Keeping The Moon(38)

her mouth in a sloppy, very un-Morgan-like fashion. Then she held them out to me.

“No thanks,” I said.

“You never eat anything bad,” she said. To Isabel she called out, “Ever noticed that, Is?”

“Noticed what?”

“That Colie eats so healthy, it’s disgusting,” Morgan said. “I’ve never even seen her have a french fry.”

“And she runs every morning.” Isabel came back and plopped down on the floor, reaching for a beer. “I always see her when I get

up to pee. She’s out there at some ungodly hour.”

“Eight o’clock,” I said.

“Exactly,” Isabel said.

“Well, if Kiki Sparks was your mother,” Morgan said, her mouth full, “I guess you’d have to be a health freak, right?”

I just nodded. People assumed that, never knowing my mother’s favorite food in the Fat Years—and now—was fried pork rinds.

Isabel popped the top off her beer, then handed one to Morgan. She gave me a Diet Coke. “I’d give you a beer,” she said, “but…

”

“But you’re underage,” Morgan said primly. “And it would be illegal.”

Isabel rolled her eyes.

“Well, it would be.” Morgan pulled her legs up underneath her. “When I was fifteen I lived off Coke and Reese’s cups. I ate

Twinkies for breakfast.”

“And never gained a pound,” Isabel said, reaching for the cold cream. When she opened it, however, it was bright green and oozy,

like toxic waste.

“I wanted to gain weight in high school,” Morgan said to me. She was alternating between eating deviled eggs and sucking on an

Atomic Fireball held between her thumb and forefinger. “I was so skinny you could see my collarbone from a mile off. Disgusting.”

“It was not,” Isabel said. She smeared a handful of the green stuff across her face, covering her cheeks and forehead.

“Plus I was ten feet taller than any of the boys,” Morgan went on. “And since my mom never wanted to buy me any new clothes and

I kept growing, all my skirts and pants were too short. My nickname was High-water.”

“Do we have to talk about high school?” Isabel said. Now her entire face was green, except for a tiny bit of white around her

eyes and mouth. She handed the container to Morgan.

“You’re right.” Morgan spit out the Fireball and sat cross-legged, scooping out a green handful. “I’m depressed enough

already.”

“Wait, wait,” Isabel said. “I don’t want to talk about Mark, either.”

But Morgan was already going. “The thing is,” she began, a glob of green in one hand, “it was stupid for me to get so upset,

anyway. I mean, it’s not his fault his schedule is so crazy right now. He might be getting moved up to Triple A next year, the

team is doing really well…”

“Whatever,” Isabel said. The green stuff on her face, which I had finally figured out was some kind of beauty mask, was hardening

and forming tiny cracks whenever she spoke.

“... and the last thing he needs when he finally gets a chance to see me is to be bombarded with details about the wedding and our

future. It’s no wonder he gets so irritated when I bug him about it.”

“Morgan,” Isabel said. Her voice sounded strange; she was trying not to move her mouth. “Don’t forget how upset you were this

morning.”

“I haven’t,” Morgan said, glancing at her ring. She spread the mask across her face, carefully, using her fingertips.

Isabel leaned back, pulling the cigarettes out of her pocket. “Because that’s what you always do, you know. You get all upset and

then just forget it away.”

“You can’t smoke in here,” Morgan snapped. Then she got up and went to the kitchen, turning the music up even louder.

“I wasn’t going to,” Isabel shouted after her. Then she nodded toward the face stuff. “Go ahead,” she said. “It’s your turn.

”

I picked it up, peering down into the green contents.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never done this before,” she said.

“Well,” I said.

“Oh, God.” She crouched down in front of me. “Give it to me.”

Morgan was still in the kitchen, washing her hands. I could see her green face reflected in the window over the sink.

Isabel scooped out a handful of mask and leaned close to me, spreading big gobs of it across my skin. It was cool and smelled like

leaves.

“All natural,” she explained, her finger brushing my lip ring as some slipped into my mouth. It tasted terrible. “Deep-cleans

your pores and tightens the skin. What kind of person has never done a beauty mask before? When I was fifteen I was obsessed with

this stuff.”

“Colie’s not like we were,” Morgan said, coming back to sit beside me. She’d pulled her hair back in a clip on top of her head

and looked like a big asparagus. “She doesn’t sit home and read Seventeen every Saturday night. She has a life.”