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [36]
A pretween girl wearing a pink tracksuit and matching slip-on sheepskin boots approaches the sink next to Jessica’s. The girl is all aglow with a tropical suntan that debunks Jessica’s hastily cobbled theory that the fluorescent bathroom lighting is responsible for her skin’s greenish, ghoulish cast.
“Impothible,” the girl lisps.
“That’s nice of you to say,” Jessica says to the girl, genuinely touched by the reassurance.
“Vampirths can’t be seen in mirrorths,” she explains, the speech impediment the result of a second mortgage’s worth of orthodontia. “No reflethion.”
“Oh,” Jessica replies.
“You juth need a makeover,” the girl says over the toilet-flushing cacophony.
“Amber!” shouts a shrill voice from one of the bathroom stalls. “What did I tell you about talking to strangers?”
Amber glares at the closed door, then twirls her finger cuckoo-style for Jessica’s benefit. Crazy, she mouths.
“I can see you!” admonishes the mother. “Through the crack in the door.”
“Ewwwwww,” says Amber. “Thath dithguthing! Talking to me while you do number two. Groth!”
Jessica hears the unmistakable sonic boom of a mother biting her tongue.
“She’ll be in there foreeeeeever,” Amber whisper-whines. “Sheth got irritable bowel thyndrome.”
Jessica recoils from this news—a classic overshare—then recovers. “You should be nicer to her.”
Amber responds with a calisthenic eye roll.
Jessica tries to shut out the mental image of Amber’s mother’s inflamed colon. She turns back to the mirror, and what she sees is barely an improvement. This is not how she wants to look during her reunion with Marcus Flutie, all puffy-eyed and hollow-cheeked, with a decomposing nose and leprositic lips. She agrees with Amber’s assessment, but she is not one of those travelers who have invested in miniatures of every imaginable high-end toiletry and beauty gadget. Jessica remembers waking up midflight from LGA to LAX to the sight (winged elbows), sound (cracklesnap!), and deeply unsettling smell (charbroiled human hair) of the passenger squeezed next to her in the middle seat trying to flatten her frizz with a travel-size rechargeable wireless straightening iron. That woman would have been adequately prepared for a surprise run-in with her ex-boyfriend in the middle of Newark Liberty International Airport. But Jessica is not. With the exception of a tiny pot of Be You Tea Shoppe–brand lip balm, all her makeup and ancillary grooming products are stowed in the suitcase she reluctantly checked when she arrived at the airport, the suitcase that is currently making its way to St. Thomas, USVI, on Clear Sky Flight 1884, the one containing not only all the summery party clothes she needs for the wedding she may or may not get to but all the high-tech subzero outerwear required for surviving her wintertime stint in the Chicago suburbs with all twenty fingers and toes intact.
Jessica unscrews the tiny teapot of Sweet Orange Marmalade Lip Plumping Balm, dips her index finger in, and swirls it around.
“I love the Be You Tea Shoppe!” Amber exclaims as she pushes the nozzle on the soap dispenser. “I had my lath birthday there. Look!” She turns and booty-pops two letters sequined across her tiny butt: BU! Ah yes, Bethany had told Jessica she hopes to keep this aspect of her business alive, a clothing line to promote female empowerment, positive body image, and healthy self-esteem.
“AMBER JEWEL!” cries her mom from the stall.
Another eye roll, one that has just earned Amber a coveted spot on the U.S. women’s gymnastics squad for the 2012 Olympics. “I wanted to get the Little Ladie’s Luxe Life package for my birthday, but Mom thaid it wath too ethpenthive. We did the Mother-Daughter Marveluth Mini-Me Makeover inthead.”
Jessica opens her mouth to tell Amber that she is in fact related to the beauty and the brains behind the Be You Tea Shoppe, and that one of the gorgeous multiculti, generation-spanning Daughter-Mother-Grandmother trios