Free Mayne Attraction: In The Spotlight by Ann Mauren Page A

day.
That was good because it would make it easier to hide in plain
sight.
    Just before the closing credits, Samantha
and I made our way to the restroom, ostensibly to get ahead of the
crowd, and hopefully to enter the handicap stall in the back
together without being noticed. From her cartoonishly large black
bag (inside which I literally could have hidden) she pulled out a
wig that had evidently been part of an Elvira costume in better
days and the equivalent of a doctor’s lab coat in black. She had
also packed her thigh high platform boots, which took me from five
feet even to something like five-eight or nine. I should have built
in some practice time with those; it was like walking on
stilts.
    She wrapped a black belt with silver metal
studs around my waist and cinched it to the very last hole. It
still hung a little loose. Next she got to work on my makeup. First
was an expertly applied pale white foundation followed by tracings
around my eyes with a kohl pencil that looked like the fat black
crayons they use in kindergarten. To this she added a number of
heavy strokes of mascara and some insanely blue metallic-sheen
lipstick. Next came the clip-on version of Goth jewelry. Good for
trying out the look without committing to those pesky multiple body
piercings, she explained. It clipped onto my nose and was connected
by a stainless steel link chain to a row of studs that extended all
the way up the edge of my left ear. Finally she positioned the wig
and my new look was complete. I timed the transformation. She had
done it in just under five minutes.
    The line to the women’s room was winding out
the door by now—another movie had let out. Someone who had observed
me enter, but who wasn’t paying close attention, might assume that
I had been held up by the crowd, or that the six-dollar chilidog I
had purchased from the concession stand on my way in this afternoon
was now making me pay again on its way out.
    Samantha and I proceeded to the sinks. She
was gushing. I was astounded. Sam and some other scary looking
person were standing there looking back at us. No wonder I never
wore makeup! It was like having an out of body experience. I was
tall and dark and...weird!
    “Sam, you’re a genius. A true artist.”
    I had to admit it.
    “See? It feels awesome, doesn’t it?” she
replied.
    It really did. I didn’t even need to be
embarrassed because no one knew it was me. It was totally
liberating. I needed to tone down the happiness because it was at
odds with the style.
    “Are you ready, gorgeous?” she asked.
    “Who me? Uh, yeah, you bet!” I replied,
partly jazzed and partly horrified.
    We exited the Ladies’ Room and made our way
across the lobby to a bench where the others of our species were
gathered. They each exhibited an amusing yet predictable amount of
surprise and curiosity as we approached. Sam was triumphant as she
announced, “Ladies, I’d like you to meet Kit, my cousin from Great
Britain.”
    The effect of this news was comical to watch
as it sunk in. For these girls, the UK was like the holy land of
culture and fashion. This revelation of my origin seemed to clear
away the logical question I’m sure they had been preparing to ask,
namely “Where did you come from?” and replaced it with “Is there a
magical wormhole that links Tinseltown and London in the bathroom,
and which stall is that…exactly?”
    They wanted to know important things like
which concerts I had been to at Wembley Stadium and whether I ever
saw anybody famous at Heathrow. As if my life in London was spent
exclusively hanging around at the airport or waiting for outdoor
concerts to begin.
    In my best BBC World Service accent I
explained that most recently I’d spied the lead singer of Future
Sellouts in the British Airways section of Terminal One and that
the Worthy Faux concert was absolutely to die for. They had no idea
what I was talking about, but it sounded appropriately cool, and
they nodded with enthusiasm.
    When