Two things I remember from that summer: the goose bumps that rose up instantaneously on my bare arms and legs when I stepped from the soggy heat of the sidewalk into the artificial coolness of Woolworth's, and the almost-to-the-point-of-pain craving I felt every time I stood in Woolworth's makeup department. My best friend, Nadine, and I yearned for every rainbow-coloured tray of eye shadow, every pot of rouge, every shiny bottle of nail polish, that filled that aisle. We studied the shades of lipstick, whispering their names aloud, like we were preparing for an exam: Hearts Aflame, Scarlet Temptation, Luscious Melon.
       We were thirteen, and neither of us was allowed to wear makeup yet. We prayed for our mothers to go blind so we could look like tarts.
       One Tuesday in mid-August while we were swooning over the lipsticks again, a customer at the cash register behind us accidentally knocked a perfume bottle off the counter. I turned and watched the amber puddle spread across the floor.
       While the saleslady chirped for someone to come clean it up, the customer, a heavy-set woman with cement-coloured skin, complained loudly to the air. "They want your money alright, they just don't want to give you any room to get at it. All these bottles crowded together up here - it's an invitation to disaster. That's what it is - an invitation." She waved a jar of Vaseline around as she spoke.
       Her braying drew the old ladies over from the lunch counter, where they abandoned their bowls of Jell-O to come see what the ruckus was about.
       When the crowd became embarrassing, and the sickly sweet smell nauseating, Nadine hissed, "Let's get out of here."
 

       On our way home Nadine stopped midway across the bridge and tugged her t-shirt free of the waistband of her shorts. A white tube of lipstick dropped out into her cupped hand. I gaped at her while she tore off the cellophane and dropped it casually over the railing. We watched it flutter down and land on the silver-flecked water below.
       "You stole it?" The thought made me dizzy.
       "It's only stealing if it's for yourself."
       Nadine uncapped the lipstick and twirled the tube. A bright pink column, the colour of bubble gum, appeared.
       "Who's it for then?"
       "My mom."
       A week before summer vacation started, Nadine's dad had moved out. It was because he had a girlfriend. Since then Nadine's mom had dyed her hair blonde and started wearing make-up.
 

       Nadine's house was two doors down from ours and whenever my mom caught sight of Nadine's newly blonde mom through the window, she'd click her tongue and say, "Someone ought to tell her she's better off without him. Good riddance to bad rubbish." A tiny thrill went through me every time I heard her say it.
       I watched Nadine recap the lipstick, then shove it in the back pocket of her cut off jeans.
       "Someone ought to tell your mom she's better off without him. Good riddance to bad rubbish." Not until the words were out of my mouth did I realize I had wanted to say them all summer. They felt grown-up, and more than anything else then, I wanted to be grown-up.
       Nadine jerked away, her arms and legs as stiff as a soldier's, but not before I saw her eyes start to shine. She walked fast; I followed with my eyes fastened on the cylindrical-shaped bulge the lipstick made in her denim pocket. The whole way home she was silent.
       When we got to Nadine's, she veered off the sidewalk and cut across the grass. I knew I had to get her to say something before she launched herself up the three steps and disappeared inside. I yelled the only thing I could think of. "What's it called?" Meaning the lipstick.
       She hesitated, then turned back. "Innocence."
       For one taunt second we were silent, then our laughter bubbled up and overflowed like a fountain.
       "Innocence!" we shouted, volleying the word back and forth between us like something too hot to hold.  

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about the author:
Lori Bloomfield lives in Toronto, Canada. Her work has appeared in: lichen, Labour of Love, TRANSITION and paperplates.  

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