Still, I didn’t tell Daisy no. Even as I was trying to say it, she used the “I never see you” mantra to guilt me into submission. She topped it off by saying that I was oblivious to the fact that she broke up with Josh during Thanksgiving. （First mistake: asking “How’s Josh?” on the phone this morning. And I thought I was being so sly remembering his name and all.） That’s how “uninvolved” I am in her life. So not only was I processing her single-status, I was feeling a torrential downpour of sisterly remorse. I had to say yes to make it up to her. This is Lily 2.0—the girl who is actually trying to be a part of her family’s world.
That means spending quality time with Daisy. And worrying about her jumping back in the dating pool. Especially if these older models are flinging in their hooks to catch her.
So here I am. Obviously not prepared for this type of party. Although, I did ditch my sweats for black pants and a silky blue blouse.
“I’m so glad we’re here together,” Daisy exclaims for the third time. “I never see you.” Her arm flings around my shoulder, pulling me into a tipsy hug. I almost eat her golden brown, nearly blonde, hair. The feathery, straight strands flow past her chest.
We separate and I pinch one of her locks off my glossy lips.
“Sorry,” she says, trying to pull back her hair, but her hands are full: beer in one and a cigarette idly burning between two fingers in the other. “My hair is too fucking long.” She sighs in frustration, still combatting with the strands. She ends up using her shoulder and neck to try to push her hair off her chest, looking like a spaz in the process.
I’ve noticed that Daisy curses more when she’s irritated. Which is fine. But I’m sure our mother would need to spend an extra three hours meditating to forget about Daisy’s foul mouth.
And that’s precisely why I don’t care if she swears a lot or not at all. Do what she wants to do, I say. Daisy needs to be Daisy for a change, and I’m actually excited to see her away from my mother’s neurotic, maternal claws.
She settles down and sets her elbow on my shoulder for support. I am short enough to be her armrest. “Lil,” Daisy says, “I know Lo isn’t here, but I promise that I’m going to take your mind off of him tonight. No rehab talk. No mention of comics or anything that’ll remind you of him. Nada, okay? It’s just me and you and a bunch of friends.”
“You mean a bunch of attractive people.” I use the correct terminology. I am surrounded by pretty people who could sprint along a beach, Baywatch-style, and cause a wave of boners. Or they could walk down a runway and you’d probably be staring at their face more than their clothes.
At least I would.
Does that make me the ugliest person here? I’m probably the only un-model-ish girl. I nod. Okay. I’m cool with that. Surrounded by 10s and I’m probably a 6. I’ll take it.
She blows out smoke from her lips and smiles. “They’re all not that good looking. Mark looks like a gerbil in bad lighting. His eyes are too close together.”
“And he gets booked for jobs?”
She nods with a goofy smile. “Some fashion lines like the quirky thing. You know, the bushy brows, gap-tooth sorta look.”
“Huh.” I try to find Mark and his gerbil-ness, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“I kinda wish I had a cooler signature trait.”
Signature traits? Sounds like getting a badass patronus in the Wizarding World. Though I’m sure mine would be lame too. Like a squirrel.
I try to deduce her signature trait, scanning her black leggings, long gray shirt and army-green, military-style jacket. She doesn’t wear a single stroke of makeup, her complexion smooth, fresh and peachy perfect. “You do have great skin,” I nod, thinking I’ve solved the riddle. I’m so good. I nearly pat myself on the back.
Her eyebrows rise and she playfully bumps my hip with hers. “All models have good skin.”
“Oh.” I realize I’m going to have to come out and ask. “What’s your signature trait?”
She puts her cigarette in her lips and then grabs a wad of her hair shaking it towards me. “This baby,” she mumbles. She drops the strands on her shoulder and tucks the cig back between her fingers. “Long, long, long Disney Princess hair. That’s what my agency calls it.” She shrugs. “It’s not even that special. With wigs and stuff, anyone can have my hair.”
I would tell her to chop it off, but that’ll just rub in the fact that she can’t do a damn thing about it. Not when the agency controls her look. Not when our mother would go into cardiac arrest. “You do have better hair than me,” I tell her. Mine is greasy half the time.