I wave into the camera, my fingers fanning up and down. I really should have painted my nails, but that doesn’t matter. No one will notice my nails if I give them plenty of other things to notice.

“Good evening, y’all. I’m Pumpkin, but you can call me Miss Patch.”

Five

“Incoming!” Clem warns as she slams her body down onto my bed.

“Nope,” I moan and bury my face into my pillow.

My face! Shit, shit, shit.

“It’s almost noon,” she says. “Mom told me to tell you that if you want to sleep this late, you can start working overnights with Dad.”

“Well, then go, so I can get out of bed. I require privacy.”

She groans. “Guys are gross, you know that?”

“I’m not telling you to go because of that,” I say. Though, honestly, it’s always best to give me a few minutes to collect myself and Clem knows that. It’s biology, okay?

But that’s not the issue this morning. The issue is my face. I slept hard last night after trying to scrub my face with a bar of soap and warm water. (I keep thinking about getting into skin care, but it just hasn’t happened yet, so sue me.) I ended up making more of a mess than I started with and went to bed looking like a melted clown. Judging by the crusty sensation around my eyes and mouth, I don’t look much better now than I did last night.

Clem rips the pillow from my hands. “What are you hiding from me? Did you get a face tatt—ooooh,” she finishes as she sees my clown mug. “Are those . . . is that . . . lipstick? On your chin? . . . and your ear?”

I reach past her for my phone and open the reverse camera to examine the damage. Lipstick smeared down my chin and mascara and eyeshadow blended into a storm around and under my eyes. The blush and foundation, though, have managed to mysteriously evaporate when, in reality, I’m sure they’ve sunk deep into my pores, where they’ll live forever. Or until I figure out how to suck the dirt from and shrink my pores.

I look to my pillow, Clem still holding it clutched to her chest. Ohhhh there’s my blush and foundation. Or at least some of it. Note to self: be sure to wash pillowcase myself.

“Your lipstick, actually,” I finally say.

“Oh,” she says, her voice an octave too high. “I didn’t know you were into makeup.”

“I’m not,” I say quickly. “I could be. Or maybe I am. I don’t know. Jury’s out.”

She nods. “Fair. So you were just chilling in my room?”

“I was looking for you,” I tell her. “And for your information, I totally covered for you when Mom came home.”

“Thanks,” she says with a sigh.