Revenge of the Girl With the Great Personality by Elizabeth Eulberg Read Free Book Online

design that weaved from around the top of the dress to the bottom. Once I finished with it, I knew that I couldn’t play with that Barbie any longer. I had to preserve her.)
    I’ve seen Mac get her hair and makeup done countless times. Usually, if she’s in a grumpy mood, I have to hold her hand or play a game with her so she’ll sit still. So I think I know what to do. At least I should be able to put on some mascara and eye shadow: How hard could it possibly be?
    I open up the foundation, place it on a sponge, and start to apply. Mac’s skin is a little darker than mine, but I think this should look good; it makes me look like I’ve gotten some sun. I reach in and grab the darker blush, since I’ll need it to be brighter to stand out with my now-darker skin tone.
    Then I begin working on my eyes. She doesn’t have neutral colors, so I decide to try blue to match my tank. I line my eyes with dark navy, and then use a lighter color on my eyelids. I use a few coats of mascara, but poke myself in my right eye with the wand. As I blink, trying to recover from getting black junk in my eyes, tears start to form.
    I run over and get a tissue to try to stop the makeup from smearing.
    The timer sounds, letting me know I’m supposed to take the rollers out. I start to unravel the rollers from my hair and notice that my hair has formed into tight ringlets. I bend over and try to shake out my hair to get it to calm down. It won’t budge. I guess I now know how much hairspray is too much.
    I step away from the counter and study myself in the mirror.
    My hair, which I wanted to be in loose waves, looks like my muse was a deranged Shirley Temple–like zombie. Maybe if I brush it out, I think. I grab a comb and can’t even get it through my hair. Okay, it should calm down after a while. Or at least I hope.
    I finally step back to study my entire face and realize I look like I’ve come out of three rounds of a heavyweight championship boxing match. The blue makes my eyes looked bruised and my right eye is red from the unfortunate stabbing of the mascara wand.
    This is a disaster. Why did I think blue eye shadow would look good on me? I guess the real question is: Why did Benny think that all it would take to transform me into a Glamour Girl was a little makeup? What a joke. But not the funny, ha-ha kind of joke, the what-on-earth-possessed-you-to-be-so-stupid kind.
    I glance at the clock and see that I only have twenty minutes before I have to leave for work. I cannot be seen in public like this.
    I turn the faucet on and start washing my face. Even soap isn’t getting this stuff off. My once-white washcloth is now beige and blue. I turn to Mac’s kit for industrial-strength makeup remover.
    After five minutes, my face is finally clean. I grab my hair and try to tame it into a ponytail, but it isn’t budging. I don’t have time to wash it. I grab a few clips to at least get it to settle down. I throw open my closet and grab last season’s fedora hat that was all the rage at The Cellar. At least my manager will be excited to see me wearing two Cellar items today.
    So much for my bet. I shrug, grab some blush and lip gloss, and hope I didn’t just give myself pinkeye.
    As I open the bathroom door, I hear a strange noise coming from the living room. I freeze when I realize that it’s Mom crying.
    I gingerly tiptoe into the room and see her slouched over her desk.
    “Mom?” I say quietly.
    She jerks herself upright and automatically starts wiping away the tears. “Oh, I thought you were at work.” I notice that she’s rearranging a stack of bills like they’re a deck of cards.
    “Is everything okay?”
    “Fine.” She waves her hand at me dismissively. “Just a long day at work. Nothing to worry about.”
    But I know there is something to worry about, and it’s been something we’ve had hanging over us for years. The pageant spending is getting out of control.
    I rack my brain trying to think of something that I can