Tideland

like blood. I wondered if each lipstick had its own flavor and smell. I wondered if scarlet tasted good. I’d know when I finished; I’d bring the stick to my tongue and lick it. Then I could slide it between my lips -- I’d study my reflection, how the stick went in and out -- and see what flavor it had. I could bite into the stick if I wanted; I could chew it in my mouth like gum. But that was too risky. I didn’t want my tongue swelling -- microscopic syringes hid in the lipstick.

I spread it carefully. If I went any quicker my hand might get shaky and the lipstick would end up all over my chin; it might redden my nose. Then the poison would be released. A gradual application was the safest bet, stay within the borders, no hurry -- like drawing in my Barbie Coloring Book. It was easy coloring the dresses or hair. But the heads and arms and legs were difficult to get right; they were so thin, my crayons always scooted past the borders if I hurried. When I wasn’t meticulous, the picture got ruined, and Barbie had to be ripped from the pages. And I cursed myself.

Careful. Almost done. Deadly lips as delicious as an apple. Dream Date Jeliza-Rose doll. When the lipstick reached the nooks of my mouth I had to pause; it was hard getting the scarlet neatly in the corners.

My reflection glowered. She suddenly resembled my mother and it frightened me. She said, 'Get on with it. You little bitch, l’m hungry.” She was staring into my eyes, gazing through me.

I glanced down. The lipstick moved. I felt it smear and looked up. The scarlet had smudged across my upper lip, daubed between my nostrils. Doomed. My reflection smiled with her crazy wig and messy lips. Murderer. I’d been poisoned.

Grasping my throat, I ran into my bedroom.

'Classique, I’m dying. My tongue is filling my head. I can’t talk anymore because I'm really dying now.'

'Dear, you’re already dead,” she told me. 'You’re a ghost!”

'Already?”

'A spook.”

I touched the blond coils hanging on my forehead.

'And so beautiful too. I’m a vision.”

'Very beautiful,' she said. 'More beautiful than -- I don’t know.”

'More beautiful than-'

Scampering, rapid light-sounding steps came from behind. I turned. I couldn’t believe it.

The squirrel was at the bathroom door, puffy tail curled - he sniffed the floor; I watched him. That twitching muzzle. He was almost motionless, hunched in the doorway. I wondered what to do, but I couIdn’t think -- I could only watch. It was as if he didn’t see me, and I wasn’t afraid of him. I just didn’t know what to do.

Then he cocked his head to one side, considering me. His paws flexed on the floorboards. I waited to see if he seemed fearful; then I worried that other squirrels were coming, a hit squad. When I took a deep breath, he swung around, facing me, went up on his hind legs, sniffing. He wasn’t scared.

'What do you want? How’d you get in?'

I knew the squirrel was fast. And he was mean. He could spring through the air. He might bite me. He might steal Classique, eat her hair, and gnaw her into nothing with those nasty teeth. It was creepy, an animal always chewing on wood or wires or plastic things. He did it because he was a pig and couldn’t hunt food like a lion. He was also stupid. But his teeth were huge, tusks, worse than claws. While attacking, he could sink into a skull as easy as someone crunching into an apple.

'You better leave,” I said, a warning for good measure, but it didn’t rattle him. 'You go!”

His tail swooshed. He couldn’t quit sniffing. His ears quivered.

I threw the wig at him. But it missed; he was already scrambling, tearing through the room.

So I hurdled onto my bed, screaming, 'Go away!'

The squirrel was confused and chirping like a bird; his knothole was somewhere else. He sprang from one end of the room to the other, desperate for a good climbing place -- a wall without a ceiling overhead, just sky. Back and forth across the throw rug. Chattering and angry. That was the worst part. Squirrel babble near my bed and me and the dolls. Then under the bed, then out, across the throw rug again, to the wall -- to the other wall. Hesitate, sniff, stand, down, run. Chatter, chirp. Back under the bed, out. Across the throw rug. Wall to wall.

I hobbled on the mattress, yelling, bouncing the doll parts. Doll heads leaping. Some of them mashed by my feet, like ants. Toes on Classique, toes on Fashion Jeans. Jumping and shouting.

Then he froze, no good climbing place, no knothole.

I couldn't scream anymore; the breath had abandoned me. My shins were itching. The wig sat in a clump. The room smelled like skunk.

'Just go-'

He shot into the bathroom, skidding on the floor. Claws scratching; he was frantic, irate. Hopping about in there, making a racket -- then he was gone.

'You don’t come back!' I yelled, stepping to the floor.

But I knew he wouldn’t return; that was why I left the bed. I was going to discover how he got inside What Rocks; it didn’t make sense. I stood at the bathroom doorway. I glanced over a shoulder, like a paratrooper on the verge of plunging. I was alone. Classique and the others had been bounced into unconsciousness. They probably wouldn’t join me anyway, not on this mission. So I entered the bathroom, tip-toeing, with eyes alert and ready.

I noticed the hatch at once; it was slightly open, wide enough for a squirrel. When I brought the wig and cosmetic bag from the attic, I’d forgotten to shut the night latch. And peeking through the opening I spotted him. He was near the chest. He was nibbling on scrap wood, holding it in his paws. I didn’t yell or call for Classique. I didn’t want the squirrel to know I’d found him. This was how it should be -- me spying on him while he did squirrel stuff, like nibble and then clean his face by wetting his paws. I wasn’t mad that the squirrel got in the attic. This was better than stalking him outside.

Also, I liked the idea of doing something without Classique, but she often became jealous if I ignored her. So I’d make certain she wouldn’t know about the squirrel, how I could see his busy paws, his head between them as he rubbed at his snout, cleaning. I could see him scratching his side with a hind leg. I was thrilled. I could have clapped my hands with delight. But I was scared to make a sound, or everything might get ruined.

I could hear Classique stirring, whispering my name. But I didn’t answer. I’d wait by the hatch until the squirrel went away, then I’d leave the bathroom before Classique panicked. But she kept saying my name; she’d whisper it all day, thinking the squirrel had punctured my brain and dragged me into the attic for a chew.

I wanted to scratch my shins. It was humid here, heat pushing from the attic. It was hot. The squirrel sniffed and glanced my way.

Caught.

He bit the air with his teeth. He tried to bluster me, to bully my eyes, to keep me from looking.

We were gazing at each other now, waiting for one another to bolt. It’d be finished soon; Classique would know I was in the bathroom and bellow. These were the final seconds of just me and the squirrel. Next thing, he was scampering toward the vent. He was squeezing between the slants, gone again.

'The wig needs help! It’s in trouble! Where are you?'

It was Classique.

'Don’t rush me,” I said, pushing the night latch. 'I’m in here minding my own business.”

And as I exited the bathroom, my right foot landed on the wig and I almost slipped.

'See there,' said Classique. 'That wig is trouble.'

'That’s not what you said,” I told her.

'That’s exactly what I said.'

I put the wig on. Then Classique.

'I’m hungry,” I said. 'Are you?”

'Silly,” she said, 'I don’t have a stomach. It goes in my mouth and drops on the floor like pooh.”

'Gross.” I laughed. 'You’re gross. Now I’m not hungry.'

But I was lying; nothing could prevent me from eating. Not even army ants. They were in the kitchen, raiding the saltines. They crawled around the rim of the peanut butter jar, explored the water jug. They’d stolen chunks from a Wonder Bread slice. It bothered me. But I should’ve sealed everything up the night before. Then all the ants could scavenge were crumbs, and the peanut butter smeared on the counter -- I’d been sloppy -- and the bread crust I’d removed like a scab, tossing it aside. They were welcome to the crust. I hated it more than them.