which I used while painting my toenails.
I walked on my heels—holding my toes in the air as much as possible—back to the kitchen, hoping the foam pads would keep the polish from smearing. I checked the mud facial. There were decidedly fewer clumps and some of the clumps might be cucumber peel, so I took it to the living room mirror and began applying the green mud to my face.
While I was smearing the stuff on, Stephen came out of his lair again and took one look at me. His eyes met mine in the mirror reflection, an expression of horror on his face, then he immediately went back inside his room, like a turtle retracting for safety.
I looked at my image and agreed; I was pretty scary. From the mayo and plastic covering my head, the thick, green, lumpy goop on my face, my well-worn and oversized COOKS DO IT HOTTER T-shirt (with a number of rips and gouges caused by a run-in with a staple gun), down to the rain forest I call my legs and the hot pink toe separators, I was the spitting image of Sasquatch. At least I’d be beautiful by tonight.
I shrugged and continued applying the goop. It was already drying near my hairline and turning an interesting shade of forest green. Maybe not Sasquatch. Perhaps a visitor from Mars?
The doorbell rang. Figuring it was Stephen’s friend arriving for dinner, I threw open the door.
Mr. Davin Wesley!
How did he always manage to look so … muscular, as if his chest strained against his button-down shirt?
A glop of mayo slid down my neck.
I slammed the door shut.
What the hell was he doing here? My heart hammered. Blood rushed to my head. My hands flew up in the air. (I’d never honestly believed this happens to people when they’re surprised, but guess what? It does.)
Okay. Calm down.
Screw that.
“Stephen!” I shouted.
“Oui.”
“Who the hel—ahem—who did you invite for dinner?”
“Mr. Wesley. I told you I was inviting him.”
Ah, no, he’d said a friend. Devil Wesley had never been mentioned. I shoulda known he’d turn up at the worst possible moment.
There was no way Wesley was getting a second glimpse of me looking like Frankenstein hopped up on steroids. I hobbled (the foam toe pads prevented me from running from the scene of my recent humiliation) to the bathroom, yelling, “He’s here. Go let him in.”
I quickly closed the bathroom door and any hope I might have entertained that Davin hadn’t had a good look at me died as I heard his maniacal laughter when Stephen let him in. All the way at the back of my apartment. On the other side of the bathroom door.
It was bad enough that anyone other than a blood relative saw me looking like the undead, but to have it be him —a man I disliked and who already had an extremely low opinion of me—made it worse. Much worse.
I had no other recourse but to set a goal. The next time he saw me, when I exited the bathroom, I’d be so incredibly gorgeous it would totally drive the other image of me permanently out of his head. In fact, he’d probably be unable to keep himself from shouting Va-va-va-voom while attempting to hide an instant erection.
It was the only solution.
I looked at my face in the mirror over the sink. I had a lot of work to do. Why hadn’t I insisted on a face-lift to go with my new boobs? The Asshole Professor could have afforded it.
Even worse, I didn’t have any other clothes in the bathroom. I searched through the linen closet, seeking something other than a threadbare towel. I came up empty, well, except for the colander I’d been looking for last week. How the hell had it gotten mixed in with the washcloths?
Okay, I’d have to wear the T-shirt, but at least the rest of me could look fabulous.
While the facial continued steeping—and by this point I was wondering how soon I should take it off. Could it stain my face?—the next item on my agenda was tending to the rain forest that had taken over my legs. After my breakup with the Asshole Professor, I’d gotten a bit lax
I walked on my heels—holding my toes in the air as much as possible—back to the kitchen, hoping the foam pads would keep the polish from smearing. I checked the mud facial. There were decidedly fewer clumps and some of the clumps might be cucumber peel, so I took it to the living room mirror and began applying the green mud to my face.
While I was smearing the stuff on, Stephen came out of his lair again and took one look at me. His eyes met mine in the mirror reflection, an expression of horror on his face, then he immediately went back inside his room, like a turtle retracting for safety.
I looked at my image and agreed; I was pretty scary. From the mayo and plastic covering my head, the thick, green, lumpy goop on my face, my well-worn and oversized COOKS DO IT HOTTER T-shirt (with a number of rips and gouges caused by a run-in with a staple gun), down to the rain forest I call my legs and the hot pink toe separators, I was the spitting image of Sasquatch. At least I’d be beautiful by tonight.
I shrugged and continued applying the goop. It was already drying near my hairline and turning an interesting shade of forest green. Maybe not Sasquatch. Perhaps a visitor from Mars?
The doorbell rang. Figuring it was Stephen’s friend arriving for dinner, I threw open the door.
Mr. Davin Wesley!
How did he always manage to look so … muscular, as if his chest strained against his button-down shirt?
A glop of mayo slid down my neck.
I slammed the door shut.
What the hell was he doing here? My heart hammered. Blood rushed to my head. My hands flew up in the air. (I’d never honestly believed this happens to people when they’re surprised, but guess what? It does.)
Okay. Calm down.
Screw that.
“Stephen!” I shouted.
“Oui.”
“Who the hel—ahem—who did you invite for dinner?”
“Mr. Wesley. I told you I was inviting him.”
Ah, no, he’d said a friend. Devil Wesley had never been mentioned. I shoulda known he’d turn up at the worst possible moment.
There was no way Wesley was getting a second glimpse of me looking like Frankenstein hopped up on steroids. I hobbled (the foam toe pads prevented me from running from the scene of my recent humiliation) to the bathroom, yelling, “He’s here. Go let him in.”
I quickly closed the bathroom door and any hope I might have entertained that Davin hadn’t had a good look at me died as I heard his maniacal laughter when Stephen let him in. All the way at the back of my apartment. On the other side of the bathroom door.
It was bad enough that anyone other than a blood relative saw me looking like the undead, but to have it be him —a man I disliked and who already had an extremely low opinion of me—made it worse. Much worse.
I had no other recourse but to set a goal. The next time he saw me, when I exited the bathroom, I’d be so incredibly gorgeous it would totally drive the other image of me permanently out of his head. In fact, he’d probably be unable to keep himself from shouting Va-va-va-voom while attempting to hide an instant erection.
It was the only solution.
I looked at my face in the mirror over the sink. I had a lot of work to do. Why hadn’t I insisted on a face-lift to go with my new boobs? The Asshole Professor could have afforded it.
Even worse, I didn’t have any other clothes in the bathroom. I searched through the linen closet, seeking something other than a threadbare towel. I came up empty, well, except for the colander I’d been looking for last week. How the hell had it gotten mixed in with the washcloths?
Okay, I’d have to wear the T-shirt, but at least the rest of me could look fabulous.
While the facial continued steeping—and by this point I was wondering how soon I should take it off. Could it stain my face?—the next item on my agenda was tending to the rain forest that had taken over my legs. After my breakup with the Asshole Professor, I’d gotten a bit lax
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