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Authors: Suzanne Supplee

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That night Grandma Georgia and Miss Bertha went out to the movies. Mother was in bed, glued to an episode of
Divine Design
(apparently, if she couldn’t rip out a wall herself, watching Can-dice Olson do it was the next best thing). I imagined Aunt Mary was curled up with Tom Cruise and sleeping off those mimosas.
It was long past dinnertime, and my stomach rumbled. Determined to succeed, I measured out a bowl of Cheerios with one cup of skim milk and sliced up half a banana. I ate slowly. I tried to “savor the taste, the smell, the sensual pleasure of eating . . . ,” something I’d read in the book Kay-Kay had checked out for me. Finally, I gave that up, wolfed down the rest of the Cheerios in two efficient bites, and trudged upstairs to call Aunt Mary.
“Hello,” she said on the first ring. I knew she was probably hoping it was Mother calling to make up.
“It’s just me, Aunt Mary,” I said. I still had no idea what I planned to say.
“What’s wrong!” she said, panicked.
“Nothing’s wrong. Mother’s resting. Grandma Georgia went to a movie with Miss Bertha.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, that’s good, I reckon.” A long silence passed, and I could hear Tom Cruise purring.
“Did you ever get him declawed?” I asked.
“No, I decided it might make him feel like less of a man. I mean, I already had him neutered.”
“I’ll be glad to pay for it if you want. I could take the money out of my savings.”
“Why, Rosie. That’s so sweet. But no. No, thanks.”
“Okay,” I said. More silence.
“I was a little tipsy at lunch, but how much weight did you say you’d lost again?”
“Well, I said forty-five, but it’s really only forty-two.”
Aunt Mary laughed. “It says I’m five feet seven inches on my driver’s license, so don’t feel bad.”
“Well, I guess I better go. I just wanted to say . . . well, things will get better with Mother. She’s more mad at the cancer than she is at you.”
“You think so?” my aunt asked hopefully. “I’ve never seen her like this.”
“She’s never been sick before,” I pointed out.
“That’s true. I’m really glad you called, Rosie.”
“Me too,” I said and hung up.
On Monday afternoon, I drove over to see Mrs. Wallace. I barely sat down before I started spilling my guts. I told her about Mother and Aunt Mary’s big fight. I told her about Aunt Mary’s drunken toast. I described in great detail my conversation with Mother about death and going on with my dreams and my phone call to my aunt.
“You’ve wanted your mother to really talk to you for a long time. Do you think she finally did so because of your letter?” Mrs. Wallace asked. I shrugged. “Well, whatever prompted it was good. In this profession we call it a breakthrough.”
“I think I screwed up.” Mrs. Wallace gave me her do-go-on expression. “I promised Mother I would . . . that I’d go on with my dreams, even without her.”
“That’s screwing up?” asked Mrs. Wallace.
“It was morbid. I should’ve consoled her more, told her everything would be
fine
.” The second the word
fine
came out of my mouth I had an ah-ha moment, the kind with the lightbulb and the game show
ding-ding-ding!
Mrs. Wallace looked at me, and I could tell she was trying not to smile. “But didn’t my promise just give Mother permission to die?” I asked.
“Does your mother
want
to die?” asked Mrs. Wallace.
“No!” I replied.
“Listen,” she said, leaning in close to me, “any mother who thinks there is even the slightest possibility she could die wants to know her child will be okay. That’s a mother’s job. It’s nature at its finest, survival of the species and all that. Maybe you consoled your mother in the very best way possible. Maybe your promise gave her permission to focus on herself for a while.”
chapter thirty-three
Twists and Turns
I had just returned from a solo three-mile run (Kay-Kay’s in Destin with her daddy for a long weekend) when the phone rang. “Does Rose Warren want me to drive her to her appointment?” Aunt Mary asked. “I took today off, so tell her it’s no trouble,” she added. I relayed the message to Mother, who was still in the shower.
“I’m perfectly capable of driving a car!” Mother shouted loud enough for Aunt Mary to hear (unfortunately, I didn’t have my hand over the mouthpiece). I didn’t even have to
try
to put Mother’s harsh words into kinder, gentler terms. When I put the phone back to my ear, Aunt Mary had already hung up.
There was a teachers’ in-service at Spring Hill High School, and I intended to spend my day off prom-dress shopping at Cool Springs Mall. Mother padded through the kitchen, appearing slightly less doom and gloom than usual. I could tell she was looking forward to getting out of the house, even if it was to drive to Nashville for a chest scan. “I could come with you,” I offered. “We could shop for a dress together when you’re done.” I took a sip of my strawberry-banana smoothie and watched Mother pour hot water into her favorite mug. She sat down at the kitchen table across from me.
“I would love to come with you, Rosie. Really I would, but who knows how long this appointment will take. You think you’re going in for something simple, and it eats up the whole day. You’d better go on your own if you want to get anything accomplished.”
“So what’s your gut feeling?”
“About the scan?” I nodded and watched Mother swirl a black-mango teabag around in her cup. “I’ve stopped trusting my gut feelings, Rosie. I feel a little better, but who knows if that means anything. Cancer isn’t an illness you can trust. It takes all sorts of unexpected twists and turns. At the very least, I won’t have your aunt blasting her mouth off to Dr. Nelson.” I could tell by the look on Mother’s face she was still really mad.
“Mother, I . . . well, she was right about your needing to rest,” I pointed out. I’d waited my whole entire life for a schism between my mother and my aunt, and now I was trying to patch things up. It didn’t make sense.
“It’s not that, Rosie. I know she was right about that. But it’s the way she goes about things.” Mother sighed and took a sip of tea. “Like Mother’s Day. Did you hear her completely take credit for your losing weight?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“You’d think with all her self-help books she’d have a little more insight into how ridiculous she sounds. Of course, she’s too busy doling out those books to everyone else to actually read them herself. I know I’m not perfect by any—” The guest bedroom door clicked open, and Mother stopped talking.
“Well, I’m off!” said Grandma Georgia, bursting through the kitchen like a misfired pistol. Briskly, she kissed the top of Mother’s head, leaving pink lip prints behind. “You have a full schedule today, Rose Warren. Not a single cancellation!” Grandma Georgia’s new mission in life is to keep Mother
and
Heavenly Hair alive and well. “Rose Garden, here’s a little something for you, sugar,” she added, shoving a wad of bills into my hand.
“What’s
this
for?” I asked.
“Prom,” said Grandma Georgia. “You’ll be the prettiest girl there. As long as you don’t wear
black
!”
“You don’t have to give me money. I already took some out of my savings account.”
“Well, put it back! Oh, and make sure you look nice today when you go shopping. Put on a little makeup. Curl your hair.”
“I’m just going to the mall,” I pointed out.
“Salespeople treat you better when you look good. You’ll get a better idea of how you’ll be on prom night, too.”
“She’s right,” said Mother. “It’s the same thing with hairdressers. The prettier you look when you get there, the prettier you look when you leave.”
“That’s as bad as the it-takes-money-to-make-money rule! Who comes up with this stuff?” Mother and Grandma Georgia laughed. Miss Bertha honked out front.
“There’s my ride. I’m off to the races! Good luck to both my girls today,” said Grandma Georgia. She winked at Mother and blew me a kiss.
As much as I hated the idea of going to Cool Springs Mall by myself, I knew shopping alone wouldn’t be all bad. At least I wouldn’t have to tolerate unwanted opinions, and there’d be no one in the dressing room making me feel self-conscious or mentioning the dreaded words
size two
.
The phone rang just as I was slathering on an oatmeal-and-banana facial (I’d decided Mother and Grandma Georgia were probably right about looking good). “Hey!” said Kyle when I picked up. His voice was warm and friendly (and sexy) on the other end of the line.
“Hey!” I replied, trying not to get goo all over the phone.
“Okay, you’ll probably question my masculinity after I say what I’m about to say, but . . .
well . . .
Mama thinks we should color-coordinate.” The words came out as if he were spitting a stray hair off his tongue. “You know, like my cummerbund should match your dress. I keep tellin’ her I don’t
know
the color of your dress because you haven’t bought it yet, but she doesn’t believe me. I think if Pigg and Parsons runs out of pastel cummerbunds, she may have to be medicated.”
“I promise to notify the Associated Press the minute I find a dress,” I said, laughing, “but don’t expect any miracles. Prom-dress shopping sounds much easier than it is. I may end up at the Farmers Co-op in search of a feed sack. I could always dye it pink, I guess.”
“Well, it wouldn’t matter. You’d look good in anything,” said Kyle.
Downstairs, the hall closet door squeaked open and snapped shut again. Mother’s car keys jangled against the glass bowl by the door. “I have to go, Kyle. Mother’s about to leave for her appointment. I’ll call you later,” I said, and hung up.
Quickly, I rinsed the crusty oatmeal concoction off my face and tugged on a black skirt and white T-shirt. The thought of Mother’s scan made my stomach clutch up with fear. I bounded down the stairs and found her staring out the window. “Sit on the porch with me a minute,” she said.
“The porch?”
Without a reply, Mother swung open the front door—light spilled across the honey-colored floors, and dust particles danced wildly. Outside, she settled herself on the warm concrete step, and I sat down beside her. This seemed an odd thing to do when we both had places to go, and I was praying Mother wouldn’t start talking about dying again. “The sun’s pretty hot and with your chemo—”
“I’m well aware of the sun risks associated with chemotherapy,” Mother replied, cutting me off. As if shaking off the cold, she hugged herself and rubbed her small hands up and down her thin arms. The smell of geraniums and boxwoods permeated the air, and already, even before nine o’clock, the sun felt like July instead of May. The lawn was green and lush, and the white picket fence, which Mother had repainted just last summer, gleamed in the light.
Neither of us said a word. No talk of dying, no complaining about Aunt Mary. We just sat there, side by side, on the rough cement with our knees touching. Mother picked a dead bloom off the geranium, and I watched the frail wisps of chemo hair lift slightly and catch the faint breeze. At home, Mother had stopped wearing head coverings of any sort. Even the summer hats were too hot, and the wigs itched her dried-out scalp something terrible.
She dead-headed another bloom and tossed it under the large boxwood next to the porch. Now that the dried-out blossoms were gone, the tight-fisted, verdant ones were visible. Already you could see hints of pink beneath the green.
Cancer isn’t an illness you can trust. It takes all sorts of unexpected twists and turns.
I thought about Mother’s words. Today was another turn, I knew. I closed my eyes and let the sunshine solder Mother’s image onto my memory. Just in case, I wanted every detail of her engraved there.
chapter thirty-four
Over
The whole drive to Cool Springs Mall I couldn’t get Mother and our front-porch moment out of my head, and I was being selfish, I knew, because instead of dwelling on my mother and what might happen to
her
if the chest scan wasn’t good, I kept thinking about myself and what would happen to me. What would
I do
without her? Live with Grandma Georgia and Mr. Keith in some bingo-playing, Depends-wearing retirement home for half the year? Stay with Aunt Mary and spend my life in the Petco searching for quirky cat toys? And what about Heavenly Hair and all Mother’s clients? And my house? What about my charming, well-decorated, comfortable, I-have-my-own-bathroom house?
The mall was overstuffed with gaggles of girls, some of whom I recognized from Spring Hill High School. Luckily, I knew for certain Misty Winters and Tara Waters weren’t among them. The Bluebirds had a car wash at the Middle Tennessee Bank today. They were raising money for their end-of-year presentation.
The food court threatened to lure me in, so I hopped on the escalator and rode up to the third floor. Window after window offered nothing better than one size-two cupcake dress after another. I didn’t even bother going inside the stores. No matter how much money Grandma Georgia handed out, I would
never
wear a cupcake dress. After an hour or so, I gave up and headed for my car.
Just before I reached Spring Hill, I pulled over at a rest stop and called Heavenly Hair from my cell. Richard was the only person who might provide some insight on where to find a fat-girl prom dress, but he couldn’t come to the phone. He was having highlights put in his hair. His latest craze (other than newly hired Shampoo Drew) was pursuing a modeling career, and there was some casting call for country-music-video extras up in Nashville.
“Can you believe it’s just me and Bertha handling this whole salon on a Saturday?” Grandma Georgia yelled into the phone. “Hell, I didn’t even lose my temper when I found out Richard took the day off and booked hisself for highlights. Why, I’m busier than a one-legged woman in a ass-kickin’ contest, and I am loving every minute of it. Any luck with a dress?” she asked.
“Not yet,” I said, trying to sound hopeful, as if the perfect gown were wrapped up in a box and lying on the side of the road somewhere. “I could always shop another day and come help you instead, Grandma.” Secretly, I hoped she would take me up on the offer.
“Hell, no, Rose Garden! I was born for this. Now you have a good time shopping, and don’t come home with
schmatte
, hear?” said Grandma Georgia.
“Oh, I won’t,” I promised (even though I had no idea what
schmatte
meant).
I passed the Spring Hill exit and headed toward nearby Columbia. There was a place called Renee’s, a high-end shop, but I figured with Grandma Georgia’s cash and my own money from savings I could maybe afford something—
on sale
. Among the BMWs and Mercedes in the parking lot, my Bug stuck out like a fat girl in
Vogue
. I parked and went inside.
An X-ray thin blonde stood just inside the front door (as if waiting especially for me). Her expensive suit was neatly tailored, her hair cropped daringly short. She smiled tightly and said, “You must be Lori’s girl. Right this way.” I had no idea what she was talking about, and I hardly felt brave enough to contradict, so I followed her to the back of the store and into the stockroom. “This is what I’m talking about,” she said, gesturing all around. “I pay your cleaning crew good money, and yet they hardly touch a thing!”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Look! They hardly vacuumed! The bathroom’s a mess!” she snapped, flinging open the door to what looked to be a spotless lavatory.
As I bolted toward the parking lot, my heart made a
swish-swish -pfsssh
sound in my ears. I’d been mistaken for a cleaning girl instead of a customer! “I guess fat girls don’t shop at Renee’s!” I shouted out my car window. Two women getting out of a Lexus gawked.
The Dairy Queen was a much friendlier place with its clean, cheerful landscaping, meat locker air-conditioning, colorful posters of hamburgers and fries, and its well-stocked freezer of assorted ice-cream bars and cakes. According to the diet book I’d been reading, it’s important to indulge yourself once in a while. I hadn’t eaten since the early-morning smoothie, and my stomach rumbled, so I figured now was as good a time as any to “indulge.” The first two bites of the chocolate-dipped vanilla cone tasted like love on my tongue; the third and fourth were more like sweet guilt; the last one was Bluebird mean.
Back in my car again, I turned up the radio and tried not to think about chemo and cancer and skinny, chichi bitch stores. I drove through town and thought about Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
, that scene when she goes shopping on Rodeo Drive,
after
Richard Gere (and his money) intervene. I popped open the sunroof and tried to think about Kyle’s kind words,
You’d look good in anything. . . .
The gas gauge gave me its friendly
get-gas
ding, so I pulled over at the Jim Dandy Market.
While the tank filled, I went inside to pay. I glanced furtively at the pastry rack—donuts and Ring Dings and Twinkies smiled up at me. I grabbed three packages and placed them on the counter along with a twenty-dollar bill. The greasy clerk didn’t even look at me. He kept his combed-over head down as if I were buying some kinky brand of condoms or Tampax.
“That’ll be another $4.56,” he grunted. I handed him a five, and glanced up at the security mirror above his head, but it wasn’t my own distorted image I saw. It was Mrs. McCutchin’s. She wore the familiar navy pup-tent blouse, the one with the purple sweat stains under the arms. From behind the tube in her throat, she rattled
“Don’t”
and disappeared. My hands shook as I placed the Twinkies and Ring Dings and donuts back on the rack. “But you already paid for them,” the clerk said. I took the snacks back again and slid them across the counter.
“Then these are for you,” I said and left.
Anger was so built up in me I thought I might explode, little bits of ice cream and chocolate spattering all over the windshield. I sped past Taco Bell; I was angry at cancer. I shot through a yellow light in front of the Sonic; I was angry at fat. I turned at a NO TURN ON RED sign right by McDonald’s; I was angry at judgmental, snotty store clerks and Bluebirds and NBs and basically anybody who had ever, in any way, shape, or form, done me wrong. It hit me then—I needed my car washed. I made a left onto Carmack Boulevard and drove toward the bank parking lot.
Clad in bathing suit tops and too-short shorts, the Bluebirds lathered, rinsed, and dried. They must’ve been raking in the money. A whole string of cars, mostly trucks with gawking boys inside (and a few old-fart creepy types), waited in a very long line. I debated on whether or not I really wanted to do this. It would eat up a good chunk of the afternoon, and I was inviting trouble, certainly.
An SUV honked behind me. “Go!” some woman shouted out the window. Right at that moment, as if it were a sign, Roy Orbison’s golden voice drifted out of the speakers.
Pretty woman,
he sang,
walking down the street . . .
I smiled and pictured Roy and Julia crammed in the back seat, the two of them egging me on.
Misty spotted me first (a bright red Bug
is
hard to miss). Ever so slightly her mouth dropped open. I took a deep breath and pulled forward a little. The SUV squeezed in tight behind me.
No escaping now,
I thought. My heart pounded, and I dialed Kay-Kay’s cell phone.
“Hey,” she said, her voice friendly and light (and tan) on the second ring.
“How’s Florida?” I asked.
“It’s great! Listen!” She held the phone out, and I could hear beach sounds—crashing waves, squealing children, a dog barking. “Guess what me and Daddy did this morning? We ran on the beach! Can you believe it? It was fun,” she said, “although I think I nearly killed him. He’s so out of shape.”
“I’m sitting in the Bluebird car wash line.”
“What!” Kay-Kay cried. The car in front of me pulled forward, and I spotted a couple of the Bluebird sponsors standing off to the side. They looked like Renee’s customers, or grown-up Bluebirds, or both. “Rosie! What are you doing there?” There was no way I could explain about Twinkies and the Dairy Queen and Renee’s and
Pretty Woman
. Jumbled all together, it didn’t make any sense.
“Rosie? I said, ‘What are you—?’ ”
“I don’t know exactly. I don’t
know
what I’m doing. Just stay on the line, okay?”
“Okay,” said Kay-Kay. “Take a deep cleansing breath and try to slow your heart rate a little.”
My heart
was
pounding, and my sweaty thighs were stuck to the leatherette seat, and the chocolate-coated cone churned in my stomach, and there was a marching band inside my head, and they were tuning up. Suddenly, it was my turn. “I’m up. Stay on the line, okay?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Kay-Kay replied.
I closed the sunroof, left the key in the ignition, grabbed my purse, and pried myself off the seat. Misty made a beeline in my direction, and judging by her swagger, it wasn’t to ask what kind of air-freshener I preferred.
“What are
you
doing here?” she hissed. Tara came up beside her.
“I’m here to get my car washed,” I replied coolly, clutching the phone tighter.
“I’m not washing your damn car,” Misty snapped.
“Me neither,” Tara chimed in.
“Girls, is there a problem?” one of the sponsors called out.
“No, ma’am,” Tara replied sweetly. I waited. They looked at one another, and it occurred to me how small Misty and Tara were. Not just small in the philosophical way, although they were certainly that, too. But
small
small, as in, I towered over them. Their size was a disappointment somehow.
“Then hurry up and wash that cute little Bug. It shouldn’t take y’all more than five minutes. That’s a cute car!” the lady called out to me, and waved. Misty and Tara went to work soaping and scrubbing. I could tell by their herky-jerky movements and dagger glances that they were beyond angry.
“I have to go, Kay-Kay,” I whispered.
“Are they washing your car?!” she squealed.
“Yeah, and I wanna get a picture with my phone before they’re finished. I’ll send it to you.”
Surreptitiously, I snapped a couple of shots—Misty crouching down scrubbing tires; Tara accidentally spraying Misty with the hose. It was like watching two wet cats. When they’d finished I paid them the exact amount (no tip, mind you).
“Monday’s gonna be fun for you,” Misty whispered.
I searched my mind for something smart-ass to say, but my tongue was worn out, all the energy gone out of it. Instead, I said the only thing I could think of. “It’s over.”
“What’s
over
?” Misty snarled. “What are you
talking
about?” She had her hands on her skinny, wet hips, and she was glaring, her face contorted into a big, unpleasant grimace.
I ignored her and got into my soap-streaked, half-ass-clean Bug and drove off. Just up Carmack was Zippy’s Self-serve Car Wash. I pulled into an empty stall and stuffed eight quarters in the machine. As I stood there holding the nozzle, watching the water bead up on top of the wax, I realized what I’d meant. It really was over. Maybe Misty and Tara would still harass me. In fact, I knew they would still harass me. On Monday, they’d give it their best effort, no doubt. But their fun wasn’t in the harassment itself; their fun was in my reaction to the harassment. And if I refused to react, at the very least I’d kill their fun. My best defense was no defense.
Ah-ha! Oh, Mrs. Wallace would be proud!
Mother was dozing under the awning on the back deck when I got home. “You get a dress?” she asked, jerking awake. The sound of her voice made me feel safe.
“No luck,” I replied, plopping down in the chair beside her. “I’ll look through some magazines tonight. Get some ideas. Maybe you could help?” I asked.
“Sure,” said Mother, yawning.
We sat for a while longer, neither of us saying anything. We were avoiding the cancer elephant in our backyard. It was standing on its hind legs. Its trunk was raised. It was making that explosive sound elephants make, and we were both ignoring it. Mother didn’t give me her news, and I didn’t ask.
After a few minutes, she was asleep again. Her breath came in a peaceful, even rhythm. “I love you,” I whispered, thinking how awkward the words felt on my tongue, a bit like trying out one of Kay-Kay’s contortionist-type stretches.
I love you
wasn’t something Mother and I said much. I suppose we’d just never gotten in the habit of it.
chapter thirty-five
Prom Day!
I’ve eaten nothing but carrot sticks and celery and rice cakes and lettuce and plain tuna for a solid week. I’ve counted every single calorie within a forty-mile radius. I even joined Harvey’s Gym (Kay-Kay swears by Harvey) ,
and
I started a spinning class (no, that does not mean turning around and around in circles). Even though this healthful food is boring, it’s better than being on Pounds-Away and having a stomachache all the time.
As of five minutes ago, I weighed 158, which is far from svelte, but at least it’s better than last week’s sudden premenstrual jump to 162 again. I swear I can plump up faster than a Ball Park Frank.
On the Tuesday following my disastrous shopping trip and near Twinkie overdose, Kay-Kay came to the rescue. She called Leona, the woman who owns Landis Lane, and asked if we could have a private consultation after school. Leona took down all my measurements (shriek!) and held fabrics up around my face to see which colors I might look best in. “Black,” she said finally. “With your dark eyes and hair, oh, black is so right! So dramatic!” She fingered her pearl earrings, which were the size of eyeballs.
As it turned out, Leona didn’t have anything in stock, so she called another small shop in Franklin. By the next afternoon, I had a dress. Not just
a
dress,
the
dress—black strapless with a slit up the front, Empire waist, and hot pink piping on the hem and around the bodice. Mother found shoes to match on the Dillard’s website, and Aunt Mary drove all the way to Nashville just to pick them up. Grandma Georgia didn’t even care that the dress was black. “You look like a
shayna maideleh
,” she said when I tried it on, which means “beautiful girl” in Yiddish.
On prom day, Heavenly Hair was jammed with clients. Miss Bertha was about to lose her mind with so many cell phones ringing, and girls chattering like jungle monkeys, myself included. Richard and Kay-Kay hovered over me, discussing the various hair-style options. Richard wanted one of his intricate up-dos; Kay-Kay wanted something long with lots of curls. “This ain’t a
Dallas
rerun,” said Richard in that biting, bitchy tone of his (which we haven’t heard nearly as much of since Shampoo Drew came along).
“Well, it
ain’t
a party for George and Martha Washington either!” Kay-Kay shot right back. Right away, I knew they’d be good friends.
A squeal interrupted the hum of voices. “I love it! I absolutely love it!” shouted Janay Dugger, Hilda May Brunson’s niece. Mrs. Brunson was standing over Janay with a video camera, a real one, like on TV shows. She’d rented it and taken a course on its proper use solely for the purpose of capturing every last detail of her niece’s first prom.
“Say it one more time, Janay, and look into the camera,” Mrs. Brunson ordered.
“Oh. Dear. God. The loss of her virginity will likely be made into a Broadway musical,” Richard groaned. Kay-Kay burst out laughing and swatted him with a rolled-up
People
magazine.
“Do that one more time, Kay-Kay, and look into the camera,” said Richard, imitating Mrs. Brunson. I got out of the chair and left the two of them acting like fools and slipped off to call Kyle. He picked up on the first ring.
“Hey, Rosie,” he said, his voice grinning over the phone lines. “Just so you know, Mama picked out a hot pink cummerbund to match the pink-stripe thing in your dress, but I’m not wearing it. She’s pissed, but I went over to Pigg and Parsons and rented a black cummerbund and bow tie myself. I hope you don’t care.”
“Not at all. Hey, listen, I have a favor to ask.”
“Sure, what is it?”
I hesitated. “Um . . . would you mind if I invited Kay-Kay to come with us tonight? I just feel so bad that she’s not going.”
“But Billy Gardner asked her like five hundred times, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t want to go with him. Listen, I don’t want you to take it the wrong way. I want to be with you . . . I mean . . . well, like alone and everything. It’s just that she’s been so good to me, you know? A real friend, and I hate the thought of her sitting home.”
The phone line was silent. Dead air. A slow tugging in of breath and then Kyle’s reply. “I understand. It’s okay. Invite her if you want to.”
Shampoo Drew lathered my hair and massaged my temples and neck and shoulders with his smooth magic-man fingers (no wonder Richard was in such a good mood lately). Afterward, I drifted back over to Richard’s chair and sat down. “Don’t go getting any hetero ideas,” he warned. “He’s
mine
.”
“Don’t get your Calvins in a wad. Drew only has eyes for you.”
Richard stopped combing out my hair and looked at me. “You really think so?” For once there wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Yep, I really think so.”
“I have news,” he whispered, glancing over at Kay-Kay, who was absorbed in a brand-new issue of
Hair Trends
. I looked up at him quizzically, and he pressed his finger to his lips. “You’re looking at the lead in the next Hope Ferrell video.”
“What?”
“
Shhh
. Don’t say anything. I’m not telling anybody yet. Drew doesn’t even know.”
“My lips are locked,” I said.
If I had my way, they’d be dead bolted.
The end result of Kay-Kay and Richard’s collaboration was a half-down, half-up coiffure. Long curls at the bottom with the top portion swept up and away from my face. Richard even agreed to Kay-Kay’s idea for a fake flower pinned carefully just above my right ear. “The curl’s a little tight,” Richard explained, “but
don’t
brush it out. This way it’ll hold through the dancing—and anything else you and big football man might decide to do later.” He winked.
I waited until the drive home to ask Kay-Kay about the prom. “Rosie, I swear that’s the nicest thing anybody has ever asked me.”
“So you’ll go with us?” I asked, pulling into her driveway. I rolled down the windows and shut off the engine. The sharp smell of freshly cut grass made me want to sneeze. I fanned away the urge and looked at Kay-Kay.
“Absolutely not, but the fact that you were willing to share your big night with me . . . well, it means more than you know,” she said, hugging me tightly. “Besides, Daddy promised we’d order an Ab Cruncher online tonight. He’s committed to gettin’ back in shape. I’m keeping my fingers crossed it lasts.”
“I’m glad about your dad.”
“Ever since Florida he’s been better. Honestly, I mean, I hate to say it ’cause I don’t want to jinx things, but I think he’s starting to come out a his depression.” Kay-Kay’s eyes were shiny with hope, and for the first time since the whole Logan-Marta/Bluebird saga began, she seemed happy.
Kay-Kay has her rah-rah spirit back,
I thought to myself and smiled.
“What?” she asked. “Why are you grinning at me like that?”
“We have a lot to look forward to,” I said.
“I
know
! I think about that all the time. I’m so glad I’m not old. I’m glad it’s all still out there in front of me, just waiting. You know what the funniest part is?” I shook my head. “I’m starting to feel like there’s more stuff ahead now that Logan’s gone. The Bluebirds, too. It’s like all those things I wanted so bad were really just gettin’ in my way somehow.”
Late that afternoon, Mother tried to help with my pre-prom preparations. “Just let me smooth out your foundation,” she said, coming at me with a sponge wedge.
“Mother,
please
,” I said as patiently as possible, “I need to do this myself.” Mother gave me that annoying isn’t-it-cute-how-grown -up-she-is smile and slipped off downstairs. I shut my bedroom door, turned up the music, turned down the thermostat, and went to work.
Step one
:
Smooth, even foundation with a slightly damp sponge wedge. A hint of under-eye concealer to match my skin tone
Step two
:
Eye shadow and a touch of dark liner smudged over with powder shadow, some mascara, and a bit of eyebrow pencil (for fill-in only)
Step three
:
Blush with red undertones
Step four
:
Lip liner applied carefully—and
faintly
—dabs of lipstick one shade darker than the liner, tissue blotting, and gloss for shine
After I’d finished, I stood in front of the full-length mirror behind my bathroom door. The small diamond studs Mother had given me for my birthday sparkled in the late-afternoon sun. The black dress shimmered, and it was perfect for my Lane Bryant figure—it skimmed the flawed parts, the lumps and bumps of my belly, hips, and thighs, and hugged the good ones: my boobs. Even with the weight loss, Lucy and Ethel (Grandma Georgia’s nickname for breasts) were still plump and perky, and I had just the right amount of cleavage, enough to be tempting without seeming downright slutty.
“Rosie!” Mother called up the stairs. “There’s not much time, and everyone wants to
ooh
and
aah
over you before Kyle gets here.”
“Coming,” I yelled back. I waited for the mirror to say something nasty, but it was speechless. So was everyone else when I got downstairs, except for Aunt Mary, of course.
“Why, you just look so cute! Just so cute!” she said, clapping her hands together and flipping the same strand of too-gelled hair off her shiny forehead over and over again (I think her enthusiasm had more to do with the fact that she and Mother had officially made up earlier in the afternoon).
While Mother snapped pictures of Kyle (who was ten minutes early) and me, Grandma Georgia, Miss Bertha, Richard, and Drew stood around gawking. I could tell by the pink in Kyle’s cheeks he was embarrassed or nervous or both—not that I blamed him. Richard and Drew stood shoulder to shoulder, and I could tell they were scrutinizing his every detail. I could practically hear the grooming critique going on inside Richard’s head:
Dried-out cuticles! A stray nose hair! Razor burn!
Grandma Georgia kept saying she felt
farklempt
. Miss Bertha just sipped a tall glass of sweet tea as if it were a stiff drink and took the world in over the top of her drugstore half-glasses.
Mother was the only completely nonembarrassing one. Her itchy wig was perfectly in place. She’d dabbed on a little makeup. She took pictures, pinned my corsage, and offered Tic Tacs and tissues for my evening bag. “Just in case you need them,” she whispered, and brushed a smudge (probably Grandma Georgia’s pink lipstick) off my cheek.
I thought about her own prom all those years ago; more than likely, she was thinking about it, too. Her bravery—then
and
now—made me proud.
When I saw the restaurant’s menu board, I didn’t know whether to cry or bust out laughing. THE LAMPLIGHTER INN PRESENTS: A NIGHT OF ARTICHOKES.
“What’s that?” asked Kyle, pointing to the primitive drawing that looked more like a green pineapple than an artichoke.
“Your first course,” said a passing waiter.
“You sure you wouldn’t rather go to Frankie’s Carhop?” Kyle whispered.
Our opulent table of white linens, glowing candles, and shiny utensils was tucked away in a romantic corner. After we were seated and holding menus, Kyle reached across the table for my hand. “I’m sorry Kay-Kay didn’t get a date for the prom,” said Kyle, “but I’m kinda glad she’s not coming with us.”
“I just hate the idea of her sitting home, but she seemed fine with it.”
The candlelight illuminated Kyle’s broad, handsome face. He smiled at me. I smiled at him. It was a perfectly romantic, heart-stopping, oh-my-Lord-I-think-I’m-in-love moment until the waiter shoved a plate in between us.
“Pull off the leaves and scrape the stuffing off with your front teeth. Don’t eat the spikes,” he instructed and left.
“Spikes?” asked Kyle, screwing up his face.
A group of noisy prom goers piled through the front door. Her shrew voice stood out among the other normal chattering ones. “Hey, Tara! Check it out. A night of
artichokes
!” Misty cackled. My rabbit heart pounded wildly inside my chest.
It’s over,
I reminded myself, wondering exactly how I could make it over if Misty and Tara decided to torture me all night. Maybe I could ignore them on a regular school day, but on prom night, I wasn’t so sure.
“You don’t really wanna eat this thing, do you?” asked Kyle. “Hell-
o
?” He waved his giant football paw in front of my face. “Earth to Rosie. You’re a million miles away.”
I slumped down in my seat and turned my head toward the window. In the reflection, I saw the Bluebird group head toward a different dining room.
Thank God,
I thought and sat up straight again.
Our waiter stood in a corner by the kitchen. Kyle’s back was to him, but I could see he was giving us the eat-now-talk-later look. Obediently, I tugged off an artichoke leaf and followed the waiter’s instructions, scraping the pastelike mixture behind my two front teeth. It actually tasted good, really good, a combination of mushrooms and cheese with a little bit of ham mixed in. I polished off several more leaves (how fattening can a leaf be, after all).
BOOK: Artichoke's Heart
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