Disclaimer: I don't own the Weekenders, Kevyn Aucoin, Cher, Michael
Jackson, or Barnes & Noble. I am a Reader's Advantage cardholder, though!
Tish refused to tell us about her work. "You'll find out soon enough," she would say whenever one of us asked, looked at her, sneezed, checked our watches, etc.
Operation Upgrade Tish continued in full swing, however. Step Four found our quartet perusing the "Health, Beauty, and Self-Help" section of the local Barnes & Noble.
"Ooh, looky here," said Lor, "this girl's face is all pointy!" She picked up the volume in question. Its cover, which announced to the world that it was written by one Kevyn Aucoin, did appear to have a pointy-faced young lady on the cover. Flipping it open, Lor's face went white. She dropped the book, shrieked, and jumped backward, causing the Customer Service clerk to whirl around and give her a glare of pure malevolence. "Sorry," she whimpered with an apologetic wave to the scowling bookseller. "Jeez," she muttered as she turned back to us, "whatever happened to 'service with a smile'?"
Tish did a dramatic eye-roll. "There's really no reason to scream," she reprimanded Lor.
"Dude, did you see that lady?"
Tish looked over at the book. "Relax," she said soothingly, "it's just Cher. Calm down."
"She looks like an alien! And that dress--is that a dress?--whatever it is, it's butt-ugly."
"She's not an alien. She's just had a little too much plastic surgery."
"Like Michael Jackson?"
I shuddered. "I think Michael Jackson really is an alien."
"Oh my gosh," Carver interjected, his eyes wide, "what if Cher and Michael Jackson are the same person?"
We all stared at each other for a few seconds.
"Okay, that's just creepy," Tish said, throwing up her hands. "I don't even want to think about it."
"Well, you know, all that plastic surgery," I said. "I suppose it's possible. Say, Tish, what do you think motivates a person to have doctors cut away at their nose and suck the fat out of their thighs and tighten the skin on their face?"
I waited in vain for my allegory to hit home. Lor giggled, murmured "Fat sucking!" and made a loud sucking sound. The Customer Service guy gave her the evil eye again.
"Okay, well, obviously Lor is going to get us kicked out of the bookstore pretty soon, so I suppose I'll have to hurry myself." With that, Tish began pawing in earnest through books. "Ah-ha!" she exclaimed eventually. "'Cosmetic perfection from head to toe,'" she read aloud from the cover of a purple book. "Yes. This will do nicely."
Just then, we were approached by a guy about our age who looked to be one of the cool kids: not a hair out of place, and he was clearly a bit of a label-demimonde. Every last one of his garments bore the John Hancock of one designer or another.
"Oh," he said with a disappointed look on his face. "You looked hot from far away." It wasn't exactly clear who he was talking to, but both Lor and Tish got the sort of fire in their eyes that means being with in a ten-foot radius is potentially deadly. Carver and I retreated quickly. They sputtered for a tick, and then, in perfect unison, with no rehearsal, roared "EXCUSE ME?!"
This was the last straw for Mr. Customer Service. With a look of exasperation, he opened his mouth and was no doubt about to tell us to leave, but Tish beat him to the punch. "We're going! Back off!"
We left the "Health, Beauty, and Self-Help" section behind, without a backward glance at either the boy who had enraged our female companions or the seething peon wearing the "How may I help you?" button.
Tish refused to tell us about her work. "You'll find out soon enough," she would say whenever one of us asked, looked at her, sneezed, checked our watches, etc.
Operation Upgrade Tish continued in full swing, however. Step Four found our quartet perusing the "Health, Beauty, and Self-Help" section of the local Barnes & Noble.
"Ooh, looky here," said Lor, "this girl's face is all pointy!" She picked up the volume in question. Its cover, which announced to the world that it was written by one Kevyn Aucoin, did appear to have a pointy-faced young lady on the cover. Flipping it open, Lor's face went white. She dropped the book, shrieked, and jumped backward, causing the Customer Service clerk to whirl around and give her a glare of pure malevolence. "Sorry," she whimpered with an apologetic wave to the scowling bookseller. "Jeez," she muttered as she turned back to us, "whatever happened to 'service with a smile'?"
Tish did a dramatic eye-roll. "There's really no reason to scream," she reprimanded Lor.
"Dude, did you see that lady?"
Tish looked over at the book. "Relax," she said soothingly, "it's just Cher. Calm down."
"She looks like an alien! And that dress--is that a dress?--whatever it is, it's butt-ugly."
"She's not an alien. She's just had a little too much plastic surgery."
"Like Michael Jackson?"
I shuddered. "I think Michael Jackson really is an alien."
"Oh my gosh," Carver interjected, his eyes wide, "what if Cher and Michael Jackson are the same person?"
We all stared at each other for a few seconds.
"Okay, that's just creepy," Tish said, throwing up her hands. "I don't even want to think about it."
"Well, you know, all that plastic surgery," I said. "I suppose it's possible. Say, Tish, what do you think motivates a person to have doctors cut away at their nose and suck the fat out of their thighs and tighten the skin on their face?"
I waited in vain for my allegory to hit home. Lor giggled, murmured "Fat sucking!" and made a loud sucking sound. The Customer Service guy gave her the evil eye again.
"Okay, well, obviously Lor is going to get us kicked out of the bookstore pretty soon, so I suppose I'll have to hurry myself." With that, Tish began pawing in earnest through books. "Ah-ha!" she exclaimed eventually. "'Cosmetic perfection from head to toe,'" she read aloud from the cover of a purple book. "Yes. This will do nicely."
Just then, we were approached by a guy about our age who looked to be one of the cool kids: not a hair out of place, and he was clearly a bit of a label-demimonde. Every last one of his garments bore the John Hancock of one designer or another.
"Oh," he said with a disappointed look on his face. "You looked hot from far away." It wasn't exactly clear who he was talking to, but both Lor and Tish got the sort of fire in their eyes that means being with in a ten-foot radius is potentially deadly. Carver and I retreated quickly. They sputtered for a tick, and then, in perfect unison, with no rehearsal, roared "EXCUSE ME?!"
This was the last straw for Mr. Customer Service. With a look of exasperation, he opened his mouth and was no doubt about to tell us to leave, but Tish beat him to the punch. "We're going! Back off!"
We left the "Health, Beauty, and Self-Help" section behind, without a backward glance at either the boy who had enraged our female companions or the seething peon wearing the "How may I help you?" button.
