Free Mixed Bags by Melody Carlson Page A

Eliza’s sandals and pink-polished toenails were perfect. Picture perfect.
    “Let’s start with the hat,” said Eliza, snatching off DJ’s Dodgers cap to reveal her mousy brown roots and hair that was in need of a good long shampoo. Eliza made a face as she tossed the cap to the floor. “DJ,” she said in a scolding tone. “What is up with that hair?”
    “I know…it’s dirty.”
    “Dishwater blonde and dirty.”
    DJ didn’t say anything. She just looked down at her scuffed up blue and white Nikes—a leftover pair from JV volleyball, back before her mom died.
    “And your clothes. Do you even look in the mirror?” She forced DJ’s chin up with her hand. “Can you see yourself?”
    DJ looked at herself now. She saw a flush-faced girl in dowdy clothes and greasy hair the color of—what had Eliza called it? Dishwater? Ugh, that did sound terrible.
    “I’m a mess,” she admitted.
    “They say acceptance is the first step to recovery.” Eliza shook her head in a dismal way. “But I have feeling you’re going to need the whole twelve-step program.”
    “What’s that?”
    “A joke. It’s a joke.” Eliza leaned forward now and peered closely at DJ’s skin. “What do you use to wash your face?”
    “Soap?”
    “What kind of soap?”
    “The kind that’s in the shower.”
    Eliza’s brows shot up. “You use shower soap on your face ?”
    “Soap is soap, isn’t it?”
    But Eliza’s expression suggested otherwise. In fact, if DJ hadn’t known better, she might’ve assumed that Eliza thought she’d been washing her face with laundry detergent or maybe Lysol.
    “Soap is soap, DJ,” she said in a tightly controlled voice. “But soap is not for the face.” She pointed to DJ’s nose. “Can you see those blackheads?”
    DJ felt alarmed. “You mean like pimples?” She leaned closer to peer at her nose and did notice there were tiny black spots on it. Maybe she’d thought those were freckles. She’d always thought it would be cool to have freckles.
    “That’s where pimples begin, DJ. And you need to cleanse them properly and not with some harsh soap.” She let out a long sigh. “Where do I begin?” Then she looked at her watch again. “We don’t quite have an hour.”
    “Maybe this is a mistake,” said DJ. “I’m sorry I—”
    “No, this is not a mistake. Trust me, DJ, this is not a mistake. It’s just that it’s a challenge. A really big challenge.” She pushed DJ’s shoulders back. “Stand up straight, please. Posture is as important as exfoliating.”
    “Exfo-what-ing?”
    “Never mind.” Eliza stood right next to DJ now, as if comparing their images in the mirror, which DJ felt was not only unkind, but unfair.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Trying to figure out if we’re the same size. It looks close. What size are you anyway?”
    “For what?”
    “Everything. What size do you wear?”
    “Well, for tops, I’m like a medium.”
    “A medium? I mean what number size.”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Well, you don’t look like a medium, that’s for sure. But then everything I’ve seen you in is too baggy anyway. You probably are wearing medium, but you should be wearing small.”
    “I don’t like things being too tight.”
    “How about your pants? You must know what size jeans you wear. I’m guessing a four…maybe a six.”
    “More like six.”
    “Don’t tell your grandmother, but I am too. And it looks like we’re about the same height. Are you about five foot nine?
    “Five ten.” DJ stood straighter.
    “Well, you never wear heels. It’s hard to tell.”
    DJ thought that made no sense. Wasn’t it harder to tell how tall people were who wore heels?
    “Speaking of heels, what size shoe do you wear?”
    “Nines.”
    “Hey, me too.”
    “Great,” said DJ in a voice totally lacking in enthusiasm. She felt more pathetic than ever just now. It really was hopeless. Standing next to Eliza, all she could see were her flaws. She leaned over to stare at her nose