“Because I’m your friend. Nobody has naturally pretty eyebrows. If you’d tweeze them, your eyes would look bigger. Your eyes are your best feature.”
“Okay,” Mary said.
“It helps if you put an ice cube on them first,” Angela said. “Wait a minute.”
She had a small refrigerator in her room. She took an ice cube out of the tray, shaking her hands to get the flecks of ice off, putting the tray on the rug.
“Don’t drip it in my lipgloss,” Angela said, pushing one of the little pots to the back of the vanity. “You don’t have to freeze your skin pink, either. Just hold it there about ten seconds. Give it to me,” Angela said. Angela took it back to the tray and put the tray in the refrigerator.
“Just do one at a time,” she said. “Pluck mostly in the middle.”
“Now I’ll always have to pluck my eyebrows.”
“So?” Angela said. “You want to, anyway.”
“Shit,” Mary said.
“You didn’t freeze it enough,” Angela said.
“That ice felt gross. Forget it.”
“There it is,” Angela said. “I told you.”
Angela’s mother called up the stairs to Angela. Angela walked across the room and picked up the phone on her night table. “Hi,” she said. “Who’s this?… I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Blondie,” Angela said. “Do you want me to bring it?”
“I’ll think about it,” Angela said. “If I do come, do you want me to bring Blondie?”
“Maybe,” Angela said. “What time are people getting there?”
“Mary might come with me,” Angela said. “If we come.”
When she hung up, she gave Mary a smug smile. Tears were pouring down Mary’s cheeks — mostly the pain of pulling hairs, but also a sudden flash of embarrassment that she was always tagging along with Angela, and Angela was so much prettier; she was the one the boys wanted at their parties. She went on plucking because she thought she should look good for Angela — Angela would stop bringing her along to the parties if she started thinking she was hopeless.
“I bet he was really happy when you said I was coming,” Mary said, sorry for herself.
“Listen,” Angela said. “You’re not going to believe this, but do you know what I read in Cosmopolitan? That one night Marisa Berenson and Diane von Furstenberg, before she was Diane von Furstenberg, were in Paris and they didn’t have dates for New Year’s Eve. Can you believe it? They were sitting around feeling sorry for themselves, and then the two of them went off to a party together, and years later Diane von Furstenberg married Egon von Furstenberg, and look at how famous Marisa Berenson is.”
“I’m not going to be famous,” Mary said.
“So?” Angela said. “You can still marry somebody rich. You have to look good, though. To be honest with you, you’ve got to tweeze out another whole line of hairs.”
“Do you think you’re going to be famous?”
“I think so,” Angela said. “I don’t know as what. My grandmother’s getting me singing lessons in the fall. I might join a band.”
“I can’t believe you’d do that,” Mary said.
“Why not?”
“But you can’t sing.”
“So? I’m taking singing lessons. If you’re pretty, you only have to sing halfway good. I mean, if everybody’s singing together, it’s not like you’ve got to sound like Judy Collins, Mary.”
“I don’t like the way she sounds anyway.”
“Well, then think of somebody you do like, and you don’t have to sing as good as she does. You ought to think about it. There are all-woman bands, you know. I just read about one that played at the Mudd Club.”
“I’m not as pretty as you,” Mary said.
“You’ve got beautiful eyes and beautiful hair. You just don’t spend any time working on yourself. You should take some of my duplicate cosmetics and spend more time learning to make up your eyes.”
“What time is the party?”
“Eight o’clock. I don’t want to get there before eight-thirty, though. And if he’s with another girl when we walk in, we walk out. But I’ll bet he isn’t. I’ll bet he’s waiting for me.”
“How can you be so self-assured?”
“Because I know I look good,” Angela said. “I wouldn’t go over there without any make-up, in this baggy pair of jeans, you know. Did you see the Chemin de Fer jeans my grandmother bought me? I have to lie down to zip them up. Size seven.”
“You showed me. They’re really beautiful.”
“So?” Angela said. “You should get a pair.”
“I wouldn’t look the way you do. You walk right. I don’t know how to walk like that.”
“You think people just know how to walk? You learn to do it.”
“How did you learn?”
“You have to have limber legs. See where that picture’s hanging over there? I stand beside it and kick as high as the bottom of the frame fifty times every night before I go to bed. You have to have really limber legs to wear those jeans, because they’re so tight it’s hard to move in them.”
“I don’t want to go to the party,” Mary said.
“Oh. Great. We sit around half the day waiting for the phone to ring, and I say I’m bringing you, and you decide you don’t want to go. Pluck your other eyebrow.”
“My mother is really going to be mad.”
“If she is, then she’s trying to hold you back.”
“What’s so great about Lloyd Bergman? I can’t understand why you think it’s so cool to get a hickey. He’s not that good-looking.”
“I like the way he looks. He looks like an intellectual.”
“Did you see James Taylor on television?” Mary said. “I don’t know how Carly Simon could be married to him. He has his hair cut like a prisoner. He sings okay, but he looks really old now. Carly’s cool.”
“Should I wear this T-shirt or this one?” Angela said. “The red one’s tighter.”
“Wear that.”
“I guess so.”
“Did you see Bobby Pendergast in his Mr. Bill T-shirt? I wonder if he knows Mr. Bill looks like him?”
“He is so nowhere,” Angela said. “I can’t even believe that Lloyd likes him. I hope he isn’t there tonight.”
“If he is, I’m not talking to him.”
“Well, you shouldn’t,” Angela said. She was putting on a brassiere. “I love brassieres that hook in the front. I think they’re so sexy.”
“Rod Stewart gave all the money he’s earning from that song to some charity,” Mary said.
“God,” Angela said. “Did you see that picture of him at Ma Maison with Alana Hamilton? She’s so beautiful, I can’t even believe she was married to George Hamilton. You know what my mother told me? That he used to go out with the President’s daughter.”
“What President’s daughter?”
“Julie Nixon, I think.”
“I can’t believe that,” Mary said.
“There’s this picture of Julie Nixon and David Eisenhower when they were little kids, standing together. They knew each other all those years. It’s a famous picture. I think Nixon and Eisenhower are both in it.” Angela adjusted her brassiere. “I can’t even believe that people get married without even living with each other. Maybe if you’re the President’s daughter you have to. Then secret service agents live in your house with you. I’d hate that.”
“They do not. They live across the street.” Mary had finished the other eyebrow. “How do I look?” she said. “Can I wear the blue T-shirt if you’re not?”
“Here,” Angela said, draping the T-shirt on the piano stool. “And take a drink of this, too, so that when you show up you say something.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s vodka. What does it look like? It doesn’t have any smell. I read about this model who uses it like an astringent, after her shower.”