You watch her pull her long, dark hair into a ponytail. It's such a simple action, deft white wrists flicking and twisting a bit of elastic round and round until she turns, and she is smiling. It's simple, so simple—but you can't tell the difference anymore. Everything she does looks that way—easy, like she pulled it from the pages of a manual and everything looks just the way it did in the pictures.
"Am I pretty, Bebe?" She's young and so are you, and she doesn't know the implication behind that kind of question yet. She just wants you to be honest, and you are, because you haven't learned how to lie yet.
"So pretty, Wendy," you smile and tuck you hands into your pockets, suddenly bashful. "I wish were I were pretty like you."
She twirls and laughs, her open pink mouth round and her eyes tilted up. There is blue eye shadow smeared inexpertly on her face, thick and pasty and clumped in the crease of her eyelids. Her lipstick is garish—her mother's from the seventies. And you stare at her and squeeze your hands together to keep from stroking a thumb along her cheek like the shiny page of a magazine, wishing.
"Twirl with me, Bebe!" She takes your hands, leaving powdery blue fingerprints over your palms and knuckles. You spin with her until force pulls you two apart. When you let go, she flies back, landing in a soft pile of cushions on the couch. She giggles as you thud to the ground, dazed and watching her.
You don't stand, but let yourself flop down to stare at the webbed cracks on the ceiling. She joins you and doesn't say a word. You can feel her breathing beside you as she scoots closer, tangling her fingers with yours again. Her eyes are on your face, and you grow flush. The red rises in your cheeks, and she draws it out with her gaze.
"Whatcha thinking about?"
You are too small for all the words that try to jam themselves into your brain at once. The world spins more slowly above you, and Wendy tugs on you to make you answer her.
"You're my best friend." It's not really an answer, but it seems to satisfy her. She pokes your ribs, and goes, 'duh!' before snuggling deeper into your side. You don't hold her, or even touch her, but you don't need to. You are limb for limb, tangled so that you aren't two separate people anymore. You are happy to let her cling to you, as she so rarely does, and let the moment go on and on.
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The first time you burn yourself, you don't really mean to do it. You've just finished showing Wendy how to use your curling iron. It's something you don't really need, but you own anyway. You don't know why you wanted it, when you only ever lend it to Wendy. You show her how to singe her hair into a facsimile of your own, spray it for her so it's thick and coarse and sticky.
She thanks you for this, wraps her arms around you and squeezes tight. You get a face full of her wiry, spray-scented curls; a few get stuck on your lip-gloss. You wipe them away, smile stiffly.
"We're like sisters now," she grins, leaning her head against yours as she studies your images together in the mirror. She wears your clothes, your makeup. Your heels: they used to be your favorite, but you can't remember when you didn't think they were cheap, cheapening.
"You'll ruin your hair," you chastise her. She pulls away like you've given her some very important advice, steps in closer to examine her glass reflection from a more intimate angle.
"Do you have any jewelry?" she wants to know. You go to fetch your grandmother's music box filled with the hopeless tangle of necklaces you keep on receiving for your birthdays—maybe you can extract one she likes. You don't really remember any one specifically, but you search for something. Something sparkly, or something blue maybe, like her eyes.
While you do this, she sprays herself with your most expensive perfumes. She can't decide between lilacs or passion fruit, and so she just mists one of each on the insides of her wrists, and sprays a different one entirely (vanilla) onto her neck.
"How about this one?" You hold up half a heart, the jagged edge torn from some whole. It says 'Best,' but not best what, exactly.
"Oh god," she grins, and reaches for it, "I forgot we had those."
"Yeah," you lift the lid of the music box again with your finger, the tinkling calliope music slow to start as you slide the box open. The dancer rises from a deep bow to twirl haltingly round, blank eyes on you as she does her turns.
"But if I wear yours, I'll have both halves!" Wendy says, but she is already fastening the clasp.
"The whole heart," you smile. The pendant lies against her chest; you wonder if it is cool on her skin, or if it is warm from sitting in your palm.
"But it's your heart, too!"
"Yes," you say, "So you wear it."
Stan rings the doorbell, and she squeals. She nearly trips in your heels, half-tumbling down the stairs. You'd catch her though. You get to catch her, like a child with an outstretched palm to catch stars and clutch them tighttighttight.
Later, you sit with the curling iron in hand. A few dark hairs are caught in the screws holding the clamp. You pluck them, idly, and you press your fingertip against the barrel. You feel heat in the metal and begin to shudder, convection diffusing a little more life into you. It feels good, not too hot.
You want more heat. So you turn the curler back on, press it against the tenderest part of your arm, right above your wrist. You have to bite down on your tongue, and squeeze your eyes shut, imagining the smoking curling up from your skin. You've cauterized yourself; you weren't even bleeding.
You wear sleeves for a month to hide the scars, but they never really go away, so you just keep making new ones. You hold the hot iron to your flesh for longer and longer; sometimes you hold it until you almost have to scream. But you haven't, so far.
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During cheerleading practice, your wounds start to seep. Sweat irritates your injuries, filling them with salt and pus. It stings, but you keep smiling, even when your sweater catches, and pulls.
On all fours, you watch Red climb to the top of the pyramid. She glows atop, but you burn below. The pyramid tumbles, breaking apart with chaotic precision. You roll to your feet, wave your arms, glittering pompoms over your head. The other girls can barely keep up with your frantic steps and desperate smile.
You're sure you are out of step with the music. You're sure someone must notice the grimace, badly disguised as a grin. The peppy upbeat music rings in your ears—and later, you'll still hear that buzz, a dial tone when no one's home.
You must look half-insane: empty expression, and flapping arms. But no one says anything. No one looks at you strangely, not even when you look down at your arms and the brown-yellow discharge from your injuries seeps through the white fabric of your sweater.
"All right girls! Energy!" Red demands. She looks at you and you think, maybe she'll comment, and that's equal parts terrifying and relieving. You wonder if she'll call you out in front of everyone; already you begin thinking of a lie. Your heart quickens.
But she doesn't ask, doesn't even look at your arms. "Bebe, you're an eighth step off the pace. Pay attention, girlfriend."
Pay attention. You want to laugh.
Red smiles to soften the statement, but it cuts you in a way she can't imagine. She probably thinks her criticism is what makes your face fall. You're drowning, head beneath the water. You guess you're too deep now for anyone to hear you screaming.
"…Bebe?"
"Yeah." There's water in your lungs, and you're burning yourself alive. "I'll keep up."
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Wendy notices, because of course she does. You're sitting on her floor, pretending to do homework. She studies you instead of her notes.
"Are you okay?" She's asking a question she knows the answer to.