Page 17 of Movers and Fakers

“It’s only weird if you make it weird. Everyone needs help sometimes.”

My phone buzzes in the bottom of my bag, so I reach for it.

“I thought I was supposed to be the mentor here,” I joke.

“Well, you were slacking today so I figured I’d help,” he replies.

I chuckle and turn my phone over to check it, frowning when I see a message from an unknown number.

Unknown: Hey! It’s Mckinleigh. Are you free tonight? I thought we could catch up like you said.

My brow furrows. I don’t remember giving her my number. Most girls I go out with message me on Thrasher Connect, the campus messaging app.

“What is it?” Forrest asks.

I sling my duffel over my shoulder.

“Some girl found my number.”

“See? Told you. Karma.”

I reach out and shove him, making him laugh. We end up wrestling until Al comes out to yell at us. By the time I leave the gym, I’ve forgotten all about Mckinleigh’s text. But Aurora is still dancing around my mind.

Chapter nine

Second-Guessing

Aurora Driscoll

I try not to flinch as Saylor sweeps eyeshadow over my right eye. I’m used to wearing makeup on stage, and I wear a little bit in my day-to-day life, too. But I’m usually the one who does it. Saylor begged, though, and she has an uncanny ability to get her way.

“You’re gorgeous,” she gushes. “I mean, you already were without makeup, but adding this makes you look like a supermodel.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, uncomfortable under the praise.

As a ballerina, my looks are often under scrutiny. From the time I was young, teachers and program directors made comments about my body, both positive and negative. It’s all a part of the business. I’ve learned not to take it personally. But hearing a friend compliment me makes me feel like I have one too many bobby pins stuck in my head.

“Jaz texted,” Marigold announces as she enters Saylor’s bedroom. “They just left the game and are headed to the party.”

“Perfect!” Saylor chirps. “I’m going to dust some highlighter, then spritz her with setting spray, and we’ll be done.”

I blink my eyes open and see Marigold standing in Saylor’s doorway. She’s wearing a black plaid dress with a turtleneck layered underneath it and matching black tights. Her red hair is curled and hanging over her shoulders. She’s got a cross-body bag slung over the outfit, which is probably holding her notebook and pen that she carries with her everywhere.

Saylor steps in front of me again, blocking my view of Marigold as she runs a makeup brush over my cheeks and the bridge of my nose. Saylor—ever the punctual one—was ready before she even started on me. She’s wearing a white off-the-shoulder sweater dress and tan tights. Her brown boots are freshly shined and sitting by the front door for her to slip on. Pearl earrings decorate her ears, and her blonde hair is in big curls. If anyone is a supermodel here, it’s her.

“I can’t believe you’re letting her do all of this,” Marigold comments. “Honestly, I can’t believe you’re coming to the party, period.”

“Don’t say that! She might change her mind.” Saylor frowns as she grabs a bottle of setting spray off her perfectly organized vanity. I’m facing away from the mirror because she wanted my reveal to be a surprise, but I watched her line up every step across the gleaming tabletop before we began.

My response is dry. “It’s a little late for that.”

“Hold your breath,” Saylor commands.

My eyes shut and I take a breath in. She sprays me down with the mist, then uses her mini fan to dry the liquid. Once it’s over, she beams at me and gestures to the mirror.

“Look!”

I reluctantly spin her desk chair around to face the lit-up mirror. My hair is up in a ponytail with the ends curled. Saylor—after sanitizing them—gave me a pair of dangling gold earrings to borrow. They sparkle in the light, the same as the soft shimmer on my eyelids, which she paired with a deep brown in the crease. My lips are painted a berry color, much darker than anything I would wear offstage, but still nice.