Putting Makeup on Dead People Read Online Free Page B

She’s wearing black-and-white-striped pajamas, and her dyed black hair hangs down to her waist. She has the same round perky kind of nose Mom has, but it doesn’t seem to fit with Linnie. “You did say that, and you were wearing that ugly silver jacket.” She looks at Liz.
    Liz brushes cookie crumbs off the corner of her mouth and smiles. “Hi, I’m Liz.”
    Linnie pours herself a tall glass of orange juice, drinks half of it, and fills the rest with ice cubes. “Hey.” She nods at Liz and walks out.
    “Charming,” I say.
    “I wish I had a sister,” Liz says, which makes no sense to me, given the example she just witnessed.
    “Donna’s got a brother too,” Mom says.
    Liz looks up, interested. “Really?”
    “Sorry, he’s taken,” Mom says.
    “But his girlfriend’s seriously lame,” I say. “So you might have a shot.”
    “Donna, Gwen’s very nice.” Which is Mom’s way of saying she might not totally love Gwen either, but employing something she calls tact.
    On cue, my six-foot-tall brother B comes up the stairs from the basement, where his bedroom used to be. Now it’s technically my room, but Mom made me move back in with Linnie for the week so he could stay here. He rubs his eyes and yawns. “I was dreaming about cookies.”
    B has the same brown hair that I have and that Linnie has when she’s not trying to look like a vampire, but it’s curly like Mom’s, and there’s no doubt that he’s her son.
    He’s got not only her nose but also her cheeks and the forehead shape and something like her narrow chin.
    When I was three and B—Brendan—was seven, he used to wear a yellow-and-black-striped shirt all the time, and I told him he looked just like a bumble bee.
    Mom said, “Yes, and, his name starts with the letter B.”
    So I said, “Then he’s just B to me.” And he has been ever since. I can’t help but smile when B walks in a room. Growing up, we spent a lot of time together—building forts in the dirt with twigs and rocks and leaves, and making up stories. Maybe mostly I followed him around, but he let me. When he left for college right after Dad died, I thought I might fall apart. He only went to the University of Dayton, and although it’s literally just ten minutes away, it feels like he’s been in another country. And especially since he started dating Gwen last year, I can’t help but feel like he’s not mine anymore.
    Now Mom gets up and pours B a glass of milk. She looks at Liz and smiles. “Apparently napping is part of the university curriculum. I haven’t taken a nap since I was four years old.”
    I laugh. “Does it count when you fall asleep in the living room chair while we’re watching movies?”
    Mom puts the glass in front of B and sits down again. “No.”
    “That’s more of an accidental nap,” Liz says, “so it doesn’t count the same.”
    “Exactly,” Mom says.
    “By the way,” I say to B, “this is my friend Liz.”
    B puts a whole cookie into his mouth and says, “Charmed, I’m sure,” amid a spray of lemony crumbs. Liz cracks up.
    I shake my head. “He’s also part Neanderthal.”
    Still with a mouthful of cookie, he says, “I’m hungry.” I am always amazed at how delightful my brother seems under any circumstances—mouthful of food, half asleep. And everyone loves him. I’ve never met someone who doesn’t like B, and vice versa. Last summer, he and his roommates had a barbecue at their house in the Ghetto, what UD students call the neighborhood where they live. Mom and Linnie and I went, and I sat on the porch and watched him for three hours laughing and talking with literally everyone at the party. He was like a magnet with a crowd of people around him at all times. I watched him and wondered how, after Dad died, he kept it—all that joy—and why I didn’t.
    B reaches for another cookie, and Mom says, “Don’t worry. We’re having dinner soon. And I made chili.”
    B nods like he just solved the crime. “I thought