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your mom tells you?”
    “Yes. Besides, I don’t see how painting my face is going to dramatically improve things for me at school.”
    “Nothing against your looks, honey. It’s just a fact of life. Women look better with makeup. I don’t care if you’re Elizabeth Hurley.”
    “Who?”
    The server delivered the check, and Aunt P immediately palmed it with her manicured fingertips as if I planned to take it first.
    “How about a makeover?” she suggested.
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Have it your way. You’re only hurting yourself.”
    She pushed her chair back from the table, leaving me alone with her depressing words.
     
    As if the day wasn’t bad enough, we had dry pork chops, undercooked broccoli, and an interrogation for dinner. Mom served large helpings of food, interjecting questions about the day with each forkful. My dad shoveled the dry meat and weed-like vegetable into his mouth. He said nothing, but heard everything.
    “Tell me about your first day of school? Was it fun?”
    “Mom, really. Give me a break,” my sister, Becca, said with a tone. “It’s school.”
    “That doesn’t mean it can’t be fun.”
    “My classes suck—”
    “Watch your mouth, young lady,” Mom interjected.
    Becca continued anyway. “There are no cute guys in any of my classes, and Mr. Hammond in Trigonometry is a total moron.”
    “I thought you had a boyfriend.” I prodded the meat with the prongs of my fork.
    Becca glared at me.
    I didn’t want to debate Becca’s social life, so I forced a clump of broccoli into my mouth and looked away.
    “What about you, Noelle? Did you have a nice day?”
    “Great.” I chewed the undercooked sprig.
    “Good.” She turned to her plate, either not noticing or ignoring the sarcasm. “By the way, I made an appointment at Celine’s for you on Thursday. I thought it would look nice if you added some curl to your hair. It would give you some personality like Rebecca.”
    I let my fork drop and slunk back in my chair. Her words stung me. The poison of them spilled through my system. She noticed.
    “God, mom. Perms are so 1980s,” Becca chided.
    If I had said God in our oh-so-Catholic household, I would have been subjected to temporal punishment. But it was Becca. So…nothing.
    “I just meant that it would give you a different look.”
    Right.
    “May I be excused?”
    “You haven’t finished your dinner.”
    “I don’t feel well.”
    She looked skeptical. “When you’re finished.”
    “But I think it was the macaroni and cheese I had for lunch.”
    Mom ignored me, so I looked across the table. “Dad?”
    He nodded his approval through his pork chops. After walking out of the room, I heard the muted sounds of my parents’ discussion. Mom’s voice echoed loudly. “What? You’re undermining my authority now?”
    “I’m not undermining your authority.”
    “Then what do you call it?”
    By the time I reached my room and locked the door, their words slurred together like a foreign language. I plunged into the bed, thumbed through an art book, and eventually fell asleep. What a remarkable first day of sophomore year.
     
    Drama was my favorite class of the day. That is, until Trina and Jamie—the Iago and Puck of the high school stage— showed up.
    Grace and I tethered ourselves to the back row while Grace rummaged through a bag of beaded friendship bracelets she had made.
    “Look.” Grace nudged me.
    “I see.” My tone was less than enthusiastic.
    Acting I with Father Dodd. He possessed the nervous energy of a poodle, dancing around the stage, waiting for the bell. He wore his collar, but tried to mask the fact that he was a priest by donning gentle weaves of blonde in his sandy hair. He worked hard to be youthful and hip, but the truth remained that he was still an un-hip priest. I felt certain he missed his true calling: a struggling Hollywood actor who belonged in the depths of the Los Angeles lifestyle.
    The bell rang.
    “All right, budding actors.