Lipstick Girl

Lipstick Girl

It is funny what cancer does to those it leaves behind. Mom and I spent two years so worried about how and when dad would die we forgot how to live. When it kills, cancer takes more than just one body, just one soul. So as I stood, trying to run out for routine team warmups, for a perfectly meaningless exhibition game, on a perfectly meaningless Friday afternoon, it was like I had forgotten how to breathe. For the first time ever, my Dad wasn’t in the stands. I would not be able to ground myself in his familiar gaze. And so nothing else was familiar either. Apparently, not even breathing.

I fisted the slippery fabric of my football jersey and pushed hard against my rib cage willing my heart to slow down. It had to slow down; because it felt like I would die if it didn’t. My heart was trying to climb out of my throat. My vision blurred at the edges and threatened to blacken. This was worse than any playoff nerves or game-day shit I had experienced. This was just the first friendly of the year. It didn’t mean anything. No one was even officiating or keeping score. I put all these considerations on a loop in my head, willing myself to calm down. I walked in the opposite direction of the field and my teammates. I needed to be alone.

I don’t know what I expected coming back to school. Having a parent die over summer break isn’t exactly … normal, but I figured out that popularity doesn’t protect you from punks, and even varsity-rockstar status won’t save you from stupidity. The insensitive junk that poured out of the average teenager’s mouth—no therapist could prepare you for that. They just didn’t get it.

No one did. No one understood me anymore, and everything except football swam around in my head. My heart hurt. My chest hurt. And my stomach felt like I had drunk too much too fast and tried to run a set of wind sprints. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to vomit in front of everyone. So I kept walking away from the practice field, along the edge of the school, until I reached a quiet corner of Greenfield High. Between the two science wings was a narrow patch of courtyard hidden from foot traffic. Pretty much empty. Maybe here I could figure out what the hell was wrong with me before I blacked out and got kicked off the team for a no-show.

My breaths were loud now; it seemed like so much more air was coming in then was going out, but I couldn’t make the wheezing stop. I couldn’t make anything stop. Not the jagged breaths, the taste of pennies, not the white spots clouding my vision. Whatever this was I felt like it would never end. I felt like I would never get better. I would die this way. Here on the grass next to my stupid school. I leaned forward, hands pressed tightly on my thighs, bracing for the vomit-

“Quick, name five things you can see,” she whispered next to my downturned face.

“What the hell?” I stumbled back hitting the unforgiving red brick of the school at my back. It was enough to make me light headed, so I quickly reassumed my tripod position to keep myself upright.

“Where did you come from?” I snapped. Seriously. This girl had materialized out of nowhere. I had seen her around for a few days but couldn’t remember her name. Not right now.

“Shhh, you’re having a panic attack. Trust me. If you want it to go away, name five things you can see.”

I wanted to push back, but I was also desperate enough to break free from whatever this was that I looked between my shaking legs and focused on the first thing I saw. “I see the grass. The dark green grass. My cleats. My shoelaces,” I panted, trying to get in more air.

“That’s great. I love how you mentioned the color of the grass. Two. You just need two more.”

I finally looked up at her. Her compliment warmed something inside me. I had been cold for so long. The way she whispered relaxed me. It was so damn alluring. She was breathing deeply-in through her nose and out through her mouth-and, without thinking about it, my body followed along. She was like a calm, steady song pulling me back to shore.

“I also see your dark green eyes and too much lipstick.”

The snarky comment soothed me; it felt authentic. Not Drake with the dead dad. Not Drake with the uncontrollable temper. Just the me from before. The high school kid. The one without all the baggage.

Instead of being offended she huffed out a small laugh and looked up at me. It looked like my little raven haired beauty could smile even if it was just for a second. I could breathe through my nose now, but my chest still hurt like hell. I straightened to my full height and finally let myself really get a look at her. She was pretty. Though she had dark circles under those green eyes. I had seen those same dark smudges under mom’s eyes. But mom’s eyes had sat up all night watching dad die of lung cancer. I couldn’t help wondering what this girl carried that kept her awake. What chased her through the dark?

“Now, name four things you can touch.”

Whatever this was, it was working, so I decided to go along with it. “The brick wall, the blades of grass, my jersey.” I flattened my palm over my heart, and my whole chest still felt like old bruises that hadn’t quite healed.

She nodded shyly waiting for my fourth.

“Your black hair.” I reached up and grabbed her long silky curls running the ends through my fingers. She instantly tensed, and although I felt a bit bad about that, she also had a steadying effect on me. I wasn’t about to let her go anywhere, so I used my grip on her hair and pulled her a bit closer.

“Name three things you can hear,” she ventured.

I felt it at the base of my neck— the charge between us, soft and electric at the same time. She wouldn’t look at me now, suddenly finding the grass between our feet fascinating. A teenage girl who was shy? Who knew those still existed in a world of popularity polls and followers in the thousands—tens of thousands. She intrigued me more by the minute, and with dark ruby lipstick, she had to know she didn’t blend into the walls the way she might have wished.

“Your voice. The pond water rippling. My heart pounding in my chest.”

“You can’t hear your heart.”

“Shut up. I’m just saying what I hear. Okay, maybe that one’s a bit dramatic. But it’s pounding so hard it feels like I can hear it.”

My insides practically fist-bumped when her dark-crimson lips curved into a small smile just for me. Her lipstick was the exact color of my mom’s favorite Christmas wine, and it was quickly becoming my new favorite color. It wasn’t too much lipstick. I’d been wrong about that. It just drew your eyes to her mouth — in the best way. She looked like one of those women in old WWII films, back when all lipstick was bright red and every face looked pale and perfect on screen. Just like hers.

“Who are you?” I begged like I wasn’t totally convinced she was real.

“It’s not important. Next-”

“What do you mean it’s not important?”

“Name two things you can smell,” she demanded.

“It is important.”

“It isn’t Drake. If it was, you would know it already since we have pre-calc together.”

Well, crap. That sure put me in my place. But she looked up at me with a soft expression that totally let me off the hook, and it made me hate myself even more.

“It’s really okay, Drake. No one usually notices me. It’s fine. Let’s just finish the mindfulness exercise and get you back to your team. You’re still clutching your chest, and your knuckles are white from lack of circulation.” She gently pulled my hands away.

What the hell? It’s fine? How was it fine? How was she being so… so calm? So cold? So totally in control of all this?

“What is your name?” I practically yelled.

She glared up at me, “Name. Two. Things. You. Can. Smell.” she gritted through clenched teeth.

Fine. I could be stubborn too. “I smell you! Does that count?”

“It has to be two-”

I grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her into my chest. Dream Girl. No, Lipstick Girl. That’s what I’d call her until she gave me her name. I bent down, she was a good six inches shorter than me, and took my first hit. “Peaches,” I countered, “Your hair smells like peaches.”

I leaned down even further and ran my nose up her damp neck. She leaned back trying to get out of my grasp. Not happening. Sure this might be an invasion of her space and senses, but she could have just given me her name. “You smell like salt and vanilla. But no wonder you’re sweaty — why are you all covered up like that?”

I stared down at her. Frayed black jeans with holes at the knees, a long white lace top, and a thick black flannel tied around her waist. September in Colorado. Sun blazing. She had to be miserable in all that. My eyes flicked to her arms. Could I see scars through that lace? There must be a story there. My anxiety was gone.

Not sure what emotion had replaced it, but I wasn’t anxious about a damn game anymore. Dad’s voice hit me clear as day— the way it used to sound before his sickness took over. The game doesn’t matter. This is important, ya hear? She’s important.

She seemed to sense the change in me. Had she noticed the careful way I held her wrists, holding her arms like I knew they were fragile? Like I wouldn’t hurt them? Maybe that’s why she knows so much about panic attacks? She’s learned to survive wounds no one else sees. I glanced down at her curved shoulders, her shaking hands, clearly trying to create a little distance between us. And yet… she stayed in my arms. She didn’t pull away completely. She let me hold her, and my chest tightened in a way I hadn’t felt in years. A good way. Weird, stupid, good.

I blinked, trying to process it all, but then she leaned in slightly, eyes glinting. “Name one thing you can taste,” she teased.

Oh no. She wasn’t going to get away with teasing me. “I’m sorry Lipstick Girl, what was that? I couldn’t hear you,” I said, smirking.

She pouted at me. Actually pouted. Cuteness overload. Must be mad about the nickname.

“Something wrong?”

She shook her head; her brows pinched together. She was trying not to smile.

“Name one thing I can taste huh?” For the first time in years I looked to the sky out of gratitude instead of rage. Thanks dad. “You make this too easy little Lipstick Girl.”

“I’m not Li-”

My hands framed her face, and I sealed my lips over hers. Her breath burst into me in shock. Innocent. Adorable. Addictive. I lightly brushed her bottom lip with my tongue, then pulled back.

“Your lips,” I whispered. “I can taste your lips.”

“Okay, one more thing,” she breathed. She looked like a nervous baby deer as I mussed with her hair, my eyes lingering on her face. I thought that had been the last mindfulness task, but there was one more.

“Close your eyes and tell me what they taste like.”

“Okay,” I said smiling.

“Close your eyes,” she chastised, running her thumb and forefinger over my eye lids.

I obeyed, licking my lips to take my assignment seriously. “Cherries. You taste like cherries.” I slowly opened my eyes expecting congratulations. But she was gone. I whipped my head left and right, half-expecting to see her just around the corner.

“Cherries and disappointment,” I shouted to no one. Lipstick Girl had vanished.

But unlike my dead father, my depressed mother and my anger issues, Lipstick Girl’s disappearance was but a temporary problem. Pre-calc would come on Monday morning as surely as the sun would rise, and for once, I couldn’t freaking wait for math class. She was getting a new seat — right next to me.