Brooke (Orphans 3)

"Why?" I asked.

"Why?" She stopped working and put her hands on her hips. "Why? Because if we didn't, they would look elsewhere, for one, and because we want to be the center of their attention always. Wait, just wait," she continued, returning to the makeup, "until you're out there, competing. You'll see. It's a cutthroat, ruthless world when it comes to winning the affections of men. Every woman, whether she wants to admit it or not, is competing with every other woman. When I walk into a room, who do you think looks at me first? The men? No Their wives look at me and tremble.

"I have the feeling," she concluded, "that I found you just in time. You're still young enough to develop good habits. Press your lips together. There," she said. "Let's look at you now."

She turned my head toward the mirror and stood behind me again, her hands moving me so that she could get a profile.

"See the difference? You walked in here a child, and now you look like a young woman, which is what I'm going to make you into."

I stared at myself. With the eyeliner, the rouge, the lipstick, I did look entirely different, but I wasn't sure I liked it. I felt clownish. I was afraid to utter a word, and I was terrified that my blackboard of a forehead would write out my disapproval. If it did, she didn't notice, maybe because she had covered it in makeup.

"Don't think you have to spend a lot of time in the sun to get your skin this shade, Brooke. The sunlight is devastating. Those horrible ultraviolet rays age us. We don't need it with this makeup, anyway. Well now, you look ready. Come along and talk to me while I get dressed."

I rose and started after her.

"Wait," she said with a harshness I hadn't heard before. "You weren't planning on walking around barefoot, were you?" The way she sai

d barefoot made it sound like a sin.

"What? Oh," I said, looking down.

"Put on the shoes that match the dress," she ordered sternly.

I went to the closet and stared at the dozens of pairs she had bought me.

"The pair second from the right," she said impatiently. "You have so much to learn. Thank goodness I came along."

I put on my shoes and followed her out, glancing through my bathroom doors at my torn jeans and my T-shirt lying on the floor where she had thrown them. It was like saying good-bye to an old friend. Dressed in my expensive clothes, my hair styled, my face made up, I felt as if I had betrayed someone. Myself?

"Come on," she urged when I hesitated. "Peter is already downstairs. Of course, we must always keep men waiting. That's a golden rule. Never be on time, and never, never, never be early. The longer they are made to wait, the more their anticipation builds, and the louder the applause in their eyes," she said. "Now, get moving. I need time to make myself more beautiful, too."

I hurried after her, and when she opened the double doors to the master bedroom, I felt the breath spiral up from my lungs and get caught in my throat like a giant soap bubble. It wasn't a bedroom; it was a separate house!

There was a long carpeted landing that led to two steps. On the right was a living room with furniture and a television set. On the left was a bedroom that surely was fit for a queen. It was round and had its own white marble fireplace, but what was astounding to me was the bed, because it, too, was round with big, fluffy pillows. Above it was a ceiling of mirrors. There were mirrors everywhere. I gaped.

Pamela saw my amazement and laughed

"Maybe now you'll understand what I meant when I said we were always on the stage, always performing, Brooke." She looked at the bed and then up at the ceiling. "You know what it's like?" she asked, her voice softer but full of passion.

I shook my head.

"It's like we're in our own movie, and you know what?"

I waited, afraid to breathe.

"We're always the stars," she said, and laughed.

3 All the World is a Stage

Pamela had me sit beside her at her vanity table. It was designed so that the mirrors weren't only in front of her. They followed the curve of the wall and surrounded her. She could glance to the right or left and see her profile without moving her head. She said it was important that she know how she appeared from every angle, every side, and especially the rear. "When they see how fabulous I look from behind," she explained, "they'll be dying to see my face."

She spoke to me in the mirror instead of turning to look at me directly. It was as if we were looking at each other through windows.

"Always call me Pamela," she told me. "It's nice to have a daughter, and I want to be known as your mother, but I'd rather people thought we looked more like sisters, wouldn't you?" she asked.

I nodded even though I wasn't sure. I had friends at the orphanage, girls who were so much like me we could have been sisters. We shared clothes, did schoolwork together, sometimes talked about boys and other girls at school who often snubbed us because we were from the orphanage. Together we battled, and together we suffered. For the first time, I thought of the life I'd left behind and how I would miss it.

But what I never had was someone older, someone motherly to whom I felt I could turn, not with complaints but with questions, more intimate questions, questions I didn't feel comfortable asking my counselors or teachers. Not being able to have someone like that left me feeling even more alone, listening to the echo of my own thoughts.