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Lyla

“ C ome on, Lyla,” my cousin, Hazel, chides as she attempts to put winged eyeliner on me. I really don’t want eyeliner on—or the crazy heels she strapped on my feet, the dress that feels vacuum-sealed to my body, or the fact she spent an hour curling my hair.

Okay, the hair looks good, but still. The point stands. All of this is too much for me.

The only problem? I’m no good at saying no. And Hazel has been begging me for a makeover for months. I sigh and shrug—which she (accurately) takes as acceptance. She gives a little high-pitched squeal and leans into my face to apply the eyeliner.

What should one do when another person is leaning their entire body weight on one’s face?

Like, should I stop breathing? Keep talking and pretend this is normal?

Because it’s not normal for someone else’s hand to be squashing my cheek into my nose while she draws on my face with an overpriced marker.

The scent of Hot Cheetos she consumes like it’s her job fills my senses as she continues to chatter on about the night.

Maybe holding my breath is a good thing.

It’s the first time in a long while I’ve agreed to go out with Hazel so she’s really packing it in tonight.

She’s dragging me to an open mic night at The Miami Improv to see some guy she met in acting class.

“I’m telling you, he’s hilarious ,” she says, leaning even closer to me as she applies the winged tip to my eyeliner.

I practically have to cross my eyes to see her, she’s so close.

“I literally spit out my drink when he told me a joke on Tuesday.”

“I’m sure it’ll be great,” I say, though I have my doubts.

Hazel isn’t exactly a great judge of character.

She’s the closest thing I have to a sister though so I try to keep an eye on her as much as possible.

Our moms are sisters, but Hazel’s mom is the fun aunt—she was the one who would let us have sleepovers where we could eat junk food, stay up late watching movies, make unicorn slime and generally do all the things that my Marine Corps parents would never let me do at home.

Being an only child of two high-ranking military officers is a challenge at times, but Hazel made it bearable.

So here I am, letting her dress me up like her own life-size doll and follow her around Miami while she chases after a guy who will probably break her heart.

After the Improv, we’re supposed to head to Ball someone who’s confident enough to make a joke (out loud) or make eye contact with a hot guy . . . well, that doesn’t sound altogether bad.

“Alright,” I say, barely above a whisper—and Hazel screams, clapping her hands.

Layla, here I come.

Heaven help me.