Free Bulletproof Mascara: A Novel by Bethany Maines Page B

want to hear about getting arrested first.”
    “So, what happened?” pursued Ellen.
    “I told you. We went to lunch. And besides, he’s not at all related to the getting arrested thing.” Or was he? Canada and Carrie Mae were all sort of bundled together in her memory, and it was hard to say that they weren’t related.
    “Right,” said Jenny. “And there is no way that lunch is going to be more interesting than getting arrested. So I want to hear about that. You can finish up the Canada story after the ‘getting arrested’ story.”
    “I think I bought some Girl Scout cookies last time we went to the store,” Ellen muttered, still rummaging. “OK, jail it is then. Like sand through the hourglass, these are the days of Nikki’s life.” She pulled out the box and offered the opened end to the other two girls. Nikki accepted her cookie and thought about where to start her story.

CANADA (WELL, WA)
    The Lipstick Incident
    Nikki looked at her hands. The handcuffs were very shiny, just like the remains of her nail polish. She regarded her three torn nails with sorrow—now she would have to clip all the nails to make them even. She looked up and caught sight of herself in the presumably two-way mirror. Her hair was in complete disarray and had grass and a twig sticking out of it. She reached up and removed the twig and grass with her left hand; the handcuffs dragged her right hand across her face in a tangled display of uncoordination. She laid the grass and twig neatly on the table in front of her. She made an ineffectual pat at her hair, but gave up in indifference. She sighed and studied the blade of grass. It was green with a slight vein down the middle. The police detective came back into the room, and Nikki straightened up in her chair.
    “So, Miss Lanier,” he said, pronouncing it like LANE -e-er.
    “Lanier,” she corrected automatically, and then regretted it instantly.
    “What?” he said.
    “Lan-yay,” she said miserably. “It’s pronounced Lan-yay.”
    “It would be,” he responded enigmatically. Nikki tried a smile, but knew it was a miserable attempt. “I don’t suppose you would care to explain this whole affair?” He flipped open a manila file folder and looked over the contents.
    “Temporary insanity?” Nikki suggested with another half-smile.
    “Well, yes, that does seem likely,” said the detective, clearly examining her disheveled appearance. “But I assume you didn’t go to that house intending to assault anyone.”
    “Well, no,” said Nikki hesitantly. “I think maybe I . . . I just sort of snapped.”
    The house had been all red brick and white paint. Four structurally useless “Grecian” pillars had adorned the front porch and lent an impressive air to the semicircular drive that took up most of the front lawn. Nikki had a sinking feeling when she had seen that house, but Toni, her mother’s friend, had exclaimed in admiration, “Isn’t that cute?” Toni thought a lot of things were cute. Toni sold candles and knickknacks that Nikki wouldn’t have kept in her closet. Nikki had sighed and agreed. Toni was being nice. Toni was doing Nikki—well, really Nikki’s mother—a favor by bringing her along.
    “Now, remember, Nikki, just let them try everything and agree with whatever they say and you’ll sell a bundle. These women like personal treatment.”
    “I went to sell Carrie Mae with Toni,” Nikki told the detective. The words were not coming readily to her tongue. “My mother won a starter kit,” she explained. She didn’t want the detective to think she sold Carrie Mae for real . “And I haven’t been able to find a job, and my mother kept saying I could make money with it, andher friend Toni said she’d take me along on one of her trips. She said it would be easy.”
    “I see,” said the detective in a bored tone. “So you went to the house to sell makeup with Toni?”
    “They were everywhere!” said Nikki, her voice coming out in a