We spend all day vegging out and watching highlight reels of our favorite YouTube videos until it’s almost time for us to get ready. “What are you wearing to this thing tonight anyway?” I ask, reaching for her wavy hair, whichstill smells like coconut. I might give her a hard time about her braids, but I do love the way they hold the smell of our shampoo like she’s straight out of the shower.
Clem points down at her frayed cutoff jean shorts and Dad’s old undershirt that she cut into a tank top. “This?”
“Um, no,” I tell her. “Negatory on that, captain.”
I stand up and yank her to her feet. “If we’re going to have our Brewer Twins Go to a Gay Bar premiere, we’re going to look fabulous. We have to make a statement.”
“And the statement can’t just be ‘Look at me. I own clothing’?” she asks hesitantly.
“Don’t ruin this for me,” I warn.
Next door, in Clem’s room, I tear through her closet searching for anything we can work with, but it’s mostly jean shorts, black leggings, holey T-shirts, and a few short nineties-throwback dresses that aren’t awful but aren’t great either.
“Does this still fit you?” I ask, holding up a baby-blue spaghetti-strap dress with little daisies all over it.
“Um, that’s the dress Mom made me wear for Easter in seventh grade.”
I throw it at her. “Try it on.”
With my back turned, she does so. “I can’t believe you’re making me try on a dress from middle school. The last time I put this dress on, I didn’t even have boobs. If I even wore a bra with this dress, it was probably for theoretical purposes—ooh. Ow!” She grunts. “Okay, ta-da.”
I turn around.
“I don’t think Mom ever envisioned my Easter dressquite like this. Should I wear the cardigan that she bought for this?”
I snort. “Definitely not.” Clem’s once-ladylike seventh-grade Easter dress is now a mini with slip-dress vibes. “I can’t believe that thing even fit over your head. And not that I’m invested in your boobs in any way at all, but everything looks to be in tip-top shape.”
“Thank you?” she says with slow confusion.
She reaches up to part her hair to rebraid it, but I swat her hands away. “The head of creative did not approve your Wednesday Addams braids.”
She pouts. “But I can feel my hairrrrrr.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s part of the whole having-hair thing.”
She wiggles like her follicles are growing worms. “Okay, fine.”
I nod. “You look, like, really cool. Like, I don’t want to sound super Podunk or anything, but you could easily be going out to some kind of indie-band show in New York City or something. Austin at the very least.”
She looks down at her dress. “I feel ridiculous, but I guess I like it.”
We sit down on the ground in front of each other with her pile of unused makeup. “You should know I’ve only done makeup the one time.”
“Well, you should know that I never wear makeup, so I won’t be able to tell the difference.”
I dig through our spread and come up with a silver eyeliner and use it to draw little stars in the corners of hereyes before handing her the mirror and letting her apply her own mascara. I top it off with a black lipstick from a few Halloweens ago, and then I lean back to appreciate my work.
“You look stupid good. Okay, I gotta get ready. Wear those combat boots.” I point out the black ones with the neon-blue shoelaces sitting in the corner.
“Those are Hannah’s,” she says.
“Nothing says high school lesbians in love like wearing each other’s combat boots.”
“Well, that’s accurate,” she admits.
I throw up my best spirit fingers in an attempt to curb my nerves at the thought of attending MY. FIRST. GAY. BAR. “And now I must transform.”
Sixteen
