But—I need to reenergize because we have a YouTube video to film!
As I approach the Make You Up doors, I text Elliot the code words: peppermint mocha. We invited Cheyenne to the filming as well, but she sent her regrets. She has a date with her mom to binge the most recent season of The Bachelorette. I felt the same tiny tug of annoyance as earlier—no, not annoyance—jealousy. I can’t remember the last time we had an HGTV Greenberg family marathon, sprawled out with blankets and candy and mercilessly judging people for their design preferences. I always predict “flip,” and my moms always predict “flop,” and it’s a whole cute thing.
Elliot cracks open the store door, pulling me out of my thoughts. He peers both ways like we’re in a heist movie and not a suburban mall that hasn’t had a proper facelift since the early aughts. Then he nods and lets me in, whispering, “All clear.”
“Copy,” Geraldine’s voice responds.
Elliot’s phone sticks out of his pocket, functioning as a walkie-talkie on speakerphone. I lean over and speak into it. “The peppermint mocha has landed. Over.”
“Copy,” Geraldine responds again.
I grin. “This is fun.”
Elliot grins back. “Very fun. Now get in here.”
He locks the door behind us, and I follow him to the back of the store. It looks so different after hours, less impressive. Without the display lights and hordes of shoppers, the products don’t have the same magical shine. And yet Geraldine trails around the rows of makeup with eyes glazed over like a kid in a candy store, or like a Geraldine in a makeup store. When she sees us, she squeals and runs over. “This is the coolest thing ever! And that includes the time Lucille Tifton’s friend liked my tweet about Lucille Tifton. Thank you for this most brilliant idea, my most brilliant friends.”
“It was all Shoshanna!” Elliot says.
“Nuh-uh,” I reply. “I’m not taking all of the credit. I mean, yes, I will totally take some of the credit because I am indeed an awesome friend, but this wouldn’t be possible without Elliot’s brave risk-taking.”
“It’s for a worthy cause,” he replies solemnly.
“Okay!” Geraldine claps her hands together. “I guess we should get started, then!” She flits around the store like an absolute pro, plucking mascara samples from one brand and concealer from another and lipstick from a third. Her fingers trail along the product options like they have a mind of their own. Once she has her artillery gathered, she organizes it all on the table for filming, while Elliot and I set up the backdrop from Once Upon. Then we even focus two of the store lights in Geraldine’s direction so it looks totally professional.
“Ready to start?” I ask, holding up her phone, prepared to film.
“Yeah!” Geraldine replies, face bright under the lights, but then her smile falters.
“Hey.” I put the phone down. “What’s wrong?”
Her burgundy-lacquered nails tap against a mascara tube. “I guess I’m nervous?”
That might be a first for Geraldine Castillo. I might be impulsive, but Geraldine has always been the daring one. In elementary school, when everyone else was scared of the long monologue, she volunteered to be the lead in the play. In middle school, we went to Six Flags, and she marched right up to the most extreme roller coaster, while the rest of us tested the waters with the baby rides. And last year when we attended a protest for gun reform, a reporter asked if any high school students wanted to be interviewed, and she stepped right up to the microphone, her voice not wobbling once.
It’s disarming to see Geraldine second-guess.
And it tells me how much this means to her.
“Don’t be nervous!” Elliot says. “No one will even see this!”
Geraldine’s face falls, and I elbow him in the side. “Way to be supportive, dude.”
“Well, they won’t,” he says.
“Yeah.” I pause. “I guess that’s true.” I walk over to Geraldine, put my hands on her shoulders, and stare into her beautiful brown eyes. “Geraldine, my best friend, you are smart and gorgeous and suspiciously good at liquid eyeliner, like obviously you made a deal with the devil to get a line that straight. This video is going to be a slam dunk, which is a sports thing that people say. And if somehow it’s not a slam dunk, no one will see it anyway, which sounds rude when Elliot says it but actually is a great reason to not be nervous, okay?”
She gives a weak laugh. “Okay.”
I pause, then inspect her face just to be sure and realize she has a little smudge on her cheek, maybe from her shift at Bo’s. I lick my finger and wipe at it.
“Hey!” Geraldine shouts.
“What?” I ask. “You had some schmutz.”
Now she’s laughing hard. “Okay, thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie.” I return to filming position. “All right, beautiful. Let’s do this!”
* * *
The filming goes great. I don’t spot a hint of nerves on camera. It’s still wild to me Geraldine was unsure of herself for even a second, because she’s so freaking talented and personable. With her brilliant smile and soothing voice, she showcased a few makeup tricks, including how to apply lip liner without making it look like you’re wearing lip liner. Witchcraft, basically. She should really post the video so people can take advantage of her tips.
“Thank you, again,” Geraldine tells me as we walk to our cars. Elliot, who finds even a seventy-degree day chilly, sprinted to his mom’s car the second she arrived to pick him up. They’re idling in the parking lot now, making sure Geraldine and I get into our cars safely.
“You are more than welcome.” I wrap my arm around her shoulder and kiss her cheek, already chilled from the cold. We lapse into a comfortable silence the way only old friends can, and suddenly I feel a huge rush of gratefulness that I have Geraldine in my life. “Love you,” I say.
She glances at me, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “As much as mint chocolate chip ice cream on a hot summer day?”
I laugh, immediately flashing back to that day in fourth grade when Geraldine dropped her freshly scooped ice-cream cone on the ground. I’d saved my week’s allowance for my mint chocolate chip sundae and had a spoon full of ice cream and fudge poised in front of my mouth when her waffle cone cracked to pieces. Without hesitation, I locked eyes with Geraldine and solemnly told her, “Get an extra spoon,” and together we downed my sundae in under a minute, sticky faced and smiling.
“Absolutely,” I reply now.
She winks at me as we get to my car, then waves goodbye. I climb into Barbra and put my key in the ignition. All I want to do is get home, change into pj’s, and collapse into bed. But I think back to the tension this morning over an empty pantry and drag Barbra to the grocery store instead. It’s the grimy one that’s open late at night and always has products on the edge of expiration and at least two aisles with flickering fluorescent lights, like horror movie is the theme of the store or something. I walk down the rows of food with sore feet and fill the cart with bread and deli meat and eggs and Mom’s favorite pistachio ice cream even though it’s not on sale and that sugary-sweet orange marmalade Mama likes.