There’s a flat-screen TV that practically covers an entire wall; an oversized U-shaped couch that looks really comfortable; a long, skinny, rectangular fireplace set into the middle of the wall with small broken-up pieces of glass instead of the fake wooden logs you usually see; a bar stocked with Mojo, the energy drink Ezer said I’m endorsing; a killer sound system; and a version of Xbox that’s not even out yet.
I barely have a chance to take it all in when some lady with bright-red hair and matching lips waves me over and tells me to take a seat.
“Your skin looks good.” She pinches my chin between her forefinger and thumb, twisting my head back and forth, inspecting me like she’s a doctor or something. “You been using that oil sample I gave you?”
She squints, waits for me to reply, pinching my chin even harder every second I make her wait for the answer.
“Um, yeah. I guess.” I bat her fingers away.
She laughs under her breath and starts messing with a pile of brushes, powders, and other unidentifiable gunk. “Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s working. And I’m glad to see you’re heeding my advice to stay out of the sun. I’m expecting you to send me a thank-you card on your thirtieth birthday.” She laughs even harder. Guess she’s easily amused. “Anyway, you don’t need much. Maybe just a little concealer around the eyes, a dash of powder on the nose and cheeks to keep you from getting too shiny, a little liner to make those hazel eyes pop, then we’ll finish with a dot of gloss right in the center of your bottom lip like we did last time. Sound good?”
She comes at me wielding a small brush dipped in beige glop, but my first and only instinct is to fend her off. “I wear lip gloss?” I hold my hands up in front of me, protecting my face from impending assault.
“Your lips were trending on Twitter. Girls ages ten to fourteen loved them, and I aim to please! Now, hold still—don’t make this take any longer than it needs to.”
This time when she comes at me, I close my eyes and surrender. It’s only a dream. Not like anyone in Greentree will see me wearing makeup, so why not go along and see where it leads? And when she sticks a mirror in my face and tells me to look, I see a shiny-lipped, powdered-down version of me staring back.
“Okay, handsome, let’s get you over to hair.” She spins the barstool until I’m face to face with a heavily tattooed, multipierced guy who’s quite possibly wearing more makeup than Holly and me combined.
“I promise, this won’t hurt a bit!” He laughs, coming at me with a comb in one hand and a can of hairspray in the other. And the only thing I can do under the circumstances is sit back and wait for it to be over.
By the time I’m herded into the kitchen, everyone’s so busy adjusting the cameras and lighting that no one pays me much notice, which is kind of a relief, since it gives me a moment to take in the scene.
If I thought Holly looked like some bizarre Barbie doll version of herself, it’s nothing compared to my mom, who looks like Holly’s bizarre Barbie sister. Older sister, but still, it’s like there’s only a few years between them. Like they might share a closet, makeup tips, maybe even ex-boyfriends.
The only reason I even recognize her as my mom is because that’s what Holly called her—except she didn’t actually call her Mom, she called her Eileen. And since Eileen is my mom’s name back in Greentree, I figure it’s safe to assume it’s my mom’s name here too.
Though I have to admit I like the idea of calling my mom by her first name. It’s something I’d never get away with back home. Besides, it’s impossible for me to refer to her as Mom when she doesn’t look like she could be anyone’s mom.
The Greentree version of my mom is usually so oblivious to her appearance that most of the time it’s all she can do to get out of the house wearing matching shoes.
This version clearly takes the job very seriously.
My mom looks like one of those super-rich ladies who spend most of their time bouncing between hair salons, shopping malls, and gyms.
My mom looks like Mrs. Turtledove if Mrs. Turtledove was blond, tan, and had a body that’s been weirdly compressed in some places and blown up in others.
Back in Greentree Mrs. Turtledove is the only person I know who even tries to resemble a rich Hollywood lady. But now, after seeing the real deal in front of me, Mrs. Turtledove doesn’t even come close.
“Nick—hi, Nick!” My mom, Eileen, calls to me in this unfamiliar, superfriendly way. I mean, don’t get me wrong, my mom is always friendly, but this is a different kind of friendly. She’s acting more like we’re BFFs than mother and son, the way her eyes get all big and excited and her hand windshield-wipes back and forth in the same kind of wave Tinsley Barnes and her popular friends use on each other.
“Nick! Finally!” Ezer snaps, his tone causing Eileen to jump to my defense.
“Don’t talk to Nicky like that,” she scolds.
Nicky?
Since when does my mom call me Nicky?
Nick, pretty much always.
Nicholas when she’s mad.
But never, ever Nicky.
Not even when I was a baby.