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LINDSAY S. ZRULL

There goes a perfect mascara application.
The hordes always think their jokes are clever. They’re not.
I’ve heard them all before.
Keeping my pride intact, I walk confidently in the direction
of the nearest bathroom. The bell rings. Everyone rushes toward
their nearest classroom, like cockroaches running for cracks in
the walls. After slamming the bathroom door behind me, I cram
the rubber stopper into the floor gap. I’m going to need some sem-
blance of privacy to fix this disaster. When I finally get a glimpse
of myself in the mirror, I groan. Mascara runs down my face in
long, dark rivers. My lipstick is smudged, and the contouring I
carefully applied to my round cheeks is patchy now. It took me two
hours to perfect my look this morning. Thankfully, I took a dozen
selfies before I left my new foster house, so I can still upload my

masterpiece on Insta.
Now, I don’t mean to sound like I’m some self-obsessed car-
icature. I worked hard for my confidence. I plan on keeping it in-
tact, thank you. This look is my armor. I am an ethereal warrior,
painted for daily combat. Besides, when you’ve spent your entire
life bouncing from foster homes to group homes and back again,
the fans start to feel like the only constant in life. They are the only
real family I have.
But what to do now?
A good goth queen is like a good Girl Scout. We are always
prepared. I take the emergency makeup bag out of my satchel and
get to work. Prioritizing the disaster-relief tactics makes handling
stressful situations like this easier. Step one: wipe off the drippy
mascara. Step two: touch up the contouring. Step three: select a

different lipstick. Now I’m in the mood for Goddess Green, with

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