“Did she say how?” asks Sicilee.
Kristin turns around as quick as a gunslinger hearing a noise behind her. “What do you mean
“You know … I mean … the thing is … well, you know … they don’t really make your lips fuller, do they? So how do they make them puff up?”
Kristin frowns. “What are you talking about? They do make them fuller. That’s the whole point.”
“Yeah, but they can’t really change the way your lips
“What’s that?” Kristin’s frown deepens with suspicion, her eyes on the box. “What are you up to? Why were you looking at that?”
“I’m not up to anything,” says Sicilee. “I was just checking out the ingredients in that lipstick you were looking at, that’s all.”
“Oh, really?” Kristin slaps Key West Sunset down on the counter. “And why were you doing that?”
“Why do you think? I wanted to see what’s in it.”
“It’s make-up,” says Kristin. “Make-up’s what’s in it.”
“Yeah, but what’s make-up made of?”
Make-up is one thing no one had to tell Sicilee about. She looked it up herself. Not because she thought it could be loaded with anything dangerous or bad, but, ironically enough, because of Kristin’s comment that not all toiletries and make-up are vegan. Sicilee looked at all the tubes, jars and compacts spread across her dressing table and she was curious. It had never before occurred to her to wonder what was actually in the things she rubbed into her skin and smeared over her face. How was it possible that her lipstick or shampoo wasn’t vegan? Was there animal fat in her foundation? Milk in her eye shadow? Ground-up chicken feet in her mother’s night cream? Did the sweetness of her lipstick come from honey? The sweetness of her lipstick turned out not to come from anything as benign as honey. Chicken feet were the least of the problems.
Kristin is now standing with a hand on one hip and her head to one side as though she has a chip of wood on her shoulder and is waiting for Sicilee to knock it off. “So what’s in the lipstick?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t really know.” The list of ingredients on the box is a long one, consisting mainly of things whose names are unpronounceable and unknown unless you have a degree in advanced chemistry. “But most of this stuff is made from petrochemicals and lots of them have toxins and carcinogens and preservatives and—”
“You’re telling me that I’m going to get cancer from my lipstick.”
Sicilee laughs. “Of course not. All I’m saying is—”
“What’s going on?” asks Loretta as she and Ash come to a stop between them.
“Oh, you guys’ll want to hear this,” says Kristin. “Sicilee was just telling me how all our make-up’s poisonous.”
Sicilee sighs and rolls her eyes. “I didn’t say that. All I said was—”
“I thought we were here to have fun.” Ash looks accusingly at Sicilee. “I thought you were dropping all that never-washing-your-clothes-and-eating-bean-sprouts garbage.”
“Talk about born-again Green,” says Loretta. “You people can’t leave anything alone, can you? You’re fanatical. You always have to convert everybody.”
“I’m not trying to convert anybody.” Sicilee practically yelps with exasperation. “I’m just trying to—”
“Educate us?” asks Kristin.
“No. I’m just trying to say that if we’re putting this stuff on our skin and everything, we should know what’s in it. I don’t see what the big crime is in that.” Three very unsmiling, hard-eyed faces, swathed in petrochemicals and irritation, stare back at Sicilee. This should tell her that it’s time to stop talking, but for some reason it just makes her talk more. “I mean, chemicals get into our food from plastics, right? So it just makes sense that they must get into us from make-up and stuff.”
“You know, you really are losing the plot,” says Ash. “You’re like one of those conspiracy-theory freaks. Next thing you know, you’ll be telling us that the world’s ruled by giant lizards. I mean, you can’t really think that these mega companies are going to
“Well, they—”
“You know everything, don’t you?” Loretta sneers. “It’s really pretty awesome how much smarter than us you are.”
“In fact, I’m amazed you can stand to be seen with us, we’re so stupid.” Kristin picks up her bags. “Why don’t you do us all a favour and go home by yourself, Sicilee?”
“But I came with you guys,” protests Sicilee. “How am I supposed to get home?”
“Well, you’re the big walker,” says Loretta.
“Or even better,” says Ash, “you can take the bus.”
Sicilee does both. She takes the bus back to town, and then she stomps home from there. The rain has stopped and the sun has broken through the clouds. Though not the cloud that hovers over Sicilee, of course. Why do her friends keep getting mad at her like that? What did she say? No, really. What did she say? That make-up’s made with petrochemicals? Sweet Mary, she’s not the one who put the petrochemicals in the lipstick or the eye shadow. Or in anything else. You’d think they’d thank her. You’d think they’d say, “Hey, thanks, Siss. We don’t want to suck carcinogens into our bodies.” Not tell her to walk home from the mall. Not get all snotty and attitudinal. It isn’t fair. Why should she be punished for telling them the truth?
Sicilee’s mind echoes with the bratty voices of her friends as she marches down the leafy, pleasant streets of Clifton Springs.
Sicilee jumps and screams. Behind her – though not far enough behind her – is a very large dog, drool dripping from his half-open mouth, looking at her as if he’s deciding which part of her he wants to bite first. How long has he been walking with her? Since she left the village? Was there something beside her while she waited at that last set of traffic lights on Boyer? Something big enough to be ridden by a small child?
“Nice doggy.” Sicilee smiles. “Good boy.”
The dog’s bark is like a small explosion.
“Stay!” Sicilee doesn’t point – she doesn’t want to give him an easy target like a finger – but her voice is the stern one she uses when her cat Lucy does something she shouldn’t, like climb into the washing machine. “Stay!” She turns and starts walking again. The stern voice doesn’t work on Lucy, either. The dog follows, his nose nudging towards her, his head so close she can feel his breath – warm, moist and surrounded by teeth. Sicilee’s heart beats faster.
“Go home,” she orders. “Shoo.”
She walks a little faster. The dog lopes behind her.
They turn a corner and the Kewes’ house is now in sight. The only time anyone has ever seen Sicilee run since she was ten is in gym class, where she is given no choice, but Sicilee starts to run now. The dog starts to run, too. Past Mr Kreple in his driveway vacuuming his car. Past the Larkins’ little girl blowing bubbles in their front yard. Past Mrs Novatny reading on her porch. Sicilee runs faster and the dog bounds after her, barking excitedly, now in full pursuit. Does he think it’s a game, or is he coming in for the kill?
Their next-door neighbour stops on her stoop when she sees Sicilee galloping towards her. “Hi there, Sicilee!” she calls. “Tell your mother—”
If Sicilee were capable of thinking, her thought would be
