Janice Johnson - Revelations

Ann let the silence ride for a minute. She wasn’t real good at this interpersonal stuff. Would she seem uncaring if she didn’t ask questions? Nosy if she did? But she was curious, so finally she said, “You want to talk about it?”

His fingers tightened and loosened, tightened and loosened a couple of times on the wheel. He sighed, long and ragged. “Maybe another time, okay?”

She shrugged as if she didn’t care. “Sure.”

Conversation died there. When he dropped her in front of her complex, Ann said, “See you tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

He waited at the curb, as he always did on the rare occasions when he took her home, until she let herself in the door of her ground-floor unit. Chivalry, she had wondered before, or a cop’s paranoid belief that creeps lurked in every dark corner?

Damn it, she thought, standing in the middle of her living room, why was she obsessing about stuff that would never have occurred to her a year ago?

She knew the answer, and was shamed by it.

A year ago, she’d been so focused on winning her father’s approval, she hadn’t had time to sit back and wonder whether she was happy with herself or her life.

Now she did. And she wasn’t.

She liked being a cop. She just wished she had something, someone, else. She wished she knew how to have fun, how to flirt, how to feel pretty. A hobby would be good. Maybe a sport, like tennis. She jogged regularly, to stay in shape, and it did relax her. But jogging wasn’t fun.

The trouble was, she had no idea where to start to make changes. Her apartment needed something, for example. Okay, a lot. It had no character. But…decorating. How did you do that? She’d bought stuff before. Some of the furniture was hers. But whatever she brought home just never melded. A print would look lost on the wall where she hung it. A throw pillow on one end of the couch, bought in a rash moment, looked like an orphan from some exotic species, kindly taken in by a plain Jane mom.

Ann wandered into her bedroom, stripping as she went. She felt lighter the minute she laid her shoulder harness and gun on her bedside table. Unbuttoning her shirt, she eyed with equal disfavor the contents of her closet. What if some day she had call to look elegant, or flirty and sexy, or even just like a woman?

Out of luck. Even she could see that almost everything hanging in there was ugly. She never wore any of it anyway, except the blazers, Oxford cloth shirts and slacks that were her plainclothes uniform. She ought to bundle the rest up and give it to the Salvation Army. If they’d take it.

Still brooding, Ann changed into flannel pajama bottoms and a sacky T-shirt.

She could afford a new wardrobe, and to refurbish her apartment. Or even to buy a house. She’d been thinking of doing that. With what she’d saved and what she’d inherited from her father, money wasn’t an issue. She just didn’t want to waste it—buy a bunch of stuff and be as dissatisfied with it as she was by what she already owned.

Maybe she should hire a decorator. Of course, then the place would have character; it just wouldn’t be hers.

Depression hit her in a wave. What difference did it make what her apartment looked like? She hardly ever had anyone over anyway. She kidded herself when she said she had friends. Her “friends” were people she met to see a movie. Acquaintances was probably closer to the truth.

What she needed was someone to decorate her. In the act of getting her toothbrush and toothpaste out of the medicine cabinet, she stopped. Actually, it wasn’t a bad idea. You could get makeovers. Couldn’t you? And maybe go to some store like Nordstrom and find a friendly-looking clerk and say, “Help?”

She studied herself carefully in the mirror and wondered if she’d have the courage to appear in public wearing a short skirt or a tight top and with makeup on her face. What if she sauntered into work someday thinking she’d achieved chic, and everyone busted a gut laughing?

Ann made faces at herself in the mirror: bared her teeth, tried for a radiant smile, tilted her head this way and that to see herself at every angle.

She wasn’t that bad-looking. At least, she didn’t think so. Her skin was good, if too pale. She couldn’t seem to tan, no matter what she did. Her teeth were white and straight—her father had seen to that, when one front tooth started trying to cut in front of the other. Braces were a hideous memory, but she was grateful for the result. Her forehead was high—maybe too high, especially with her hair pulled back the way it was. Blue eyes, check. Normal lips, not pouty but not thin, either. Wavy dark hair that tumbled well past her shoulders when she let it free.

Below the neck…well. She was too buxom for her short stature, giving her the look of a fireplug. Ever since she turned eleven and started to develop, she’d been trying to hide her breasts. Her hips were wider than she liked, too; the uniform had never fit her right. Why couldn’t she be tall and lean? She was pretty well on the other end of the spectrum from the ethereal models men and women alike seemed to admire these days. But she was no Playboy bunny, either. She was too…compact. Too strong, despite a build that didn’t match who she really was.

But maybe, with the right clothes—whatever they were—she could look curvy instead of squat. She’d settle for that. If she could figure out what the right clothes were.

She grimaced at herself and stuck the toothbrush in her mouth. Like she was going to go waste a bunch of money on clothes.

But maybe, she could spend a little money. Just…oh, go to Nordstrom and wander around. Maybe try some clothes on, just for fun.

She’d done that once, when other girls were shopping for prom dresses. Ann had pretended she was, too, trying on long dresses sewn with glittery sequins or simple satin slip dresses. But they hadn’t looked right on her, and she had suddenly, in the dressing room at the Bon, felt so inadequate she’d ripped off the slinky royal blue number and scrambled into her own clothes, rushing out of the store.

The memory almost made her jettison the plan, but she was beginning to think she had to do something instead of just feeling miserable.

She wasn’t sixteen anymore. So, okay, her idea of shopping was usually marching into the store and buying a new pair of the same pants she always bought. But she could browse.

Ann made one last face at herself in the mirror.

It wasn’t like she had a whole lot else to do on her days off.

“DO YOU USUALLY use bold colors, or soft ones?”

Ann sat on a tall stool at the cosmetics counter feeling as if she were at the dentist. The makeup consultant, or whatever she called herself, even reminded Ann of the dental technician who cleaned her teeth. Blond, perky, relentless.

“Uh… Surprise me,” she improvised. “I’m here because I want a change.”

“Oh, what fun!” chirped Britny.

Yeah, that was how her name was spelled, according to the tasteful tag she wore on her bright blue lapel. Ann had almost asked if someone had made a mistake, but decided poor Britny’s parents had just decided to be creative. Make her stand out from the crowd.

Preparing her tools, Britny assured Ann, “You were smart to come with your face bare. Most people don’t, and then we have to start by washing off the old makeup.”

Ann made a noncommittal sound and warily watched the hand approaching her face with pale goop on a cotton ball.

“You have fabulous skin!” Britny spread the cool liquid across Ann’s cheeks, chin, upper lip. Ann almost asked why she had to cover her skin, if it was so fabulous, but was afraid if she opened her mouth her tongue would get coated, too. “Alabaster is our palest shade of foundation. It’s blending in beautifully.”