Pegasus2002

The Makeup Artist
Nicole Walker
Second Place, Prose
Harris County High School

Ivanka Petronovka arranged her eye shadow and blush brushes neatly in their plastic containers. She then placed her liners in separate drawers. With that, Ivanka shook her hands and looked proudly around her new studio. The rooms smelled of powders, creams, and French fragrances. All of her pots and cosmetics ‘ars were strategically placed on the lighted shelves. She cast a roguish eye at the last, unpacked box. The Russian-born makeup connoisseur was especially proud of its contents. All she had to do was wait for the customers to arrive.
        Margaret Thatcher fell just as gray and cheerless as the fog that rested upon London. In the distance, Big Ben was tolling six o’clock. A vendor was peddling meat pies, trying to sell his last few treats before retiring to his bed. All Margaret could think of was Trevor Hawthorne. He was the star rugby player at Elberton Prep. She had finally summoned the courage to ask him out for coffee. At first he burst out in a fit of hysterical laughter.
        “Like you’re pretty enough!” he spat out.
        Then he promptly proceeded to fall to the ground in roaring laughter. That was two weeks ago and it still stung. Dejectedly, she ran her hand through her straight, dull, mousy, brown hair.
        Margaret looked up and was startled to see that she had stopped in front of a small shop. In the windows, expensive cosmetics basked in the warm lights. There were perfumes from France, blushes from Italy, mascara from Brazil, powder from Hong Kong, lipsticks from Spain, and bath oils from Greece, all in magnificent, brightly colored packaging. Margaret felt a certain urge to go in, although she wasn’t exactly sure why. The quaint little shop had a mysterious aura about it, a classic glamour that a princess or queen might have.
        Cautiously, she stepped on the pink welcome mat and pushed open the door. A tiny, golden bell jingled as she opened it. Immediately, she was overwhelmed by the strong scent of roses and vanilla. It seemed as if Aphrodite herself had blessed this place. Margaret walked over to a glass counter. Inside were rows and rows of colorful cosmetics. She picked up a red lipstick in a gold tube from a display featuring actresses from the theater.
        “Red isn’t it?” said a seductive voice with a rich, Russian accent.
        Startled, Margaret dropped the lipstick. She spun around to face a ravishing Russian woman. Her lush, wavy, light brown hair hung below her shoulders. Her eyes were a clear, icy blue, rimmed with thick, fringy lashes. The woman’s skin was smooth and luminous; her lips were full and luscious.
        “Wh.. .wh. . .what?” Margaret stammered.
        “The lipstick.. .Oh, the lipstick! Yeah!” said Margaret still stupefied.
        “My name is Ivanka Petronovka. I am a makeup artist and as you can tell, this is my studio.”
        “It’s very nice,” Margaret replied.
        Ivanka studied Margaret’s face. Her piercing blue eyes penetrated Margaret. Ivanka then smiled, as if she had just found what she was looking for.        
        “You have been hurt. By.. .a boy, yes?”
        For a long moment, Margaret was bewildered. Then she was perplexed.        
        “How did.. .how did you know that?”
        “I can see it,” Ivanka answered. “How did he hurt you?”
        Tears filled Margaret’s eyes. She bit her tongue to keep them from spilling.        
        “He said I wasn’t pretty enough. Then he laughed. Right in my face.”
        “Aww. Poor darling,” Ivanka cooed, stoking Margaret’s hair.
        Something in her touch soothed Margaret.
        “You know, you can have him.”
        “HA! Yeah, right!” Margaret spat out, “Only if the Queen ordered it!”
        “Yes, you can,” Ivanka said.
        She gestured to a plush leather chair in front of a mirror. She hurriedly ushered Margaret to the chair. She pulled Margaret’s hair back. Then she opened the last unpacked box and pulled out some of the most beautiful makeup Margaret had ever seen. Ivanka retrieved her set of squirrel-hair brushes with gold handles. She crossed the pink and white mosaic floor to Margaret, her four-inch Claudia Danier stilettos clicking on the tile.
        Ivanka set to work on Margaret. Her nimble fingers effortlessly smoothed foundation on Margaret’s face. She picked up her brushes and applied color to her newest project’s face. Gray on her eyelids, dusty rose on her cheeks, pink on her lips.
        “This makeup is special, magical even. It brings out a woman’s inner beauty for the world to see.”
         Finally, Ivanka stepped back. Margaret opened her shadowed eyelids and gazed into the mirror. She nearly fell out of her chair.
        "I told you it was magic,” Ivanka said.
        Trevor Hawthorne was sitting at a table in the lunch quad at Elberton Prep, combing more gel into his already sticky jet-black hair. He held up his mirror and studied his reflection.
        “I look amazing,” the pompous Mr. Hawthorne declared to himself.
        Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a gorgeous girl. She confidently strode across the quad to him.
        “Hello sweetheart, what’s your name?” Trevor asked, clearly taken with the brown haired beauty.
        Margaret Thatcher,” she said with a wink of her gray right eye.
        “That’s... not possible.” Trevor stammered.
        “Oh, but it is,” Margaret replied.
        Disbelief lingered for a moment on Trevor’s face, then he returned to ladies’ man mode.
        “Want a date, love?”
        Margaret laughed a deep, throaty laugh eerily like Ivanka’s. She picked up Trevor’s hair gel and began to squeeze out the contents down Trevor’s blue line shirt.
        “Not on your life.”
        Margaret ran down the alley to Ivanka’s, laughing all the way. The brand new bombshell was giddy, still drunk oft her triumph over Trevor. She turned the corner. . and stopped dead in her tracks. Ivanka’s shop was gone. There was only a brick wall, covered with peeling graffiti. All that was left of Ivanka Petronovka was a small, gold, squirrel-haired cosmetics brush.