Jenni suggested. “I don’t have any nail polish,” I admitted. Brit’s eyes went as wide as if I had declared that I didn’t like to keep food and water in the house. I had the sense Brit was one of those girls who has a tackle box full of makeup, the kind that opens up with an accordion of shelves stuffed with potions and lotions and weighs at least a hundred pounds. I was willing to bet Brit had an entire bathroom shelf full of every shade of nail polish and could rattle off their goofy names, like Tomato Kiss Sunrise, by memory. “I could check and see if my mom has any,” I offered, even though the idea of having to touch someone else’s feet grossed me out. I wasn’t against a good pedicure, but where I lived, you went to the nail salon for that kind of thing, where only trained professionals were allowed to scrape the dead skin off your feet. It wasn’t something you asked your friends to do. I hadn’t had a slumber party since I was a kid, and based on how this was going so far, I figured it was going to be my last one.
