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than a bread box.
    Jon greets us at the door. I jump up to give him a hug. We may spar, but I love him dearly. My brother’s been away since Christmas.
    “So you’re the surprise. Look at you.” He’s got a little windburn from skiing and, as always, looks great. Jon is tall, dark, and handsome. Not quite
GQ,
more like urban cool. Chocolate brown eyes, a great haircut, and clothes always the epitome of casual perfection. “How was it?”
    “The shots are awesome. Definite cover. And no complaints about working in Italy!” He pats his stomach. WORK HARD, PLAY HARD is the motto Jon lives by.
    “You never gain an ounce.” I wish I took after the Rosen side instead of the Alberts. Unzipping my jacket, I take a hanger from the front closet in the small foyer and put my coat away.
    “Well, look at
you.
Turn around.” I don’t, so he spins me. “Whoa! Isn’t this like the thinnest you’ve ever been?” You can count on Jon, a fashion photographer, to notice these things. “New diet?”
    “Of sorts,” I say. “You must have heard.”
    “Exactly!” Jon waves his hand to follow. Excited, I realize somewhere in the apartment is yet another surprise. Maddie trails behind as we go down the hall to my old room. I shared this room with Daphne. Jon slept off the kitchen in what was once the maid’s quarters. Way before Sid Albert’s time as head of house.
    My father, in the middle of the room, leans against the bureau talking up a storm to a hip, dark-haired woman with a ring on every finger, plus another in her nose. A snack table is set with makeup, a scissors, hairbrush, blow dryer, and an assortment of beauty products. A full-length mirror is propped against a wall, and in front of it sits a small wooden folding chair.
    “Hi, Aimee,” she says, and breaks away from Sid, forcing Sid to take a break. “I’m Jackie. Happy birthday!”
    If she popped out of a cake, I couldn’t be more confused. I look at my brother.
    “Jackie’s a top hair and makeup artist in the city. I use her on a ton of shoots. So for your birthday I thought I’d surprise you with a little makeover.”
    “Jonathan.”
The word
makeover
plugs me in. “Why? What’s the matter with me?” But the second the words are out, I know they are the wrong ones. Honesty not always the best policy, in a surprise situation it has the tendency to be the gut reaction.
    “Nothing!”
Jon and Jackie confirm at the same time.
    “I’m sorry, sweetie,” says my brother. He sits down on one of the twin beds. It’s covered in a mauve quilt my mother bought in the eighties. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want. I just thought it would be fun for you to be pampered.”
    I instantly feel horrible. Not to mention I can probably use it. “It would be. Don’t mind me,” I say. “
I’m
sorry.” My cell phone rings. “Excuse me.”
    I walk over to the closet to better hear. This gives everyone in the room the golden opportunity to talk about my outburst. And conveniently behind my back. I chat, then turn my head quickly. As if playing Red Light, Green Light, I catch the group in the act and make them freeze.
    “Okay, you’re on,” I say when I finish my conversation. Closing my phone, I stick it in my pocket and face them. “That was Krista begging me to go out with her tonight. I said yes. So you know what, Jackie? Knock yourself out. Reinvent me.”
    Jackie gets busy, and Sid gets displaced. But I get to be in someone else’s hands. For the moment I think that’s just fine.

A S hiksa by A ny O ther N ame
    W AITING ON THE CORNER of Eighty-eighth Street and West End Avenue, I watch my friend walk past me. I’d like to tell you I’m unrecognizable because I’m all bundled up. But I’m not. Because it’s not that cold. I’m just unrecognizable.
    “Krista, over here.”
    She hears her name and stops. Looks. And as if she has seen no one, turns and walks away.
    “KRISTA.”
    “Huh?” She looks again but doesn’t see.
    “It’s