The Names They Gave Us(55)

That is . . . hard to argue with. Rachel chatters as she clips, updating me about her sons—all younger than I am.

“So, Luce,” Rachel says, “how’s that boyfriend of yours?”

“Oh. Um. He paused me. So, not my boyfriend. But he’ll be up here soon when our congregation’s kids have camp week, so that should be nice and awkward.”

“Paused you? Well, sayonara.” Rachel wrinkles her nose in distaste. “Any other guys on the horizon?”

“What?” Jones’s handsome, grinning face comes to mind, and my traitorous cheeks warm immediately. “Of course not.”

My mom’s mouth drops open. “Oh my gosh, there is another guy!”

“No, there’s not!” My voice is a squeal—I am such a loser.

Rachel has completely stopped snipping, hair forgotten. “Who is he?”

I cover my face. Two of them against one is a losing battle. “Stop it! No one!”

“Camp boyfriend!” Rachel cries delightedly at the same time my mom huffs, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“No. ?Just a crush. Not even a crush. A . . . crinkle.” I pinch my fingers together to demonstrate my massive, massive lie. “Go ahead. Tell me I’m a terrible person for liking someone while Lukas and I are paused.”

Rachel snorts. “I say glory hallelujah! How dare that kid try to keep you hanging? He’s such a stiff, anyway.”

“Rachel!” my mom exclaims.

“Oh, tell me I’m wrong, Jenkins.” She glances at me, doing a weak impression of penitent. “Sorry, Luce. But the ramrod posture? Always so serious? C’mon. I’m sure he’s a nice guy. But that’s not for you.”

I fiddle with the comb, running my finger over the plastic teeth. “Could have used that information months ago.”

“So, the new guy,” my mom prods. “What’s he like?”

“He’s . . . fun. And he’s so good with the kids, it’s unreal. He plays the trumpet. And . . . whatever. Whatever! It doesn’t matter! I don’t know why I’m talking about it.”

“What’s his name?” Rachel asks innocently.

“Nope. No way. Because you’ll use it against me. You’ll be like, Lucy, how’s Joooohn doing?”

“Ha! His name is John!” Rachel balls her hands into triumphant fists.

“His name is not John. That was a placeholder. I’m not a fool.”

Somehow I drive them away from the topic long enough that my mom does, in fact, receive a haircut. Rachel doesn’t buzz her hair but trims it close to her skull. I know from studying vintage makeup looks that this is very Twiggy, very Audrey.

“It’s not so bad,” my mom says. “Although my cheeks look . . . droopier or something.”

“Oh, stop it,” Rachel sniffs.

“I know. It’s silly, to be vain in the midst of all this. But I do wish I had fuller eyebrows. Maybe that’d help.”

The idea blooms instantly, a flower in time-lapse. “Aunt Rachel, did you bring a makeup bag? Like, eye shadow?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you get it?”

She nods, disappearing from the room for a moment. My mom considers her reflection, smooths her hands over her hair.

“Never imagined myself with short hair.” Her tone is kind of self-deprecating, but I know her. She’s trying to joke to be brave for me. “I look sick.”

“You look beautiful, Mom. And the short hair makes you look delicate and tough. Pretty, but like you could beat somebody up.”

“Ha!” She flexes a bicep. “Right after I finish vomiting.”

“Here.” Rachel shoves a vinyl makeup bag at me, polka-dotted and bulging with products. Good. I sift through my options, plucking out a few items. A tawny eye shadow and a thin, angled brush.

“What are you doing?” my mom asks.

“Just trust me.”

I swab the tiny brush across the pad of eye shadow. Then I lean close to my mother’s face, studying her blue eyes. Her pupils are dilated and the whites of her eyes are a little red—side effects I haven’t seen before.

“Close your eyes,” I say, sounding more authoritative than I mean to. But she obeys, and I dab gently where her eyebrows begin. The powder clings to the fine hairs she has left, filling the spaces in between. Her eyebrows arch neatly now, fawn colored and subtle.

“Keep them closed. You’re going to feel a brush on your cheek.”

“What are you . . . oh, goodness.” She cuts off as I sweep two lines of bronzer down her cheekbones, then blend upward and add peachy blush to her pale cheeks. With whatever powder remains on the brush, I swipe beneath her jawline and across her hairline.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Rachel murmurs. She’s an art teacher, so this is entirely up her alley. In fact, I think my earliest interest in makeup was after Rachel painted a butterfly on my face. I must have been seven or eight.

“What are you doing?” my mom repeats.

In a singsong voice, I reply, “?‘Patience is the virtue we use when we must wait. God’s timing is impeccable, and He is never late.’?”

“Oh, not that one!” my mom groans. It’s a Vacation Bible School theme song from when I was in fifth grade. We sang it at morning assembly and before afternoon dismissal; it blasted in the hallways as we walked from activity to activity. Those VBS songs crawl into your ears and embed themselves in your brain. They can go dormant for years at a time, but they’re always there.