She sighs, trying to calm down. At least Mr. Cole is making an effort. He did go to rehab. She knows that he feels the financial pressure, too, but he’s not the one who’s been put on an aggressive posting schedule to compensate for his terrible, terrible taste in sports teams.
She closes her eyes and tries to think of what she will do once her family is out of debt. While she’s not entirely sure what exact direction she’ll choose, she knows it will have to do with makeup. Either doing makeup professionally, or starting her own line . . . Her mind wanders and she imagines herself in an ad for her own makeup line, made over to perfection. Entirely flawless.
Social media isn’t all bad.
Sure, the money is nice, but what’s even better are the DMs she receives from people trying out her makeup looks. The best part of makeup is giving people confidence. That ready-to-take-on-the-world feeling that comes with a bold lip or the perfectly winged cat eye. She always reads her comments, and she especially savors the feedback on the videos where she gets really detailed on more advanced techniques, like intricate contouring, or offers tutorials on concealing more than just blemishes—stuff like birthmarks or small scars. Just last week, a fourteen-year-old girl from Iowa had sent her a message about how much more confident she felt after watching one of Cecily’s videos on covering up acne scars. She said it gave her the confidence to try out for the cheerleading team and that she’d made the squad. Cecily had read the DM over and over again. Feedback like that makes it all worth it.
But she wants to do more. Maybe one day, when finances are a little less tight, she’ll be able to make other kinds of makeup videos, too—the kind her mom deems “too risky” for their audience. As if she doesn’t know her own audience or what they care about. She longs to make videos about the processes behind makeup—the formulas, testing, what it means for a brand to be truly vegan or cruelty-free—but for now, seasonal looks and challenges are what get views. At least according to her mom. So that’s what Cecily does.
They pull up to Pete’s-a-Pizza, the only take-out game in the entire suburb. They’re a little over two hours from New York City, yet the place markets itself as having the best pie outside the city. Not exactly a ringing endorsement. Cecily can’t believe they had to drive fifteen whole minutes to get to this second-rate restaurant. There probably aren’t even any good makeup outlets in Norton.
She’s double-checking her makeup in the lighted mirror in the visor when her dad breaks the silence. Her mascara is smudged. She thinks of the makeup remover inside her go bag.
“Make sure to double-check about nuts—”
“Dad, it’s pizza,” she replies, getting out and slamming the door. Smudged mascara be damned. No one in the pizza place will notice. The sound echoes through the empty parking lot, interrupting the subtle hum from the neon sign above her, where the a in “Pizza” is slowly beginning to flicker in and out. Not that Cecily is dismissive of Rudy’s nut allergy; it’s just that, well, it’s pizza, and any excuse to slam the door on her father feels like a good one right now.
A single bell above the door rings as she walks up to the counter. The place is a little on the grimy side and empty except for a lone teenage boy slurping soda and browsing his phone at an end table.
The cashier is staring at her. She’s about Cecily’s age, with wavy hair and wide brown eyes that straddle the line between pretty and off-putting. Cecily sweeps her hair over one shoulder and stands up straighter. Encountering kids her own age makes her nervous, though she does everything she can not to show it. She finds herself wishing Rudy and Amber were with her. “Uh, order for the Coles, please,” she says finally. “One pepperoni, one Hawaiian? Called ahead about a nut allergy?”
“I knew it!” the girl says, and Cecily tenses. She knew what? “You’re Cecily Cole!”
Oh. A fan. Cecily relaxes a little. She conjures up a smile and gives a little wave. “That’s me! Hi. I’m here for pizza? I mean, I’m new in town. But pizza, too.”
The girl’s face explodes into a huge grin; Cecily half expects her to sprint out from behind the register and hug her, she looks so excited. “Oh my god, can we take a picture? You are like, so famous. I can’t wait to tell my friends that I met Cecily Cole! I’m Bella, by the way.”
She sweeps her platinum-blond hair—clearly a dye job, judging by her tanned skin and black eyebrows—over her shoulder and makes a quick check for a manager before darting around the counter to pose with Cecily. When she extends her hand to take the picture, she reveals perfectly done nails and a phone case covered in stickers from various clubs at Norton High. She must definitely be close to Cecily’s age, then. She’s shorter than Cecily, closer to Amber’s height, but her bubbly energy more than makes up for it.
Cecily suddenly feels shy. And nervous. There’s a part of her that worries her fans will be disappointed when they meet her in person and see that she’s just a normal teenager. One with perfect makeup, but still, just a regular girl. “Uh, yeah,” she murmurs. She imagines what Rudy would do and plasters
