I ducked out of Thrifty’s with a tube of Maybelline mascara stashed in my sweatshirt pocket. Walking stiffly away, my chest throbbed with the guilt and thrill of taking something without paying for it.
I had enough allowance saved up to buy the mascara. But I was twelve years old, and my mother had decreed I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup until I was thirteen. I had to steal the stuff; what if someone saw me buying it and then told my mom?
Waiting until thirteen was out of the question. I was in seventh grade, bumping up against puberty, a dark-haired, brown-skinned face drowning in a sea of blond hair and freckles. I had to blend in as best I could. Everyone wore Chemin de Fer jeans, carried a tan leather purse, and coated her lashes with thick, black mascara; I had to as well. To ignore the trends was to invite scrutiny, ridicule, and possible heckling after school. I loved my mother and rarely defied her, but, this time, I had no choice.
I arrived at school early, carefully keeping my face down until I reached the girls’ bathroom. Someone was already there, poking at her sprayed hair, tilting her face to be sure the pimples were properly hidden with concealer. I withdrew my mascara from my tan leather purse, twisted off the top and slowly pulled out the wand. The harsh chemical smell excited and comforted me; I was growing up, I was fitting in. The mascara brush tugged at my lashes, leaving a few globules of inky liquid at the tips. I dabbed them with the corner of a tissue, then stood back to admire my reflection, blinking. I look beautiful.
I left the bathroom with my face lifted toward the day ahead, my purse swinging in the crook of my arm.
When the final bell rang, I stole back into the bathroom to remove the mascara. I moistened a brown paper towel and dragged it over my eyelashes, attempting to erase the evidence.
It was a hot day and a long walk, so when I got home, my face was moist with sweat. My mother looked up from her game of Solitaire. Her round, warm face hardened into something I didn’t recognize. “Are you wearing mascara?” Her eyes were two chips of ice as she got up to examine me more closely.
A hand closed around my gut. “No,” I lied, ashamed of the truth, even though lying would make it worse. My mother swept her index finger across one of my eyes and then held it up to me, showing me the black smudge of my deceit. I watched, terrified, as her face wavered between anger and confusion, and finally fell into disappointment. “Go to your room,” she growled, pointing.
Hot tears stung my cheeks as I ran down the hallway toward my dark bedroom, a little girl again.
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