The Truth About a Lie I Told

(For the S-Project)

I was a very little girl the day it happened. I couldn’t have been more than 5 or 6 years old. My much adored older sister was out, who knows where, and there sitting on her vanity like a personal invitation was her make-up bag, half-open with colorful bottles and tubes spilling out.

Even at that age, I loved make-up. My sister, who had a habit of spoiling me rotten, had occasionally purchased bonnie bell lip smackers for me. Our mother wasn’t crazy about the idea of giving a five-year-old any make-up whatsoever, even something as innocuous as glorified chapstick, but she let it pass. In delight, I smothered my lips with cherry flavored lip smackers and made kissy faces in the mirror while my older sister looked on in amusement. But bonnie bell aside, I yearned to wear makeup like Faithie did.

And here was the perfect opportunity. I was well aware that Faithie might object to me using her make-up. Though she was very generous with her allowance and baby-sitting money, I thought she was awfully stingy with her personal possessions. Her reaction to finding me playing in her Candies pumps taught me quickly to keep my hands off her stuff. So, I reasoned to myself, if I were to use her make-up, I’d have to be very careful and put it right back where I found it.

I stared at the counter for a very long time trying to memorize exactly where each tube and container lay on the counter. If I misplaced even one little tube, I knew I’d be in trouble, and I loved Faithie so much that it truly hurt when she was angry with me. Plus she might tell Mom, and Mom, whatever her faults with regard to little girls and make-up, respected other people’s space. There would be no spinning this in my favor. Such an endeavor required stealth, and I felt up to the challenge.

Gingerly, I picked up a plastic case containing blue eyeshadow and opened it. The applicator was smudged blue on both sides, so it wouldn’t matter which side of the wand I used. I rubbed the applicator in the shadow, then applied it to my eyelids, just like I’d watched Faithie do countless times. Next was blusher-great big cherry colored splotches on the apples of my cheeks. I followed that with a pinky-red lipstick. Smack. Blot. I finished it off with two coats of pink nail polish. This was less satisfactory as I couldn’t get the polish to go on smooth, the way Faithie’s did. Instead it looked grainy and lumpy, but it was still pink. And pink, I reflected, was much prettier than no nail polish at all even if it wasn’t perfect. I surveyed myself in the mirror.

I was beautiful.

The only thing missing was my tiara, because I truly was a princess. Problem was, there was no tiara anywhere to be found in the whole house. I improvised. My mother had a cheap set of red plastic beads in her jewelry box she let me play with sometimes. I liked to wear them and pretend they were rubies. That day I draped them over my tangled hair and pretended they were a ruby crown. I glided from room to room, haughtily acknowledging my subjects (e.g. my dolls).

I lost track of time. All too soon, Faithie was home. I yanked Mom’s beads off my head, taking a few fine blonde hairs with it, and ran to Faithie’s room to ensure the make-up looked the same as it had when she’d left that afternoon. Satisfied that I’d done a good job covering my tracks I sat down in my bedroom and began playing with my dolls.

Faithie went into her bedroom and emerged a moment later, holding her make-up bag and glowering at me. “You were in my make-up, weren’t you?” she accused.

Indignantly, I denied it. “Everything is right where you left it,” I replied solemnly.

She looked at me disbelievingly. “You’re telling me you weren’t in my make-up?” she asked shaking the bag at me.

Just then Mom walked into the room and looked from me to Faith and back again. “Betsy,” she said, “why were you in your sister’s make-up?”

I then did what I always did when under great pressure as a child. I cried. Between great gulping sobs I denied again that I’d been in her make-up, pointed out that it was exactly where Faithie’d left it and how come I always get blamed for every thing and no way was I anywhere near Faithie’s stupid make-up.

“You’re WEARING it!” Faith exclaimed impatiently, interrupting me.

For just a moment, I stopped crying. It hadn’t occurred to me that anyone would see the make-up on my face. It seemed impossible that I didn’t think of that, but clearly I didn’t. I looked up at Faithie, and at the anger etched across her face, burst into tears again. My sister was mad at me and I knew she’d never love me again and I deserved it. I was bad and mean and awful. I cried and cried and cried for hours till Faithie came over and curled up next to me.

“You know I still love you, don’t you, squirt?” she said sweetly, wiping my hair out of my face and tapping the tip of my tear-stained nose.

“You do?” I said, sniffling.

“I really do,” she replied. “But you have to stay out of my stuff, okay?”

I nodded and snuggled next to her. And I never got into her stuff ever again.

That very last sentence was a lie.