“See you at seven to get ready,” she calls, then peels off toward her own dorm.
I stand there for a minute, watching her vanish into the crowd, then glance up at the gray sky. I realize I am still alive, still capable of surprise.
I walk back to my room, slow, letting the excitement build. When I close the door, the silence is almost friendly.
For the first time in my life, I feel a little less like a doll in a glass house and a little more like a person who could want things for herself.
I strip out of my uniform and slide into some comfies, and stare at myself in the mirror, at the marks, the wild hair. I tilt my chin up, studying the face that’s supposed to belong to a Marcus, to a queen.
She looks nothing like the girl from last week.
That makes me smile.
Tonight, I’ll see what else I can become.
The knock comes at exactly 7:00. Not a minute early, not a minute late. Eve’s punctuality is as legendary as her disregard for all other rules.
She barges in without waiting for me to answer. The duffle hits the floor with a thud, and she sweeps into the room like a stage director on opening night.
“Okay, Amara, undress and get over here. We don’t have all night.”
I blink at her, then at the duffle, which looks like it could conceal a human body. “What’s in there?”
She unzips it and dumps the contents on my bed: an arsenal of makeup palettes, half a dozen hair tools, a tangle of necklaces, and—at the bottom—a black dress that is less a garment and more like lingerie. The fabric is thin, shiny, and so short it could be mistaken for a shirt.
I recoil. “There’s no way that fits me.”
Eve rolls her eyes, already separating the makeup by function. “Of course it fits you. I had it tailored to your size. Now, do you want to look like a ‘Marcus’ or do you want to look like a girl who can fuck up the world?”
I hesitate, but the challenge in her voice tips me forward. I peel off my shirt and toss it aside, and then take off my sweats, covering my nipples with my hands. I’ve never been naked in front of a friend before. The moment is almost intimate. Eve doesn’t stare. She’s already busy lining up brushes like surgical instruments.
She points to the chair by my desk. “Sit. I’ll start with your face.”
I sit, still covering my boobs. Eve works fast, smoothing primer over my skin, brushing foundation over the bruises with a gentle touch. I close my eyes and let her paint me into someone new.
Her hands are warm. She smells like peppermint and cigarettes and the faint bite of vodka. Her own makeup is done in a soft wing, matte black that sharpens her eyes into points. As she dabs and blends, she talks.
“You know, the first time I did this, I had no idea what I was doing. My mother never wore makeup. She said it was for sluts and politicians. But I was twelve and desperate, so I stole her lipstick and painted myself into a fucking clown.”
She laughs, a short, bright sound. “My step-dad saw me and said I looked like a murder victim. I still have the photo somewhere. Want to see?”
I shake my head, smiling. “I believe you.”
Eve leans in, brushing color onto my eyelids. “You don’t have to be afraid of him, you know. Julian. He’s a bastard, but he’s not your father.”
The words make my hands go clammy. “What if I’m more afraid of myself?”
She pauses, considers this, then shrugs. “Even better. Most people spend their whole lives terrified of what’s inside them. If you already know, you’re ahead of the game.”
She starts on my hair, combing it out with quick, efficient strokes. “You ever been kissed by a girl?”
I startle. “No.”
Eve grins, not looking up from her work. “Would you want to?”
I think about it. “Maybe. I dunno.”
“That’s fine. Just wondering. Some of the girls at the club can be handsy.” She parts my hair, then winds sections around a curling iron. The heat is intense, but she’s careful not to burn me.
