"I have a treat for you girls," my mom said as Becky and I climbed into her SUV the afternoon of prom. "I scheduled two appointments for manicures for your big night tonight."
"Yay!" we both cried out in unison.
"Thank you so much, Mrs. Madison," Becky gushed.
Mindi's, an ultra-swank conservative salon, with its signature bright black-and-white-striped awning, was located in Dullsville's main square, between Fancy Schmancy Gifts and Linda's Lingerie.
"Maybe we can go there, too," I whispered to a blushing Becky when we got out of the SUV, referring to the sexy intimate clothing store.
Becky and I followed my mother into Mindi's chichi salon. The stylists were clad in crisp white tops and black rayon pants.
The chairs were filled with Dullsville High prom-goers getting makeovers, haircuts, and pedicures. All heads-- being cut, blow- dried, and colored--turned toward me as if I (clad in tight black zippered shorts, black tights, Frankenstein boots, and a Gothique T- shirt) wasn't worthy of entering the salon.
"Pick out your polish," my mother instructed, pointing Becky and me to a Lucite shelf hanging on the wall next to the hair section. A ton of products lined the white wooden shelves--snazzy accessories in a rainbow of colors and fabrics, combs (skinny and wide-toothed), and brushes (round, flat, and lamb's-bristled). Dozens of shampoos and conditioners for every type of hair-- frizzy, curly, straight, dry, oily, thick, and thin--were also displayed. I was amazed at what a bottle filled with soap and a few vitamins and minerals claimed to do. For the prices Mindi's was asking, I'd think they were filled with champagne. Becky and I perused the nail polish selection while my mother checked us in. The shelves were filled with a spectrum of colors from pink to purple, red to clear. Becky quickly chose a bottle of Pink Persuasion.
I scanned the polishes. Nothing resembled black, not even a deep purple or brown among them.
My mother joined us, buzzing like it was my wedding day. She was exhilarated, caught up in the prom spirit as if she were going herself. Since I had been an outcast for so long, she herself had never been included in the high school's events.
"So what have you decided on, girls?" she asked.
"Becky picked a beautiful pink," I said.
My best friend proudly showed my mother her selection of a pretty pastel nail color.
"Lovely choice, Becky. Raven, what have you picked?"
"Well..."
"We're ready for you," a pixie-like girl with spiky short red hair said, her white shirt stretched tightly around her pregnant belly. "I'm Cami."
"I'll pick you up in half an hour," my mom said. "Remember, when the girls have finished, don't touch anything! You don't want to smear your manicure."
Cami led Becky and me past a dozen hairstylists' chairs to the nail room or what I'd call a vampire's nightmare. The walls were made of mirrors, and bright fluorescent lights filled the ten-by-ten- foot room. Alexander wouldn't last two seconds in here.
A half-dozen white manicure tables--each with a black desk lamp, white hand towels, and pastel polishes-- faced the mirrored walls. A few pedicure bowls were sitting on the floor, all occupied by the feet of adolescent fashionistas.
Jenny Warren and her Prada shoe-snob friend, Heather Ryan, sat underneath foils with one foot in a spa bath and the other resting on a pedicurist's lap, their flawless model's toes being primped for their walk down Prom Princess Road.
Cami showed Becky to her seat, then directed me to the vacant chair next to hers. As I settled in, a middle-aged veteran manicurist nodded to me as she stood over her client, whose hands were drying underneath a heating lamp.
Becky and I watched as Cami started removing Becky's nail polish.
"You must be Raven," my manicurist said, placing a plastic finger bowl filled with sudsy water on her table. "I'm Jean."
"Nice to meet you," I responded with a smile.
I glanced over at Becky, who was engaged in conversation with Cami as if they'd been friends for years. Cami looked like she'd just graduated from beauty school.
My manicurist, however, with her crazy colored bifocals, resembled my grandmother. Her own thick nails weren't painted and looked weathered. Who could blame her? By the end of the day, she was probably too exhausted to decorate her own nails.
"What color have you picked?" she asked, looking at me above her bifocals.
"Well...I haven't decided yet."
Jean began removing my black polish with a cotton ball. It took her a few minutes to get it out of the nooks, the dark color imbedded in my nails.
"Your mother said your dress was a dark red." "Yes," I said, our conversation stilted.
Jean opened her drawer and pulled out a bottle of red nail polish. "How about this?"
"I prefer something darker."
Jean placed my hands in the finger bowl filled with warm, bubbly water.
"This color is very popular." She held out a bottle of metallic pink.
"I was thinking of black."
"How about something more feminine," she said, ignoring my request.
I could feel Becky slink down in her chair next to me. Becky and Cami continued to talk but kept eyeballing Jean and me.
Jean rose and went to the front desk. In a moment, she returned with a few bottles of reds and pinks.
"I thought you'd want to look like Cinderella, not Frankenstein," she quipped, placing the colors on her manicure table and sitting down.
"I'd really like black."
"But we don't carry black," she insisted.
"No problem. I brought a bottle with me." I reached for my purse, accidentally dripping water on her desk as I lifted my hand out of the bowl.
Jenny and Heather giggled at me.
"Hold on," Jean grumbled. "Allow me." Jean mopped up my spills with a hand towel and threw it into a small white wicker laundry basket underneath her desk. She picked up my Corpse Bride purse, examined it as if it might bite her, then pulled out a half-filled bottle of Morbid Mayhem.
Jean placed my polish on her desk as if she were holding a bottle of poison. She squeezed eucalyptus-scented lotion on my hand and vigorously massaged it into my skin. She filed, smoothed, and pushed back my cuticles and reluctantly began to paint my nails a morbid black.
"So who are you going to prom with?" she asked.
"My boyfriend."
"Would I know him--or his family?"
"He doesn't go to our school."
"Is he from out of town?"
"No, he's homeschooled."
"That's interesting...What's his name?"
This was more like an inquisition than a manicure.
"Alexander Sterling."
"You mean the Sterlings on Benson Hill?" she asked, surprised.
"Yes."
"I've heard about them. They moved into the Mansion a while ago."
"That's right."
"His parents are never around. I was hoping his mother might come into the salon." "They travel a lot."
"I see. And what is your boyfriend like?"
"He's a lot like me."
"Wears black nail polish?" she teased.
"Sometimes," I said with a smile.
I was beginning to take a liking to ol' Jean, and I think she was warming a bit to me. Not only was she flip and sarcastic like me, but I had something she wanted--firsthand knowledge of new townsfolk I'm sure had been gossiped about in her salon since the day the Munster-like family inhabited the Mansion.
Becky rose and sat with her hands underneath the dryers, leaving me alone in the corner with Jean as she applied a clear top coat to my nails.
"I had a client come in yesterday to get a French manicure," she whispered. "She said she met your boyfriend at a restaurant. She was spreading all sorts of gossip."
"You mean Mrs. Mitchell?"
"I don't like to spread things around," she said seriously.
I bit my black lip to keep myself from laughing.
"After meeting you," she continued, "I can't believe the talk of the town. You are such a dear, and I imagine your boyfriend has to be a gentleman."
I smiled at Jean. "She calls us vampires behind our backs just because we wear dark clothes and nail polish."
"I see..."
"She really needs to get a job, that woman." "Well, I have to be honest, I'd rather see you in red polish, but I think this black is quite striking. I'd order some for the salon," she whispered again, "but I'm afraid you'd be the only one to wear it."
"Keep it," I said as I sat next to Becky and placed my hands underneath the dryer. "Next time Mrs. Mitchell comes in for a French manicure, make it a Romanian one, like mine."