Skeptically, I applied the lotion to a small patch of hair on my thigh. I waited eight minutes instead of the instructed five, because five was bad luck, then wiped the patch with a washcloth. My hair came off.
Why had no one told me about this stuff?
I applied the cream to both my thighs and bikini area and kept rummaging while I waited for my phone timer to ring. Alex and Whitney’s organization system made no sense. In the bottom drawer, I found a bunch of Band-Aids and a box of blond hair dye.
The timer sounded. I wiped my bikini line and legs clean. Alex would use that blond dye to tint her eyebrows the next day. Picking up the dye box again, I peered inside. The bottle’s seal had been broken. I removed the cap and sniffed the colorant, wincing at the chemical scent. I placed the brow dye on the counter next to the depilatory cream and gazed at the two products side by side. My lips curled at the ends before I even knew I’d made a decision.
Being adored was easy when you were pretty. But if you took away Alex’s beauty, what was she?
Another Rose Gold.
* * *
• • •
By the time my rage had worn off, it was too late.
I didn’t sleep at all that night, tossing and turning while I thought about the bottle under the bathroom sink. Twice before Alex and Whitney came home, I got off the couch to throw it away.
Then I’d remember Alex skipping out her front door, leaving me behind without so much as a glance. I forced myself back to the couch, back under the thin blanket. When Alex and Whitney came stumbling home at two in the morning, I pretended to be asleep. They were too drunk to notice or care.
Now it was noon. They were each lying on a couch, hungover and moaning. I was sitting on the floor, intimate with the concept of having your heart in your throat. I worried I might throw up, that the guilt was plain on my face.
“When are we starting this girls’ day?” I asked, voice squeaking.
Both girls groaned.
“Alex, you promised,” I forced myself to say. “Come on, I’ll get everything ready.”
“Fine,” Alex said, a sleeping mask covering her eyes. “The face masks and hair dye are in the bathroom. Get a face towel from the hall closet too.”
I sprang up from the floor. I had to calm down. As slowly as possible, I walked to the bathroom. I brought the stuff back to the living room, where Whitney and Alex were drinking red Gatorades. I placed each item before Alex, like an altar offering. She scanned all of it. I wondered if she could hear my heartbeat.
Alex motioned for me to sit in front of her. I leaned in. She applied the exfoliating mask to my clean face. The pads of her fingertips were gentle.
“Your skin is so soft,” she said with real admiration.
I watched her focused face while she worked, regretting what I’d done.
“How long do I leave this on?” I asked.
“Five minutes,” she said.
I nodded. I would do eight.
“Whit, you want to do my brows?” Alex asked, lying back on the couch.
Whitney grabbed the face towel and covered Alex’s eyes and the rest of her face below them. All I could see were her eyebrows and forehead. Whitney yawned and pulled the brush and bottle of dye from the box. She shook the bottle, then loosened its lid, not bothering to put on the gloves. She’d performed this ritual for Alex many times.
After a few minutes of Whitney’s dabbing, Alex’s eyebrows were coated in purplish cream. Whitney put all the supplies back in the box, then turned on the TV and flipped to a channel with cartoons. She slumped against the couch and closed her eyes.
I counted every second—one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi—in my head. After four minutes, I wondered if Alex had fallen asleep under the towel. Whitney hadn’t stirred. I resisted the urge to say anything.
“You going to take this off or what?” Alex said. I fled from the room.
My hands shook. I splashed water on my face again and again, long after my skin had been cleared of the grainy cream. I dried my face with a towel. I stared at myself in the mirror. I was even paler than normal.
A shriek came from the living room. Whitney’s.
I wanted to stay in the bathroom, lock the door until this was all over. But the old Rose Gold would come running as soon as she heard her friend’s alarm.
I dashed back to the living room.
“Your eyebrow is coming off,” Whitney cried, staring at the damp paper towel in her hand.
Alex ripped the towel off her face. “What do you mean, coming off?” She recoiled in horror when she saw the hair on Whitney’s paper towel. “What did you do?” She ran past me to the bathroom. Her right eyebrow was missing. Not just sparse—the hair was gone.
Alex let out a bloodcurdling scream. Whitney and I exchanged a look, then rushed after Alex to the bathroom.
“Where the fuck is my eyebrow?” she yelled when we reached her.
“I don’t know what happened,” Whitney said in panicked confusion. “It . . . came off.”
“I can see that, you dipshit,” Alex snapped.
Whitney bristled. “I told you you’re not supposed to use old hair dye.”
“You think my hair fell out because the dye is expired?” Alex thundered. “How fucking stupid are you?”
I watched Whitney try to redirect Alex’s wrath away from herself. “What are we going to do about your other eyebrow?”
Alex gaped at the mirror and moaned. “Try to get this shit off without any hair coming out.” Whitney moved to grab toilet paper, but Alex snarled, “I’ll do it myself.”
Whitney and I watched with held breath. Alex dampened a wad of toilet paper with water from the faucet. Even with the lightest touch possible, the cream still stole her hair when she blotted it away. She managed to salvage some of her left eyebrow, but the effect was almost worse. I could tell Whitney was thinking the same thing, but neither of us dared suggest that Alex finish the job and go for a hairless forehead.
If Tyler could see her now, I thought in spite of my terror.
By then, Alex was bawling, hangover long forgotten. “Look”—sob—“what”—sob—“you”—sob—“did,” she cried. I had never seen Alex lose her marbles before. I kept reminding myself that she’d had this coming. No one should be able to be so awful for so long and get away with it. I’d taught my mother that lesson the hard way.
Whitney apologized over and over. “What can I do?” she pleaded.
“You’ve done enough,” Alex screeched. She ran to her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. Then Whitney and I were alone in the bathroom.