Page 42 of Marisol Acts the Part
Mrs.El Amrani heads back toward the door, Jamila following along at a careful distance, keeping a careful hand braced on her mom’s elbow. “Make sure you take lots of pictures,” she calls out to me. “This one never remembers to take any. I want to see her first red carpet appearance.”
“I will, don’t worry,” I promise before she leaves with a soft laugh. Whether Jamila likes it or not, I’ll definitely be documenting this entire experience thoroughly. Who doesn’t want to remember their first premiere?
“So,” I begin once we’re alone, not bothering to hide my smirk. “What have you said about me,Jammy?”
“Ugh,” Jamila groans before face-planting onto the bed. “This is why I asked them to leave the housebeforeyou got here, but no one ever listens to me,” she complains, her voice muffled by her bedspread.
“Your family seems nice.”
Her family has that soft, familiar sort of love that I thought was only possible in sitcoms. Easy banter and teasing, family recipes and souvenirs from trips around the world. The type of family I always wanted.
“Theyarenice when they’re not being embarrassing.” She picks herself back up and sits beside me. “Sorry Fatima tried to pounce on you. I know fans coming up to you must be super annoying.”
I shrug. Definitely not the first time someone’s approached me for an inside scoop, but at least this wasn’t about trying to get the dirty details behind our breakup. “It’s nice to hear someone’s on my side.”
Jamila’s brow furrows. “Why wouldn’t they be on yourside?”
I bite my tongue, wishing I hadn’t said anything. I’ve spent this entire time avoiding the details of what happened between me and Miles, hoping Jamila stayed true to her hatred for tabloids and never went searching for any of the articles about us. The world knowing Miles dumped me because he thought I wasn’t a “serious” choice hurt enough, but something about Jamila knowing that too hurts even worse. That the one stranger who didn’t know about my past—who met me asme—will know what the world thinks of me.
“Lots of people said Miles was…out of my league. Acting-wise,” I say delicately. “And that I was this…I dunno…airhead teen actress.” I do my best to keep my voice level, but it’s hard not to let the hurt seep in.
Jamila frowns, shaking her head and scoffing. “Well, then a lot of people have no taste.”
As I meet her eyes, I am reminded that there are more important things than what strangers think of me. “You don’thave to say that because I’m helping you pick out what to wear.”
My voice is light and teasing, but Jamila’s expression is serious when she replies. “I never just say anything.”
She’s close enough for me to feel her breath against my lips. To smell the coconut oil lathered into her curls. Suddenly, I’m hyperaware of the heat of the room and the cracked open door, and the fact that we’re sitting on her bed in her bedroom, which smells so overpoweringly like her that it feels like I’m lost in a daydream.
“That dress looks really great on you,” I say finally and lean back. If I don’t put distance between us ASAP, I might do something I regret. Something that’ll make my life that much messier.
Taking in her outfit doesn’t do anything to steady me, though. At some point, Jamila must’ve grabbed a pair of heels from the closet, simple black pumps that make her bronze legs stretch on for days. As expected, the sequined dress’s neckline perfectly accentuates her toned arms and the base of her neck without being too much.
In short: she’s drop-dead gorgeous.
“It’s not too much?” she asks sheepishly, running a hand along her bare arms. She opted for gold bangles on her wrists, the bracelets clanging whenever she moves her arms.
“Not if you feel comfortable in it. And it’s your first premiere. You should go all-out.”
Jamila nods, standing up and examining her reflection in the full-length mirror on Fatima’s side of the room. “I don’t really have the makeup skills to go with this kind of outfit, though.”
“Say less.” I immediately jump into action, rushing overto the vanity in the center of the room and flicking on the lights over the mirror, gesturing to the pink fuzzy stool before it. “Take a seat.”
The natural color of Jamila’s cheeks is on full display as she settles down in front of the mirror, pointing out which makeup belongs to her and which belongs to Fatima. And, more importantly, which of Fatima’s makeup she’s allowed to use and which products are off-limits. Not surprisingly, Fatima has the more robust collection, but I’ve made makeup miracles happen with a single eyeliner pencil and a dream.
We start off with a basic smoky eye, using some of the shimmery eye shadow palettes on Fatima’s “okay to borrow” list. It doesn’t take much to make Jamila’s eyes pop, but the gold glitter shade brings out the warmth in her eyes without feeling too overpowering. Her brows are already sculpted by the gods, so not much to do there. I follow her lead when it comes to eyeliner, letting her use the felt-tip pen to draw her usual cat’s-eye, taking over at the end to elongate the wing. Go bold or go home.
“What’re you thinking for lips?” I ask, holding up an array of lipstick tubes from both her and Fatima’s collections.
Jamila shrugs as she examines her options. “I usually do a lip tint.”
I nod. “Makes sense. Your lips are pretty perfect already.”
Why do I speak without thinking first?
My entire body clams up as I realize what I said, panicking even more when I notice the tension in Jamila’s body too. To be fair, though, her lipsareperfect. Full and naturally pouted, with a deep Cupid’s bow curve. Always the perfect shade of light pink, even without gloss.
“How about red?” I propose eagerly in a rushed attempt to move the conversation into less embarrassing territory, holding up a tube of matte wine-red lipstick from MAC. Classic.
