“Yeah. Your makeup is perfect all the time,” she says, her voice half-curious, half-admiring, which takes me by surprise. I’ve only ever seen her barefaced, and I’d figured from our first night in Shanghai that she simply wasn’t interested in makeup.

“I’ve had a ton of practice,” I tell her, then hesitate, unsure how to word my next offer without sounding like I’m making a rude suggestion or pushing her into something she isn’t comfortable with. “Do you want me to do your makeup for you? Just for fun?”

She flushes. “Oh, I was just curious. You don’t have to— I mean, it’s probably a lot of trouble, and your products look pretty expensive—”

“I literally dream of doing my sister’s makeup,” I assure her, pulling her closer to the mirror and angling her face toward the vanity lights with my free hand.

“You have a sister?” she says.

“Not at all. Which is why this is a dream come true for me,” I say as I examine her features up close. They’re softer than mine, doll-like and sweet, so I go for a more natural look, dipping my brush into the warm browns and baby pinks in my palette.

“I’ve attempted to do my own makeup before,” Daisy tells me, closing her eyes to let me dab concealer below her brow bone. “Emphasis on attempt. But I swear it just made me look even worse, and I almost poked my eye out with the mascara wand. I just … I don’t know how to do the things that others girls seem to do so effortlessly,” she says, her voice small. “I don’t know how to pose for photos, or curl my hair, or walk in high heels. I’ve asked my mom before, but she’s very practical—not in a bad way or anything, but she’d tell me to just go read or study instead of wasting time trying to look nice.”

“Well, you do already look nice, and you don’t need to know how to do this,” I say, smudging blush in a circular motion over her cheeks. “But if you want to, I can teach you. Also, for what it’s worth …” I hesitate. Do I break the illusion? Ditch the false image I’ve crafted of being naturally confident, naturally beautiful? It feels safe, is the thing. It’s something I can hide behind, so nobody can ever mock me like they did at my old schools. But how can I ever be truly loved and known if I’m always hiding? So before I can lose my nerve, I push myself to go on. “I didn’t know how to do those things either. It took a lot of trial and error—if you’d met me two years ago, you wouldn’t even think I was the same person.”