Lipstick Apology Read Online Free PDF Page B

Maybe this was my chance to try on a new life.

chapter three
    â€œI CAN’T GO TO SCHOOL TODAY,” I called from the bathroom.
    Jolie popped her head in. “Why? You look great. You did your makeup just like I showed you.”
    I turned my head to the side to give her a view of the festering zit on my chin.
    â€œOh,” Jolie said. “Wait a sec.” She returned a moment later with a tube in her hand. She squirted white cream on her finger and started toward my chin.
    I pushed her finger away and grabbed the tube from her. “This is hemorrhoid cream!” I yelled.
    â€œJust be still,” she said, dabbing it on my enormous zit. “This stuff is amazing. It decreases the swelling and reduces the redness. By the time you get to school, no one will even notice it.” She recapped the tube. “I have a team of scientists working on anti-blemish creams and nothing works as well as good old Preparation H.”
    Jolie smoothed the sleeve of my polo. “What do you need? Pencils? Erasers?”
    â€œIt’s not first grade, Jolie.”
    â€œRight, okay. I’m going to walk with you to school today so you don’t get lost.”
    I imagined that first impression. “No! I mean, no thanks, Jolie. I can figure it out.”
    â€œI’m just worried,” Jolie said. “The West Village doesn’t follow the grid system—it can be humbling even to a seasoned New Yorker.”
    Grid system? Whatever—I had to do this alone. “I Map-Quested it. I’ll be okay.” I walked out of the apartment and tried to convince myself of just that. When it came to navigational skills, though, I had none. I almost smiled to myself, recalling the time Georgia and I tried to take the train into Philly to see a movie without telling our parents, and we ended up on the outbound line instead.
    Now as I walked on the narrow, cobblestone street, people whizzed by, staring at me, I was sure. I tried to blend in and look casual, whipping out my cell phone and pretending to text, but when the crowd stopped at the corner of 6th Avenue, I smacked into someone’s back.
    â€œSorry,” I mumbled, and shoved my phone away. I crossed the street. When I started seeing purple NYU flags blowing in the breeze, I fluffed my newly styled hair. Maybe people would mistake me for a college student.
    I finally saw a red brick building with a green sign that read: The Darlington School . I stood around the corner, several yards from the large glass doors, with my heart beating crazily as kids filed through without a second glance in my direction. What if everyone recognizes me from the news coverage? What if they all take pity on the hideous, grief-stricken girl whose mother left her a creepy message? I whipped out a compact mirror to reassure myself that my new looks were still intact. Maybe that would be enough to disguise me.
    I approached the double doors and walked into the lobby. The ceiling soared three stories above. I never considered my old school dull, but everything here seemed to sparkle like someone had squirted Windex over every surface. My heart fluttered in my chest. I walked up to the tall mahogany desk.
    The secretary greeted me with an overzealous smile. “We’ve been expecting you!” She handed me my schedule and said she’d show me around.
    Darlington seemed too posh to be a school, with its mahogany- lined walls, glistening clean lockers, and a fireplace in the cafeteria. As I walked into homeroom, my teacher, Mr. Woods, stood up and announced, “Class, this is Emily Carson; please give her a warm welcome.”
    The students smiled and clapped.
    Did they really just clap? I wondered what exactly Jolie had said to the school administrators. I found an empty seat and everyone resumed their conversations.
    An olive-skinned boy with dark curly hair turned around. “Hey,” he said in a husky voice.
    â€œHi,” I said.
    â€œFirst