Author's Note, 03-12-03: *does a Spring Break happy dance* I still didn't get some of the stuff done in this chapter that I'd planned on. But that just gives me reason to make the story longer, so it's not such a bad thing. Okay, I obviously have nothing interesting to add here. Tada then, darlings.

Chapter 10

REINDEER GAMES

*

My plan to hate Shelly wasn't as easy as I thought it would be. She had the perfect personality to go along with her perfect looks. And she liked me. She told me about her big family and her scads of older brothers and sisters and how she'd always wanted a younger sibling to spoil rotten, a little sister she could teach about makeup and things. She thought it was great that I had a little brother. I decided not to bust her bubble by mentioning that not everybody got to treat their kid siblings like dress up dolls that could be discarded on parents whenever you please. Mostly I just stared at her, comparing and contrasting our features, noting how she walked, perky and self-assured, or tilted her head to talk to me as if I was an irresistible toddler she wanted to cuddle. She was the touchy-feely type, a hand always on your arm or someplace when she spoke to you. I kept our conversation going so she wouldn't talk to Scott and have an excuse to put her hands on him.

"Have you really been in any movies?" I queried, turned sideways on the futon to face her. Most of the guys were in the kitchen, mixing drinks and cutting up. Margo and Pete were still going at it on the bean bag. It was sort of disgusting and fascinating all at the same time. I did my best not to watch, but every so often my eyes drifted off in their direction.

"A couple," Shelly replied, more than happy to discuss her film career. Since her arrival I'd learned that she and Scott knew each other from way back in high school. They'd dated on and off for several years, but Shelly was restless and split for Hollywood the first chance she got. It satisfied me to know that she had ran off, even if Scott had encouraged her to go. I would never have left him that way. "They were small roles but a lot of fun. I've worked with some fabulous people... Sigourney Weaver, Kathleen Turner. They're great gals," she gushed.

I caught myself hanging on every word. I already felt inferior to her; I wouldn't allow myself to be envious because of the names she dropped so breezily. "Never heard of 'em," I lied, cool and nonchalant. No more impressed than I would have been if she had picked the names from a telephone book.

Not only did I know who Sigourney Weaver was, I'd practically worshiped her for months after seeing Alien. I'd even pestered Maggie until she let me lop off most of my elbow length hair so I could wear it more like Sigourney's. I'm not sure who regretted it more - me or my mother. My hair never did lay right after that and Maggie still had several long strands of it, gathered together and tied with a pink ribbon so that it resembled a skinny horse tail, tucked away in her jewelry box. I missed the way she used to play with my hair while we watched TV, running her fingers through it and braiding it, then unbraiding it to start over again. I would sit for hours and let her do that, my body all tingly and relaxed, the occasional quiver shooting right up my spine when she just barely tickled the nape of my neck. She didn't do it anymore, though. Not since I "chopped that hair off," as she put it.

"Is that it?" I asked, incredulous.

Apparently Shelly didn't notice my lack of enthusiasm. She went right on talking about movie sets and how she sometimes worked on hair and makeup. I tuned her out when she got to the part about face structures and which actresses had the best cheekbones. I focused on her lips, red and plump like she puckered them too much. It made me want to march into the kitchen and give Scott a kiss that would make Margo and Pete sit up and take notice.

"Your eyes," she said, suddenly leaning forward to look in them as if they were binoculars, "are marvelous. They're so- so-"

Bored?

"Soulful," she finished. "And big. Most of the girls I work with would do anything for eyes like that. They look so much nicer on screen."

"Yeah?" I cheated, becoming interested.

"Mm-hmm. Add a little mascara and some eye shadow and you'd be ready for the cameras."

I let myself go soft, lowering my head bashfully, forgetting I didn't like her. "I don't usually wear that stuff."

"Oh, you should. You've got such pretty features." She wouldn't let me shy away this time, kept my face up by cupping a hand under my chin. "A few touches of color here and there would just enhance them so much." And then she was digging through her purse for something. I watched apprehensively as she brought out a tube of lipstick.

"What are you doing?"

She continued rummaging until she'd filled her lap with about as many cosmetics as Maggie kept in the medicine cabinet. "Can I do your makeup?" she practically begged, waving the lipstick around like it was her magic wand. Glinda, the good witch. I shook my head.

"I'll look dumb."

"You will not!" she insisted, almost scolded. "Trust me, I do this all the time. You'll look hot."

I snorted at that last part, but she had my attention. "Can you make me look older?" I ventured, trying not to sound too anxious. Maybe it wouldn't be so tough competing with her if I looked older and "hotter."

"Sure. But I'll actually have to put it on you for that to happen," she said with a laugh, for I had scooted away from her like she might give me leprosy or something. I smiled nervously and edged back towards her. When she displayed the lipstick again, I nodded my consent and she went to work in a flash, dabbing, blotting, powdering, and doing a lot of other stuff that made me feel like a cake being decorated for somebody's birthday. A few sprinkles here, a dollop of icing there, then jam in the candles. Tada.

My eyes were closed while Shelly applied color to my eyelids in short, light strokes. I blinked rapidly when she finished, adjusting to what was probably an imaginary sensation that my eyelids were much heavier now that they were painted. It wasn't until Shelly'd pumped the mascara wand up and down a few times in its tube that I realized we were being watched. Andy sauntered further into the room once he knew I was aware of his presence. I stifled a groan and did my best to ignore him as he surveyed me and Shelly like we were a new car he wanted to buy.

"You stand there long enough, I'll do you next, Andy," Shelly said, her face inches from mine as she concentrated on coating every eyelash with the black Maybelline gunk that kinda made my eyes hazy, like during allergy season. Maybe she's born with it - maybe it's Maybelline. Maybe that's a load of crap the company made up, I thought to myself. In reality the models in the commercials probably went dashing from the set after filming so they could get the mascara off their lashes before they all fell out.

"Fine with me. You can do me as much as you want," he replied, an obnoxious grin on his face as he stretched out on the floor by our feet and propped himself up on his elbows. I rolled my eyes when he saw me watching and puckered his lips, kissing the air.

"Oh God!" Shelly barely flinched as she said it, and it was a good thing, otherwise I would have looked like something right out of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. "You are such a pervert," she said to him with enough contempt for the both of us. But unlike mine, I think hers was in jest. "Let's not forget there's a young lady present."

"Oh, right. Wouldn't want to corrupt the young lady," he mocked. "Though it looks like you're doing a pretty good job of that yourself."

"This isn't corruption, it's beauty," she said matter-of-factly. I felt stupid sitting there, not uttering a word in response to any of their comments, but I was afraid to move and mess Shelly up. I didn't really want to talk to Andy anyway. He seemed to be secretly laughing at me every time I spoke. His eyes had a way of following me that made me wish I had more clothes on. He was doing that now, distracting me so much I didn't hear Shelly's question at first.

"Yoo-hoo?"

"Umm, what?" I blushed underneath all the Pan-Cake Makeup.

"Can I take your hair down?" she repeated.

"Oh, uh- yeah." I had no idea why she wanted to do that, but, avoiding a look at Andy, I twisted around long enough for her to remove the ponytail ring that held my hair back. Even then I could sense his gaze taking everything in, from my cascading hair to Shelly's hands combing through it and parting it down the side. For one little second I wondered if Andy wished it were his hands doing that instead of Shelly's.

"There. All finished!" she announced, still positioning wisps of hair as she admired her work. She snapped open a compact and held it up for me to have a look at myself. I barely recognized the person reflected back at me in the mirror. Those were my lips, my eyes, my slightly upturned nose, but they actually stood out now instead of just sitting there on my face like they'd been slapped on last minute and painted over with whitewash. I'd hoped I wouldn't turn out looking like a curious child who'd been playing in Mommy's makeup drawer - and I hadn't. Shelly honestly knew what she was doing. Not that she'd turned me into some glamorous sex goddess or anything, but I felt that I was at least kind of... pretty. And I definitely looked older. Maybe fifteen or a really short sixteen. Which wasn't as good as twenty-two but waaay better than the eleven I could sometimes pass for. I batted my eyelashes to see if the new girl would follow suit, and she did. It really was me.

Andy whistled, reminding me of the reactions Maggie got once when, clad in her snug fitting jeans and low cut peasant shirt, she'd strutted by construction workers on their lunch break. She just laughed at them and whispered in my ear that they were typical male pigs. I think she liked the attention, though. And to be honest, I wasn't completely disgusted by Andy's prowling gaze right then either. "You two could pass for sisters," he observed, balancing a beer can on his stomach. I didn't know whether to resent that or be flattered. As beautiful as Shelly was, I decided it was a huge compliment. Nevertheless, I pictured myself dumping that beer over his head.

"Well?" Shelly prodded impatiently. "What do you think, little missy?"

I wanted to glare at her and tell her I thought if she ever called me little missy again, I might throw up on her. But I kept that to myself. "Nice job," I answered, abruptly closing the compact and handing it back to her. Andy must have picked up on my annoyance - he chuckled knowingly and sipped at his beer. Shelly, as usual, was oblivious.

"You're so modest," she said, grinning. I just looked at her until she hopped off the futon. "I'm gonna go see if Scott has a camera so I can get your picture. Be back in a second," she called over her shoulder, not even hearing my attempts to stop her. I sighed heavily and leaned my head against the futon, staring up at the ceiling to prevent eye contact with Andy. But he would not be ignored.

"You don't say much." He dropped down in the empty spot beside me and I could smell the pungent odor of alcohol on his breath. He put his arm on the back of the futon, his hand practically brushed against my jaw. I sat forward quickly. "Penny for your thoughts," he said, then sneered, "...little missy."

I went for the bait and broke my silence, determined to repay him for calling me that. "Oh, you wouldn't understand anything I have to say. I don't speak Sleaze," I said flatly.

"Ooooooh, Little Missy's harsh," he teased, triumphant that he'd gotten a response. I gave him one of the looks I'd seen Maggie shoot at guys who dared to flirt with her when she wasn't in the mood for it. It froze some of them in their tracks, but others, the guys like Andy, weren't so easily daunted. I wondered if I could seduce him, then leave him high and dry like my mother would have. I'd never witnessed her in action, but I heard plenty of details in over-the-phone conversations she had with her girlfriends following nights on the town. She got a big kick out of her game, leading men on and then pulling the rug out from underneath them when they were stupid enough to believe she was interested. It was nasty, downright cruel. I lay on the rug in our hallway sometimes and eavesdropped as she talked about it, her jubilant giggles floating in from the living room. I imagined myself in her place, stringing along gullible men and loving every minute of it. I enjoyed the idea of having that kind of power, no matter how wrong it was.

"Only when necessary," I replied, purposefully coy. "And just for the record, if you call me Little Missy one more time, I'll make sure people have a reason to call you," I lowered my voice and leaned in secretively, spacing my thumb and index finger apart to indicate a short length, "Little Mister."

He glanced down at his lap for a moment, pensive and serious, then threw his head back to laugh. "You're a riot."

I suppose he could have been drunk, but I liked that he thought I was funny. It was better than that irksome condescending amusement he'd shown for me so far. "Yeah, a real barrel of laughs," I added dryly, studying Margo and Pete who had moved on from all-out spit swapping to an occasional necking between guzzles of whatever alcoholic beverage found its way into their hands thanks to passersby. I pondered what a hickey might feel like. I'd seen older girls at school showing theirs off, their necks exposed as they tugged at the collars of the blue button-down shirts each female student was required to wear under her jumper. A hickey made you famous for at least three days in my school.

"So, what does the thirty-two stand for?" Andy was wiping moisture from his eyes when I turned to look at him quizzically.

"Huh?"

"On your shirt," he explained, pointing it out. I inadvertently sucked in a quick breath, tightening my stomach when he reached over and began tracing the numbers on my shirt with his finger. He did it slowly, deliberately, making certain he followed every curve of the path from three to two top to bottom. I was glad I had on long sleeves that hid my goose bumps. I folded my arms across my chest when he finished. "Thirty-two what? Packs of cigarettes you smoke a day?"

"It doesn't stand for anything," I snapped.

"It's gotta stand for something. The number of dead bodies you keep in your apartment...? Umm, your shoe size? Your age? Your..."

"It's your IQ," I interrupted before he could name off any more possibilities that would bring me closer to poking him in the eye to shut him up. I was beginning to lose interest in seducing him. "Yeah, see, this shirt's like a Magic Eight Ball. Only instead of predictions, it tells the IQ of the person looking at it." I pronounced the rest in a very slow sing- song voice, using my hands to emphasize like he was a chimpanzee I was training, "You see thirty-two, so that's your IQ."

"Don't even try to one-up 'er, dude," Scott advised, he and his friends tittering at my insult as they trailed into the room, Shelly close behind with a camera. "She's in a whole other league than you."

I smiled at Scott and forgot about Andy, but I heard him mutter, "We'll see" just before the room got noisy as everyone talked over the music and posed for Shelly to snap their picture. She took a couple shots of the tipsy crowd before singling me out and nearly blinding me with a close-up that left me seeing spots. I almost rubbed at my eyes, but she freaked and forbade me to touch my face lest I smear the new me.

I watched as my doppelganger manifested itself on the Polaroid Shelly handed to me. The 32 on my jersey seemed even brighter in the photograph, screaming at me. I thought about fingers drawing the outlines of those numbers, arching over and between the bumps beneath my shirt, flitting across my rib cage where the bones poked out like rows of strings on a guitar, and dropping down to where my belly button rested just under the three and the two. Not Andy's fingers. Scott's. The ones that knew how to play my emotions as well as any musical instrument.

"Get one of us together, Shel," Scott instructed, crouching beside me, his elbow pressing heavily against my knee to keep him steady. His drink splashed at the edge of his glass, dangerously close to spilling out. He wasn't wasted, but I had a feeling he might be before the night was through. I was the only one without a bottle or a glass in my hand. Even Shelly was pinching the neck of a beer bottle between her knuckles while she took my and Scott's picture. Each swig of alcohol was a reminder that I didn't fit in. As usual Andy caught on to my discomfort and brought it out in plain view for everyone to see.

"Hey, I just noticed you're not drinking anything," he said, socking me lightly on the arm with his fist, like I was an old army buddy he'd bumped into at a bar. "Whatsa matter- can't hold your liquor?"

Scott shook his head as if Andy was the stupidest person on earth. "She's thirteen," he chided, dropping into the chair someone had dragged in from the kitchen. "Just because you've been a lush since birth doesn't mean everyone else is."

"I'll be fourteen in a couple weeks," I mumbled without thinking. It sorta came out on its own, a reaction to the way he said "thirteen" like it was a disease you caught that kept you from partying and being a real adult. Andy would eat it up. But that didn't stop me from adding even more fuel to fire. "I could drink if I wanted to."

No matter how casually I said it, it sounded ridiculous.

"Well, no one's stopping you." Andy dangled a beer in front of me expectantly. I looked at the can and waited for someone to tell me no, for a booming voice - Maggie's or maybe God's - to pour out of the stereo speakers, bringing everything to a screeching halt. I gladly would have endured a lecture on teenage drinking and slunk away without touching a drop of the liquid. I'd seen what alcohol did to people - the way it loosened some of them up so that they did things they normally would never dream of doing, or the way it made them cry and moan about what a meaningless life they'd had. Or other times it just made them say mean, hateful things to the people who loved them. Yeah, I knew a lot about that. But I guess Scott's friends didn't. They watched eagerly to see how I would respond. I hadn't felt so much peer pressure hanging in the air since the time I dared Howie, in front of our entire class, to tell a dirty joke to the teacher. You never saw a group of kids as high-strung as we were that day. I could have had a stroke waiting for him to do it. But unlike me, Howie was smart enough to realize he didn't have to give in to what everyone expected of him.

I gripped the beer can in both my hands, psyching myself up for a drink. My breath came out in a fast, relieved whoosh and whistled through the hole at the top of the can when Scott said, "Don't." It was exactly what I'd been hoping for. I looked at him gratefully.

"Aww, why not?" Andy whined.

"She's a kid," Scott hissed, losing his patience. He might have swung at his friend if his arm could've reached that far. It startled me to see him angry but even more to hear him call me a kid. He hadn't done that before. Sure, we had a mutual understanding that I was a lot younger than him, but neither of us made an effort to point it out. It was more of an unspoken secret, the thing that made our relationship so much better than a regular one. No boundaries to say what we could and could not do because he was a twenty-two-year- old man and I was a thirteen-year-old girl. But now he'd drawn a line. There were rules. He looked at me and saw a child, not the equal I'd fancied myself to be. I didn't know how else to prove him wrong, so I impulsively took a swallow of beer that was way too big. It was either spit it out and look like an idiot or choke it down and pretend I didn't feel like I was drinking warm pee, and I did the latter. I tried not to cry as it slithered around inside me. I almost gagged.

"Shit." Scott leaned towards me, keeping his voice low so only I would hear. "You don't have to drink it. Andy's a prick, don't let him bully you. Here, give it to me." He wanted to grab it from my hands, I could tell. But he was being the cool, understanding guy who let me make my own decisions. I felt sort of powerful right then, very in control of the situation. I might not be able to make him love me, but at least I had his attention.

"It's no big deal," I said, using a flippant tone that Maggie often claimed was the teenager coming out in me. "Cheers," I added, lifting the can as a toast before I took a much more cautious sip. I managed not to wrinkle my nose in disgust and even smacked my lips like the rotten stuff tasted good.

Andy slapped his knee, happy as a clam. "I'll drink to that." He downed the last of his beer and reached for another. I let him put his arm around me. And each time I forced down another mouthful of beer, it got easier and easier to pretend I didn't notice the disappointment on Scott's face.