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I was having trouble being in the wings, let alone take center stage.

It wasn't going to be much longer before the curtain opened and I would find out.

4 Craig Harrison

. Despite how much I knew it pleased everyone in my family, I couldn't help feeling like a fraud in my new clothing. The brighter colors, form-fitting, expensive garments and new shoes were a radical change for me. Part of me had to admit that I did look more attractive, but as before, that thought, that possibility, made me nervous, even frightened. I knew what was going to happen the moment the spring break was over and I stepped onto the school bus and then into the building. Everyone's eyes would be drawn to me, and who knew what terrible things they would come up with now? It would be impossible for me not to be very self-conscious.

I did wear my new clothes to every restaurant, and I even wore something new for our dinners at home. As if she had been a bull and I had been wearing red all this time, Rachel did seem to become friendlier and less concerned about me after I dressed in my new, brighter and less baggy clothing. It was more like I had come over to her side, the side where a woman's femininity mattered the most. I was surprised and even a bit shocked one night when she came up to my room with her makeup kit and offered to show me how to highlight my good features.

"Now that you're dressing better, there are other things you should do. It's important that you complement one advantage with another and keep it all well balanced," she said, standing there just inside my doorway.

For a moment I didn't know what to say. Was this the same woman who seemingly couldn't stand my shadow nearby, much less my actual person? Was this the same woman who seemed to ration every look at me, every word spoken to me? Why would anything involving me suddenly become important to her? Of course, my mind flailed about, searching for some ulterior evil motive.

Maybe she wanted to turn me into a

promiscuous young girl so she could say, "See, I told you so."

Maybe she hoped I would get into trouble like my mother had and be taken away or sent away.

Maybe this was all being done against my father's wishes and my compliance would do more to turn him against me, which was what she always wanted.

Maybe she hoped I would reject her so that she could then say, "I tried to be decent to her but she's too far gone."

I didn't see that I had much choice.

"Thank you," I told her, and she came in and set up her makeup kit on my vanity table, first clearing away the books. I had never really used the table for anything more than a place to do my homework. Unlike most of the girls at school, I ran a brush through my hair in less than a minute and more than one time started out for school with remnants of breakfast at the corners of my mouth or on my chin.

"Sit here," she told me, pulling out the chair.

I did, and for a few seconds she stared at me in the mirror. From the expression on her face, I thought she might just close the makeup kit and say, "There's not much we can do." Instead, she played with my hair, then picked up the brush and changed the way the strands lay. It was mostly haphazard, but she gave it some style with only a few firm strokes.

"You see what I'm doing here?" she asked. "Yes."

"Just let it grow for a while, but keep this style. It suits your shaped face. You look a lot like an actress we know in Los Angeles, a young actress."

No one had ever compared me to an actress or a model, not even my grandfather.

"There are some very basic things about makeup that you should know," she continued and began to show them to me. She demonstrated how I should highlight my eyes. At that point came the most shocking thing of all. "You have Jesse's eyes," she admitted.

She didn't sound upset about it, and it. wasn't said in anger. She was very matter-of-fact.

"He has beautiful eyes," she continued.

I don't think I moved a muscle or took a breath. My heart might have actually paused, every part of me, every organ in my body waiting for some second shoe to drop, some horrid afterthought, but none came.

"That's what attracted me to him first," she added. "Now then," she continued, "because you spend so much time indoors, you're a little pale, so some of this on your cheeks can't hurt."

She showed me how to brush in the makeup, blending it, and then she went on to lipstick. I did have some, but it was dry and she said the color not only didn't do anything for me but it actually detracted from my looks.

"You don't want to turn your lips into a headlight. Subtlety is the key to everything, Alice. All a face like yours needs are some suggestions here and there. Think of everything like a finger pointing out this aspect or that and nothing more. Most girls your age overdo it. Their faces shout, and just like you don't want to be in a room with someone shouting at you, you don't want to be looking at them as if you were looking into a spotlight."

She stepped back to look at me.

"Well?" she asked me. "What do you think of yourself now?"

"I ... it's nice," I offered, and she laughed.

"No, Alice; it's not nice. It's beautiful. Jesse is always looking at this girl or that one in California and saying things like, 'She's so beautiful, she should have to register like someone has to register a firearm.' He's going to say that about you, too."