“Brendan Daniels doesn’t like grapes,” Ivy countered frostily. “I know for a fact.”
“Well, this washes off anyway,” Olivia reassured her sister. “And who’s Brendan Daniels?”
Ivy just rolled her eyes. “Spray away.” She sighed, closing her eyes and relaxing her face.
After the spray-on tan, Olivia did Ivy’s blush and lip gloss. It was the eyeshadow that really clinched it, though. Ivy now actually looked like a living person. Olivia ran some gel through her sister’s hair and pulled it back in a ponytail.
“Okay.” She smiled, stepping back and admiring her work. “Let’s switch clothes.” She and Ivy each took a stall. Olivia pulled off her shirt and skirt, folded them neatly, and slipped them underneath the blue metal divider. In return, Ivy passed her a tangled wad of black fabric.
A minute later, Olivia opened the stall door and stood looking at herself in the mirror. A floorlength, black lace skirt was so not her style. Then again, she did like the way it was slit up the side. Actually, she’d like to try it with her green silk top and a pair of black heels.
Suddenly, the stall door beside her opened. Olivia watched her sister take in their reflections. Ivy’s eyes shifted back and forth—Olivia wondered for a moment whether Ivy was having trouble remembering which reflection was her own—before settling on the girl in the denim skirt and the pink wrap top.
“Pretty awesome, huh?” Olivia said.
A totally horrified look spread over Ivy’s face. “I never thought I’d look like . . .” she began hoarsely.
Uh-oh, Olivia thought.
“Charlotte Brown!” Ivy’s face burst into a smile.
“Shut up!” Olivia cried. “I do not look like Charlotte Brown!” She threw a cosmetic sponge at her sister’s head in mock anger, but Ivy batted it away just in time.
“I don’t know—this top is seriously pink,” Ivy teased.
“I have way better fashion sense than her, and you know it!” Olivia protested lightly.
“Okay, okay, don’t pop a blood vessel!” Ivy giggled, holding out her arms for Olivia to spray them with tan, too. Then she took the can and sprayed her lower legs and feet herself. “Geez, how do you wear short skirts like this all the time? I feel as naked as Principal Whitehead’s head.”
“Well, you look great. Except for the combat boots. They sort of ruin it.” Olivia stuck her tongue out at Ivy.
Ivy stuck her tongue out right back.
They traded shoes.
“It’s lucky I didn’t paint my toenails black,” Ivy said, peering down at Olivia’s sparkly pink flip-flops.
Olivia finished lacing up the heavy black boots and tried taking a few steps. “Oh, my gosh.” She shook her head. “It’s like wearing cement blocks!”
Ivy shrugged. “You never know when you might drop a refrigerator on your foot.”
Olivia paced back and forth, trying to get the hang of walking. “Okay,” she said as she went. “Show me your best cheerleader hair flip.”
Ivy turned her head sharply. The dark ponytail whipped around and smacked her in the face. “Ow!”
“Not that way,” Olivia instructed. “Do it with grace. Lead with your chin. Like, just pretend like you’re watching a mouse running across the floor with the corner of your eye. That’s better. Good. Now let me see you smile.” Ivy bared her teeth. “You look like you’re about to eat me for dinner.” Olivia giggled. “Relax!”
Ivy tried again. And again. “Okay,” Olivia said, satisfied. “Whatever you do, don’t stop smiling. My sunny disposition is one of my best qualities.”
Ivy’s face lit up. “You bet!” She bounced, giving a big thumbs-up.
“Don’t overdo it,” Olivia said. “In fact, you should probably just limit your conversation to ‘Really?’ ‘Really’ is like the most versatile word in the English language.”
Ivy widened her eyes. “Really?”
Olivia tried not to smile. “Oh, you’re going to make me look like a regular Einstein. I can tell.”
Ivy beamed. “Really?”
Olivia tried to ignore her. “The other thing you have to remember is that I’m the new girl. So you can’t talk about anything I shouldn’t know. If you get stuck, just ask about the latest ...the latest . . . whatever.”
Ivy took a deep breath. “Really?”
“ENOUGH!” Olivia cried.
Ivy slouched back to her normal self. “My turn!” she sang, picking up her shiny black purse and turning it upside down over the counter. A jumbled waterfall of stuff clattered out: cosmetics, pens, chewing gum, scraps of paper, nail files, pictures, paper clips. Ivy shook the bag. A full-size stapler crashed to the counter. She shook it again. Out tumbled a small, black aerosol can, which Ivy snatched up and displayed in the palm of her hand.
“‘Pale Beauty, the spray-on whitener,’” She caressed the can like a model on a TV commercial. “‘For that extraspecial made-of-marble look!’”
“You’re kidding!” Olivia said. She grabbed the can and inspected the label.
“Lots of Goths use it,” Ivy explained, “especially if they’re not blessed with a flawless white complexion like mine. Now close your eyes.”
Olivia did as she was told. The spray was cool and moist on her skin, but it dried almost instantly. She glanced in the mirror. “I look like a clown!” she said.
“Careful what you say or I’ll take your eye out,” said Ivy, already leaning in with an eyeliner pencil as fat as a Sharpie marker.
Olivia tried to hold still. She focused on a brown spot on the ceiling and asked, “So what should I talk to your friends about?”
“Excuse me?” Ivy stopped mid upper-left lid. “You cannot talk to my friends. At all. Charlotte Brown’s one thing. But Sophia Hewitt has been my best friend since we were four years old. She’d be able to tell you weren’t me instantly.”
Olivia knew Ivy was right, but she was still disappointed. “I was sort of excited to be all gloomy,” she said, pouting.
“Sorry,” Ivy said with genuine sympathy. “What about hiding out in the library? That’s where I normally work on my articles for the paper.”