Put on foundation. Do your eyes. Try doing that.Placing your elbow on the makeup table and trying to draw a straight linewith eyeliner. What the hell ...id Mr. Smith think? I'm no Mondrian; I'mmore Picasso. Oh yes, I was trying to remember what my girlfriend called this table.It's not a makeup table; it's a vanity. Guess I understand that now. Youhave to be pretty vain to spend forty minutes of setting your hair,brushing it out, fixing it to look nice. And that doesn't include puttingon your. "A g-g-gold star, Mrs. Jackson?" I meekly asked, my voice cracking."That's right, dixie. A gold star! And it's yours if you earn it.We'll frame it and hang it over your cage." I looked down at thestar. It was crudely cut and made from grocery bag paper, highlightedincompletely by a neon-yellow felt tip pen. Stacey's heel had alreadypunctured a hole in it."All you have to do to earn your gold star is stand right there,dixie-kins. And don't move." She backed up three paces, measuring hersteps. More

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