Makeup was 100% forbidden and for that reason I wanted it even more. Every day, as I waited for the van to take me to school, I would sneak into my mother's room, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious magic and beauty that transformed her from an ordinary housewife into a queen. It was what it was, I decided. The queen of makeup. How I loved seeing her apply a little lipstick, comb a little mascara and circle her eyes with eyeliner before leaving with a scented hug that lingered in the air for what seemed like hours after she left gone. How I longed to experience the world of adults, made up of unexplored colors and exotic scents. Alas, my mother always warned me not to touch the suitcases. "Makeup is not for little girls." gave a lecture. I should have been content to circle her like a street sweeper, waiting to pounce on any particle of the flower-scented mist, or speck of colored dust that was missing from her body. It consumed me. This desperate need to be the Queen, beautiful and famous, manifested itself in my childhood drawings of myself with red cheeks, oversized red lips and eyelids painted purple. I was reduced to begging, even pleading, for her to bend over a little. If just one day he would let me rule the throne, I would be satisfied enough to last a lifetime. My mother remained still. “Makeup,” she murmured around the lipstick, “isn't for little girls.” I plotted. I could use my meager allowance to save up and buy my own kit. I quickly rejected that plan. Who knows how long it would take? Hadn't I already suffered enough? No, the only solution would be to borrow my mother's materials. If I just took a little, he would never find out. But when? If I went to school wearing makeup, my teachers would do... middle of paper... s. I clung to her, staring fearfully at the thin circle of reference, fearing the scaly claw of something invisible. Seconds ticked by, and once I was sure nothing was coming to get me, I risked a look at my mother's face. She was so disappointed that I bowed my head and dragged my feet in shame to my room, feeling her eyes on me the whole time. I had to spend the rest of the day cleaning the marker circle off the tiles, not an easy task due to the raised linoleum boards and I used almost a whole year of my pocket money to pay for the ruined makeup. Even though I had to give up candy and ice cream, the worst part was the silence I was given for the next few weeks. My mother's eyes always had that look of shame whenever she chose to let her eyes search mine. But, for that brief moment, I was the queen and I will always remember my time in the spotlight..