To the End
“It’s not a Lolita Lolita look, Dad. Ninety percent of my body is covered, okay? Look how poufy this skirt is!”
“Then why is it called Gothic Lolita?”
“Because it’s Japa—”
I close the connecting door. I’m tying my scarf when the door reopens.
“Nice beret,” Leah says, eyeing my outfit. She leans through the doorway, a curling iron in her hand. Her face is kabuki white, her eyelashes coated in mascara. She watches me pull the knot slightly off-center, adjusting the tails until they more or less match.
“When’d you learn to do that?” she says.
“A lifetime ago. It’s called a French twist. I can show you how to do it, if you want.”
“A lifetime…oh.”
Today is Halloween, 2003. Leah’s about to go to Japantown with her friends. I’m about to go to school. I have three tests today,
