Showing posts with label #susanllipson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #susanllipson. Show all posts

Friday, May 1, 2020

Memorable Meme that Sparked a Story

This screenshot of a text message, showing a hilarious miscommunication between strangers, circulated the internet, and I couldn’t resist turning it into a story. I even assigned it to my teenage writing students as a prompt (and I will probably post their resulting collaborative tales on my other blog, at If you already follow me on Instagram (@susanllipson), you know that I often see writing prompts in unexpected places because I continually turn Nature images into metaphorical poems. Social media posts sometimes inspire my creativity, too--as you can see in this fictional response to the "text fail" image, above: 

Here for You
by Susan L. Lipson

Stan held his breath as he opened the door of the Uber car. After his embarrassing reply to her text that said  I am here for you, he wished he could have canceled the ride.  This driver probably thought he was a pathetic basket case, unloading on her as if she were a friend offering support. Standing stiffly outside the Honda Civic, he called, “Um, hi. Are you Tammy?” Peering into the car, he gulped as a smirking, but pretty woman, turned toward him and nodded. Her shiny black bangs skimmed long eyelashes, framing dark, black-outlined eyes. Stan hesitated to get in. He looked down at the phone in his hand.

            “Stan? Don’t be embarrassed, it’s okay. Just get in,” Tammy urged, soothingly. “Text fails happen.”

            Stan slid onto the fabric seat of her Honda Civic and shut the door as softly as he could. “Sorry about that.” He cleared his throat. “I thought you were someone else.”

            “Obviously,” she quipped, her eyes smiling at him from the rearview mirror. “You okay?”

            Struggling to muster a smile, Stan saw his own reflection in her mirror. He looked as awkward as he felt. He smoothed down his ginger, frizzy hair against his temples. “Can we, um, listen to some music, maybe?”

            She turned on the radio. Demi Lovato cried-sang, “Like a skyscraper…” And Stan burst into tears. Tammy changed the channel and turned up the volume. This time it was a sad song by Post Malone. Stan recognized the voice but couldn’t hear the words over his own sobbing. He hunkered down in the back seat so she couldn’t see him in the mirror.

            “Stan? Stan, get a hold of yourself, would you?” Tammy called out over the music. Her GPS rerouted her, due to excessive traffic, and she snapped at the mechanical voice, “No!” 

            Wiping his tears on his tie-dyed t-shirt, Stan blubbered, “I’m sorry, but can you just turn off the music? Please?”

            She turned off the radio, sighing deeply. Stan could see her frown in the mirror. Her thick eyebrows nearly met in the middle. “Look, just calm down, dude! We’ll be there in ten minutes. Unless you need me to pull over now. You’re not , like, going to be sick or anything now, are you? I just had my seats cleaned.”

            Her “compassion” stunned Stan and stopped the flow of tears. He sniffed loudly. “Well, aren’t you just the kindest human being?! I THINK NOT!”

            SCREECH! The car jolted toward the curb and slammed to a stop. “Get out, Stan. I don’t need to have compassion! I’m not your freakin’ therapist! I’m not a bartender! I’m not your friend!”

            Stan’s eyes bulged, and his puffy lips parted as his jaw dropped. “Wait, what? You’re serious? No, just drive. I’ll shut up. I need to get there on time!” 

            “Tough, Stan. And speaking of tough, you have no idea what a tough life is like.” Suddenly, Tammy was crying. Shaking, sobbing, sticking her head out of her open window and gulping air...

            Stan gasped. “Tammy? Are you okay?”

            She didn’t answer, only cried harder. Stan reached across the seat to pat her shoulder and she crumpled over the steering wheel. “I...I need...a hug, Stan. You’re not the only one with problems.”

            Stan got out of the back seat, opened the passenger-side door, and jumped into the front seat. He and Tammy hugged, sniffling over each other’s shoulders. 

Strangers acting strangely, thought Stan, feeling her hand against his lower back, enjoying her surprisingly kind massage.

Just two more gentle tugs and I’ll have his wallet, thought Tammy. But then she stopped herself from giving in to her compulsion. She needed more money, yes, but her driving job was too important to risk getting fired. And Stan seemed like a decent guy who didn’t deserve to be an unwitting donor to her medical fund. Even if he is kind of an emo freak, she thought. She sniffed loudly, patting his shoulder blades, and pulled herself out of his embrace, noticing the mascara streaks she had left on his shirt.

He remained in the front seat, and they resumed driving, in total silence, to his destination. “Should I pull into the driveway?” she asked softly.

“Sure, that works,” mumbled Stan. “Um, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

Tammy shifted the car into Park. “Well, that depends… About what?” She stared at the windshield, avoiding his gaze.

“Uh, about why you were crying and, um, why we...why we hugged like that?" Stan raised his eyebrows hopefully as she looked at him. 

Tammy emitted a bitter sniff. “Because life sucks, that's why. How about you?”

“Same.” He forced a grimace-like smile.

“You gonna be okay, Stan?”

“I think so. The hug helped.”

Tammy sighed, mentally patting herself on the back for resisting the urge to rob him. “I’m glad. Take care of yourself, dude.” She watched his stained shoulder as he opened the car door and stepped out.

“Yeah, you, too. Thanks for the ride.”

After he left the car, Stan concluded the ride on his Uber app, but not before giving her a five-star rating and impulsively adding a hundred-dollar tip. Acts of random kindness deserve rewards, he thought. He felt better already.

Friday, December 13, 2019

New Poem Birthed at Breakfast

          At breakfast with two artistic friends this morning, we discussed the importance of encounters, either unplanned or planned (like ours), in nurturing creativity. Artists create works for the purpose of catharsis or connection, and too much alone time can lead to blocked artistic flow. Our meandering discussion touched the topic of worrying, and the notion stayed with me for the next few hours, finally crystallizing into the new poem below. I don't usually post a first draft, but I am doing so today to convey how connections can catalyze creativity and compel communication (not to mention excessive use of alliteration). So, here's the poem that enables me to justify a fun morning off with extraordinary friends. I hope you'll let me know if it moves you. And if you do connect with my words and wish to read some more polished poems, check out my newest published book, Disillusions of Grandeur--and Other Eye-Openers (click title for more info).

Worry Walls
by Susan L. Lipson


Worrying is a symptom 
of our sick need for control—
control over all that occurs outside of our own actions.

Worrying has no power to change circumstances, events, or others’ decisions; 
no power to heal, show support, or remove pain; 
no power to maintain a dependence upon our input. 

Worrying disempowers us,
erecting walls around our crumbling castles of control,
blocking our view of the reality beyond our courtyards. 

If we summon the strength 
to climb over those Worry Walls, 
pausing on top to regain balance, 
we can see what IS,
not what “should” or “could” be,
and if we the summon the faith
to take a leap into the reality,
causing the walls to collapse behind us,
we can leave our castles to erode into dust,
and land on our feet--
shaking, perhaps--
but ready to walk forward.

Monday, March 4, 2019

How Novels, Like News Stories, Grab Readers with the 5 W’s

            In revising the opening pages of my current YA manuscript, I reminded myself that the strongest first pages of novels should provide the same information found in a compelling TV or movie preview: a glimpse of an intriguing character (or two) with an implied back story, an interesting setting, and a vividly engaging point-of-view. Similarly, the first page of a novel, like the lead of a news story, should give the reader a sense of the Who, What, When, Where, and Why, with the promise that the story will unfold the How. But the “lead” of a novel should never turn into an information dump. The W’s should reveal themselves through implication. When authors resort to info-dump openings, they probably believe that readers require copious details for a clear understanding of the world they are entering, even though, ironically, the superfluous details actually muddy the readers’ perceptions. Authors who want to establish strong relationships with new readers should expect those readers to have the intelligence to discern the W’s within subtly and concisely crafted openings. Info dumps are, in a sense, condescending to readers.

            The following story openings, from some novels I’ve recently enjoyed, clarify the way carefully chosen details can reveal—or artfully conceal—enough W’s to keep us reading:  
(Links to buy each book listed below are available by clicking on the highlighted titles.)

        Dear Martin, by Nic Stone, begins: 
            “From where he’s standing across the street, Justyce can see her: Melo Taylor, ex-girlfriend, slumped over beside her Benz on the damp concrete of the FarmFresh parking lot. She’s missing a shoe, and the contents of her purse are scattered around her like the guts of a pulled party popper. He knows she’s drunk, but this is too much, even for her.
            “Just shakes his head, remembering the judgment all over his best friend Manny’s face as he left Manny’s house not fifteen minutes ago.”

WHO: Justyce, a young man (“he” indicates his gender, and the fact that he has an ex-girlfriend who can drive and has been drinking, suggests that he is not a kid). Melo, a possibly rich young woman (“Benz” suggests an expensive Mercedes Benz car) who is a reckless partier (given her drunken state) and still matters in some way to her ex, Justyce (“…this is too much, even for her. Just shakes his head…”).

WHAT:  Justyce seems to be contemplating a rescue of his ex-girlfriend, risking the disapproval of his best friend, Manny, whom we readers will surely meet since he’s important enough to mention in the opening.

WHEN: Contemporary time, due to modern diction, and references to a current car and store name. We can also guess that this scene takes place just after a rain (“damp concrete”).

WHERE: Urban or suburban neighborhood, suggested by a parking lot and a grocery store, and a neighborhood (where Manny lives) within a 15-minute drive.

WHY: Justyce is witnessing a dangerous situation—his ex-girlfriend might drive drunk—and that seems to compel him to play hero now.

            The Love & Lies of Rukhsana Ali, by Sabina Khan, opens:
            “No parties, no shorts, no boys. These were my parents’ three cardinal rules. But what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them, right? I quickly changed out of my NASA pajamas and into my favorite black crop top and dark blue vintage jeans, liking the way they accentuated my curves. According to my Mom no one needed to know that I had boobs, much less a belly button, except for me, Allah, and my future husband. Of course, the whole “no boys” rule was a moot point in my case, but fortunately my parents didn’t know about Ariana.”

WHO: A teenage girl named Rukhsana Ali (the title reveals her name, and her gender is revealed by the fact that she has “curves” and “boobs.” She is either into space exploration or astronomy or physics, or she is close to someone who has such interests, since she wears NASA (National Aeronautics and Space Administration) pajamas. She likes to show off her body—more than her strict, conservative parents do! She is likely Muslim, given the reference to “Allah.” And she is possibly a lesbian, unbeknownst to her parents, given her line: “the whole ‘no boys’ rule was a moot point in my case, but fortunately my parents didn’t know about Ariana.” We can infer from the word “fortunately” that the narrator believes that her parents would disapprove of her being gay.

WHAT: Rukhsana is a rule-breaker, about to sneak out of her house, possibly to a party where she will meet up with Ariana. This seems to be a story about a girl trying to be herself within the confines of a rigid home, where she is expected to marry a man and dress modestly.

WHEN: Modern times, given the narrator’s diction, her unflinching candor about being into girls, and the clothing style references. 

WHERE: A family home, with enough luxury that she can have a “favorite” top (so, in other words, not poor), and in a neighborhood (because parties are an option).

WHY: Rukhsana resorts to rule-breaking out of fear or respect for her parents and her Muslim background, and she rationalizes that she is deceiving them to keep from hurting them (“But what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them, right?”). She mentions “my future husband” because she knows her Mom’s expectation, and Rukhsana is acknowledging that she will have to break that rule along with the three much simpler ones that she lists in the first line. 

            Leah on the Offbeat, by Becky Albertalli, starts:
            “I don’t mean to be dramatic, but God save me from Morgan picking our set list. That girl is a suburban dad’s midlife crisis in a high school senior’s body.
            Case in point: she’s kneeling on the floor, using the keyboard stool as a desk, and every title on her list is a mediocre classic rock song. I’m a very tolerant person, but as an American, a musician, and a self-respecting human being, it is both my duty and my privilege to blanket veto that shit.”

WHO:A teenage musician, probably Leah, of the title, who ironically calls attention to her tendency to be dramatic by saying “I don’t mean to be dramatic….” She does not refer to herself as a “girl,” only as a “self-respecting human being,” but she does identify Morgan as “that girl…a suburban dad’s midlife crisis,” thereby acknowledging that Morgan is a “hot girl,” while revealing herself to be amusingly sarcastic and judgmental (even though she calls herself, ironically again, “tolerant”). She is not a “girly girl,” so to speak, and she uses coarse language, letting the reader know that she is not someone who censors herself. She also has very strong musical preferences and disdain for her band mate Morgan’s taste (we can infer that Morgan is a band mate because the narrator mentions “our set list”).

WHAT: The narrator is asserting her control over the musical choices and possibly starting a power struggle with Morgan, for whom she expresses disdain, but the reader may read between the lines to guess that Leah is jealous of her band mate.

WHEN: Today’s American suburban world, given the casual diction and the coarse language (“blanket veto that shit”).

 WHERE:The setting seems to be an American suburb, due to the reference to students as “seniors” (an American term for the final year of high school), and the word “suburban.” We can also surmise that the band mates are in some form of music practice room, because of the presence of a “keyboard stool.”

WHY: The conflict between the musicians is based not only on differences in musical taste, but possibly on an unstated jealousy between them.

            On the Come Up, by Angie Thomas, begins:
            “I might have to kill somebody tonight. 
            It could be somebody I know. It could be a stranger. It could be somebody who’s never battled before. It could be somebody who’s a pro at it. It doesn’t matter how many punch lines they spit or how nice their flow is. I’ll have to kill them….”
WHO: A narrator of any possible age or gender, who at first seems to suggest the possibility of homicide, but then reveals that the narrator is about to engage in a battle of words, possibly a rap battle (“how many punch lines they spit or how nice their flow is”). The narrator, we can assume, is not a “pro” because the narrator implies feeling intimidated by “somebody who’s a pro at it.” The narrator is someone very determined to win (“I’ll have to kill them”). 

WHAT: A verbal war is about to ensue, “tonight,” with unknown competitors.

WHEN: Contemporary time period, based on language (the casual use of “kill” to mean “defeat”). 

WHERE: No setting established yet, only a future setting is implied: possibly a club where a rap battle will take place.

WHY: The reader doesn’t know why the narrator is so determined to win, but the reiteration of the desire to “kill” compels us with the passion behind that repeated hyperbole.

has two openings, in essence, because the story has two narrators. So I will look at both Chapter One and Chapter Two as individual openings within the same novel.

            Chapter One: Adina
            “I used to think his touches meant nothing. We brushed arms in the hallway of his apartment, and I let myself believe the space was simply too narrow. Our hands tangled and I figured it was because we reached to turn the sheet music at the same time.”

WHO: Adina (probably female, given her name) is a musician (because she refers to turning “sheet music”), age unclear. She seems to suspect that the male musician, with whom she plays music, is intentionally touching her. We can’t be sure from this first paragraph whether she likes or dislikes the idea of physical contact with this man or boy. 

WHAT: Adina has been playing music with this male musician for a while (“I used to think…”), and she plays with him at his apartment.

WHEN: Not clear, could be almost any time period.

WHERE: Probably the USA or Canada, because of the reference to an “apartment,” rather than a “flat,” as such a home would be called in other English-speaking countries.

WHY: Adina is concerned because her relationship to the other musician seems about to change dramatically.

            Chapter Two: Tovah
            “I used to think being a twin meant I’d never be the center of attention. That I’d always share the spotlight with my sister or fight for control of it. For a long time, I didn’t mind sharing. I hid behind Adina while others praised her for her music, her poise, her looks.” 

WHO: Tovah, a twin who feels less important or worthy than her sister (“I hid behind Adina”), and is tired of that feeling (“For a long time, I didn’t mind sharing” implies that NOW she does mind). Tovah immediately mentions Adina in her introductory words to the reader, whereas Adina only mentions herself in the previous chapter’s opening. That says a lot about their respective feelings about each other. The fact that her tone sounds bitter in her reference to Adina’s “poise” and “looks,” suggests that they either are not identical twins and look different, or they are identical but insecure Tovah doesn’t see herself in Adina. 

WHAT:  Tovah expresses her jealousy (“others praised her for…”) and implies that she is about to step out of Adina’s shadow and assert herself. 

WHEN: Unclear time period.

WHERE: No setting, only a voice so far.

WHY: Tovah is fed up and feels the injustice of being ignored.

            The Power, by Naomi Alderman, opens with a literary conceit, a device that purposely plays with the reader. 
Alderman writes her book as if she is its editor, not its author--as a novel being presented to her for editorial feedback by a fictional person, “Neil Adam Armon,” which is an anagram of the real author’s name. The opening features a letter that accompanies the fictional manuscript.

                                                                        The Men Writers Association
                                                                        New Bevand Square
            Dear Naomi,

                        I’ve finished the bloody book. I’m sending it to you, with all its fragments and drawings, in the hope that you’ll give me some guidance or at least that I’ll finally hear the echo of it as I drop the pebble of this book down the well.
                        You’ll ask me first of all what it is. “Not another dry volume of history” was what I promised. Four books in I realize that no general reader can be bothered to wade through endless mounds of evidence, no one cares about the technicalities of dating finds and strata comparison. I’ve seen audiences’ eyes go blank as I try to explain my research. So what I’ve done here is a sort of hybrid piece, something that I hope will appeal more to ordinary people. Not quite history, not quite a novel….

WHO: A possibly British author-historian, suggested by the use of the word “bloody” and the style in which the date is written (we don’t learn his name until the end of the verbose letter). The writer is a man, clearly, representing “The Men Writers Association,” something that suggests a world outside of the USA, because writers are not separated by gender here, only by genre. His writing style is wordy and he even uses a run-on sentence in the letter, which suggests that he does indeed need the editorial assistance that he asks Naomi for in the opening line. Readers can also see that he is self-aware about how esoteric his research is because he acknowledges his awareness that “audiences’ eyes go blank as I try to explain my research.” 

WHAT: The researcher-historian is submitting his book to Naomi for guidance, after four revisions, with the hope of finally educating “ordinary people.” This isn’t the most compelling plot hook, but the hook lies more in the literary device that portrays Naomi Alderman as an editorial consultant for a fictional author’s nonfiction work, which she will share with us readers. The purposeful confusion of the reader keeps us reading to find out why the author chose this stylistic path.

WHEN: No time period is defined, and the diction only indicates a British style. Also, the fictional author-character seems to be sending with his letter to Naomi a hard copy of his manuscript (“with all its fragments and drawings”), rather than an electronic copy with scanned images, so these details do not define a particular time period. 

WHERE: He appears to be writing from an office.

WHY: The fictional author aims to educate as many people as possible with his research findings. 

             (The Power gets much more interesting--becoming a dystopian world masquerading as a factual account of a world overtaken by female power--as we start reading what the fictional Neil has deemed “not quite history, not quite a novel.” )

                        Deconstructing the opening lines of those five novels in terms of the typical journalistic “lead” illustrates that compelling fiction, like nonfiction, requires informing the readers, early on, of certain basic story elements. Rather than clearly “telling” these elements to readers, as journalists must do, fiction authors subtly SHOW the Who, What, When, Where, Why as a kind of preview of the story to come. Thus, novelists lure readers to travel along on the story arc and find out How the story will unfold. Now I challenge you to take a closer look at a novel that you have recently read or are currently reading—even one that you may be writing!


Wednesday, April 26, 2017


          #NationalPoetryMonth inspires me to add more poetry to both my own and my students' writing collections. So I use prompts with them that also move me to write what I assign. My students liked this, and I hope you will, too.

Inner Riot
(inspired by the poem "Harlem," by Langston Hughes)
by Susan L. Lipson

What happens to social outrage,
never acted upon?

Does it whirl around like a funnel cloud,
in search of captives to uplift and transport,
Or does it hover indecisively,
Then get blown out to sea?

Does it spark like twigs and logs,
carefully stacked and lit,
Or choke like embers
smothered by handfuls of sand?

Maybe it just gets buried,
like nuclear waste?

Or does it burn like a city set ablaze by rioters?

Monday, June 13, 2016

Underappreciated Resource for Fiction Writers

How The Bible Can Help Build Character—Fictional Ones, That Is…

If you want to study how to write multidimensional, realistically imperfect characters, with complex backstories and universally recognized flaws and attributes, look no further than the Hebrew Bible. Show me a flawless hero in the Five Books of Moses—I challenge you. And show me a reader of the Bible who can’t identify with at least one person depicted there, in some compelling, and possibly life-changing way.

Why, one might wonder, is a book designed to teach and serve as Law, replete with flawed examples of humanity? Some Bible readers would say that such questions are moot, applicable only to fiction; they would assert that the people of the Bible are not “characters,” but ancestors—real people—and they must be portrayed truthfully because the Bible is nonfiction, a historical record. Others, who read the Bible as historical fiction, might argue that the omniscient narrator point-of-view of realistically flawed characters allows readers to decide, based on their own perspectives, which characters to connect with as they read, and also to find new connections with each rereading as their own perspectives about life evolve over time. In either case, some readers might complain that it’s difficult to feel connected to, or even sympathetic toward, characters we would only emulate by being the opposite of them. I would point out to such readers that all of us read stories, in a way, to find and define ourselves, and every person can find aspects of their own character within the ultimate compendium of human traits known as the Bible.

  • If I want to portray a story of a nonconformist who follows only the supernatural stirrings within his own heart and soul, defying social norms to do so, because he knows somehow that he is right about society’s need for a new way of thinking, I need only study the story of Abraham. 

  • To create a complex tale of deception and extortion among family or friends, I can find material within the biblical scenes about blind Isaac; his scheming son, Jacob; his impulsive son, Esau; and their manipulative mother, Rebecca. 
  • For a novel centered on dangerous sibling rivalry that almost destroys a family and alters society itself, I could find source material in the ancient stories of Jacob and his twelve sons. 
  • To portray a boy whose deep friendship with another boy is gossiped about as “gay,” a boy who stands up for his friendship even if it means challenging authority, I need to study the Bible story of David and Jonathan—the original “bromance.” 

  • If I want to share a story of an outcast, morally corrupt young woman who redeems herself by risking her life for the sake of a greater social good, I can study the tale of Rahab, the prostitute, who saved a city from complete destruction. 

  • If I want to create a political tale of a paradoxically noble, yet self-centered leader whose downfall seems to be an addiction to sex, I could borrow from the story of King David (not to mention some recent historical figures).

  • And if I decide to depict a story of a boy with psychic gifts, good looks, and charisma, a boy who evokes as much bitter envy as he does awe, a boy who becomes victimized by the ones meant to protect him, and then uses his gifts to reverse his fortune change the world, that’s the story of Joseph, son of Rachel and Jacob.  

Etcetera… You get the idea. The archetypes of most multidimensional characters have already appeared in the world’s best-selling, longest-existing collection of tales of humanity. The bible is not just for religious study; it’s not just about laws and wars and punishments; it’s not just about obedience to God and warnings about defiance of commandments; the bible is the fountainhead of all humanity-based writing. Amen!

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

THE GAUNTLET, a short story by S. L. Lipson

          I still can’t believe Mimi’s here, in spite of Mother having tried to convince her yesterday, on the phone, to cancel her train ticket because “Lia’s not up to hosting visitors, no matter what she told you.” Mimi apparently argued with her because I heard Mother answer in a cold, snippety way, “Fine. Then you’ll just have to ‘hang out’ with your little cousin in our house—no outings. And don’t expect me to serve you like a guest, either; we’re all recovering here. Got it?” I guess Mimi got it, because I’m hanging out with her now, in my room. I can’t stop smiling.

I shudder slightly as Mimi tickles my eyelid with “midnight blue” eyeliner, to accentuate my blue eyes. “Stay still, Lia, or you’ll end up with major cat eyes!” She smiles as I giggle. “You know, I have to tell you,” she says, “I felt so bad after I mailed you the purple hair extension and then found out you had to have chemo and lose your hair again.”
“Don’t feel bad! I’ve been wanting to clip it into my wig to make it look cooler, and now that you’re here, you can show me how! It’s right there, in my top drawer, waiting for you.  Mother forced me to get this poofy, weird doll hair, and I hate it.”
“Well, to be honest, it’s not a wig I would have chosen.”
“I told her I wanted a natural hair wig, but she says they cost too much to use just for a temporary time.”
Mimi rolls her eyes. “She’s a freakin’ doctor…. Have you tried just not wearing a wig at all? Some female celebrities purposely shave their heads, right?” Mimi finishes my eyeliner and steps back to examine her handiwork.
“But I look weird bald. Mother says it makes people uncomfortable.”
“Show me.”
“No, it’s embarrassing.”
“Seriously? This is me you’re talking to.”
I hesitate, and then take off the wig. My new hair underneath is about a quarter-inch long now, very fine and light auburn, like the hair in my baby pictures, except I have pointy sideburns.
Mimi smiles. “It looks kind of punky, like you trimmed your sideburns that way. I like it.” She runs her palm over my head. “Soft, too, like a baby’s head. Nice.”
Grinning, I joke, “Maybe I could get a part in an alien movie, right? My sideburns look like Spock’s on ‘Star Trek’.” I hold up my hand in the form of Spock’s “Vulcan” greeting.

“Live long and prosper!” she says, like a Vulcan. The look in her eyes shows me that she is thinking about those words, as if they were a prayer for me, not just saying them. “Now give me your cute face so I can finish your eyes. You need a little mascara and some shadow. Then we’ll add a tiny bit of blush.”
She removes the packaging as I lean toward the mirror and study my eyeliner. Not too heavy, like some of the “scene kids” at school, but thick enough to make me look kind of…edgy, I guess. Especially because of the contrast with my vampire coloring. But I like the look. I feel cool. “Thanks for bringing me my own makeup, Mimi. I never would have been able to buy it myself. First, Mother wouldn’t give me the money for makeup. And second, I’d have no clue what to buy.”
Mimi shakes her head. “I still can’t believe you’ve never worn makeup.”
“I’ve never done a lot of things that girls my age do. Thanks to cancer.”
As she applies the rest of the eye shadow—pale pink on the lid and indigo in the crease—she says, “Well, I’m glad I could contribute to your proper teenage persona. I hope you’ll use it and feel beautiful.” She pauses, looking thoughtful. “Oh my gosh, I just remembered the first time I used mascara.” She smiles nostalgically. “I didn’t think the brush looked coated enough so I kept dipping it, and then my eyelashes looked all clumpy, and I tried to wipe some off, but then I smudged it all over, and I ended up looking like a raccoon!” She brushes the lightly coated mascara wand over my tiny lashes, holding her breath.
            When she moves out of my way so I can see my eyes in the mirror, I notice not my tiny lashes, but rather, the darkness of the “chemo rings” under my eyes. I mutter, “Speaking of looking like a raccoon…”
She notices, too, and blushes. “Darn, I didn’t bring you any concealer or base makeup. Sorry. I thought that would be too much for a first-time makeup wearer. I just brought what I use myself: eye makeup, blush, and lip gloss.” She rummages in the new makeup bag that she brought me, and pulls out the blush and lip color. “Turn toward me again. She brushes pink powder on my cheeks, and then instructs me to open my lips slightly as she holds the lip-gloss wand toward my mouth. She colors me like a work of art. “Okay, now turn around and look in the mirror. No one will notice the little bit of darkness under your eyes now. You look so pretty. See? Sooo pretty!”
            I see my exotic-looking eyes, cheeks with actual pinkness in them, and lips shining like pale, juicy plum flesh. I see a regular teenage girl, not a cancer patient. And I half-laugh, half-gasp. “Wow. I actually feel pretty.” 

Mimi sings, “I feel prettyyy, oh so prettyyy—’”
“I know that song! From ‘West Side Story,’ right?”
“Right! Remember the next line?” She waits for my reply, but I shake my head, so she sings, “I feel prettyyyy, oh so prettyyyy; I feel pretty and witty and gayyyy….” Then she smirks, and asks, “Did you realize that Maria was gay?”
“Yeah, right!” I laugh. “That song’s from the days when ‘gay’ meant ‘happy.’”
“Okay, how’s this one—just for you…” She waltzes around me, singing in a hilarious falsetto: “I feel prettyyy, oh so prettyyy, even though I feel SHITTY, oy vay!” She twirls at the end, and suddenly my bedroom door bursts open.
Mother stomps into the room, “What’s going on here? You call yourself a role model, Miriam?”
Mimi’s face has turned to stone. “I don’t call myself anything but Lia’s friend and cousin.”
Suddenly Mother looks at my face, all made up, and she erupts: “WHAT THE HELL IS ON YOUR FACE, LIA?” Before I can answer, she jerks her head toward Mimi, her eyes shooting daggers. “How dare you, Miriam! Don’t you know that makeup could be dangerous for her?! She’s got a weak immune system, for Chrissake! She could get an infection?! Why would she need makeup!” She thrusts her hand forward to ward off interjections. “And don’t tell me because her friends wear it. THEY aren’t sick! How DARE you do this without asking ME! Just like you set up this whole weekend visit with her, without asking ME whether she’d be up to such a visit in her condition! WHO KNOWS HER CONDITION BETTER THAN I DO? HUH, HERO? WHO!”
            We all hear Jason slam the front door, leaving the House of Chaos, as usual. Mother stiffens at the banging sound, and her nostrils flare over her pursed lips. Glaring at my pale face, she grasps my arm and turns me toward my mirror. “Look how pretty you look now, smart one! You’re a mess!” Mascara has dripped down my cheeks, and I look like one of the creepy, sad-clown paintings that Mother happens to love and collect. She growls at my reflection, “How could you be stupid enough to let someone put their makeup—and their germs—on you!”
“Mother, she bought me my own makeup—brand new!”
 “Oh, isn’t that sweet of your ‘cool cuz’?” Mother doesn’t look at Mimi (who is fighting tears, I notice). “Well, you listen to me, Miss Teenage Know-It-All: NO MAKEUP FOR YOU. Got it? If you want to look pretty so badly, put on your damn wig!” She picks up the wig from the dresser, and gritting her teeth, yanks it over my head. “There! Now go wash that crap off your face so you can look like a normal girl!” Mother storms out the way she came in, like a tornado.
I shut my door and whisper to Mimi, “Normal? Yeah, right.”
Mimi lifts off my wig, drops it on the bed, and rubs my head soothingly. We hug tightly till I pull away. “I need to wash my face,” I murmur. She sighs.
When I come out of the bathroom with a blank face, her eyes look fierce as she holds out the wig, with the beautiful strand of purple hair clipped in, and declares, “You’ve earned your stripe, Lia.” I nod and accept the wig as if it were a medal.

The End

Note: This short story is actually an excerpt from one of my forthcoming YA novels. Please leave feedback. Writing is about communicating, and I want to know whether my story has touched you in some way. Thanks.