This Will Only Hurt a Little(5)
My very best friend was Emily Bronkesh-Buchbinder. Our family moved into our rental house in Scottsdale in August 1985, and little Emily came around the corner with pigtails and a plate of brownies and that was it. We’re the same age (she’s actually like eight months older than me), but when we were in third grade, she skipped ahead a year. But we still spent most days playing Pound Puppies at each other’s houses or riding our bikes around the neighborhood after school. That is, when she wasn’t taking her “college classes” at Arizona State University. Emily was the smartest kid I knew (she’s still one of the smartest people I know), and she was in some sort of after-school program a few days a week at ASU. But of course she made sure everyone thought she was taking actual college classes with college-age kids.
I had crushes, but nothing requited. None of my friends did, either. By middle school, the popular kids were all dating and “going out,” but my friends and I were content to just hang out with each other, listening to Boyz II Men or watching Pretty Woman for the millionth time. Then seventh grade rolled around, which meant school dances. There were a few every year, held in the school gymnasium, with the eighth graders participating too. Mostly, my friends and I hung around the edges together. None of us really danced with any boys, and I would just goofily do the running man to make Rachel laugh.
Ever since second grade, Rachel Davidson had been my school best friend (Emily BB didn’t count, since she was a grade above—she was my best friend in real life). Rachel was for sure the leader of our group, the queen bee of a hive no one really paid attention to. She was the one who was always egging the rest of us on to do mischievous things. But I loved to make her laugh. She was such a good audience. I can still see her, doubled over in laughter, her hands covering her mouth, tears in her eyes as I did something stupid, like tie my shoelaces to Brandy Payton’s and run down the storm wash only to end up rolling and almost breaking our legs. I would do insane voices and characters on the playground at her request. As far as I was concerned, Rachel was the coolest.
Anyway, the Valentine’s Day dance in seventh grade was coming up, and for some reason, it kind of felt like a big deal. It was all anyone could talk about, and there were student government posters up all over campus encouraging us to get our tickets. I can’t remember what boy I had a crush on at that point. Maybe John Randall, who was Mormon and therefore seemed mysterious and exotic to me? In any case, my girlfriends and I were so excited, and we decided we would ask our moms if we could wear some makeup to the dance. I knew it wouldn’t be a big deal for Rachel. Her mom was incredibly stylish, which meant of course she’d let her wear makeup. But it was a bigger deal for me.
My sister is four years older than me, so she was already a junior in high school when I was in seventh grade. Leigh Ann and I were (and are) very different. She was somewhat of a tomboy. She went to an all-girls Catholic high school and seemingly had zero interest in things like makeup or cool hairstyles or wearing heels. Meanwhile, I would spend my free time watching Beverly Hills, 90210 or Saved by the Bell and then use my mom’s makeup to try to replicate the actresses’ looks. I would spend hours in front of the little mirror at her vanity, trying all her different products and using her perfumes. And then I’d use her Pond’s cold cream and wipe it off my face, like I’d seen on Designing Women, one of my favorite TV shows. (I watched a lot of TV.) (Still do!)
My mom was fine with me playing with her makeup in the house, but she thought it was inappropriate for young girls to wear makeup out of the house. My parents were the type who had those weird age rules that in retrospect seem so arbitrary—like I couldn’t get my ears pierced until I was twelve, I couldn’t get contacts until eighth grade (why eighth grade? I had to wear glasses forever!), and I wasn’t supposed to wear makeup until high school. HIGH SCHOOL! Like two years after seventh grade.
Anyway, I was nervous to ask my mom, and at first, as I had suspected, she said no.
“Elizabeth. No. You don’t need any makeup,” she said. “You’re beautiful as you are!”
“But maybe just mascara? And lip gloss??”
“I don’t know, Biz. Your dad won’t like it.”
“He doesn’t even need to know! Come on! Mascara and lip gloss?!”
My mom sighed. “I’ll ask your father.”
I have a feeling she didn’t ever ask him. I’m pretty sure my mom did whatever she wanted or thought was right and then later informed him what was happening. For his part, my dad generally thought that whatever she decided—especially in matters pertaining to girlhood—was probably the right call. So it was settled. I won. Mascara and lip gloss it was.
The day of the dance arrived. At school, everyone was discussing what they were wearing, who they wanted to ask to dance, who they wanted to hopefully try to kiss. I was personally excited about two things. One: the mascara and lip gloss. Two: Emily was going to let me borrow her amazing brand-new purple Guess jeans to wear with the super-intense patterned blue-and-purple shirt my mom had bought at Price Club but had somehow convinced me was cool.
Emily and I got ready together at her house. I cannot explain to you the layers of mascara I used on my poor little eyelashes. The fact that I could even open my eyes was a miracle. My mom had, for some reason, decided to be super rad before the dance and bought me my own blue mascara at the drugstore. That, combined with my Lip Smackers strawberry lip gloss and Emily’s purple jeans . . . well! I don’t think I need to tell you that I was really feeling myself.