Pure Red (9 page)

licorice chick

After the beach, Graham runs off to a dentist appointment, so Harry walks us back to my place. I have to endure Liz and Harry’s five-minute kiss before he leaves for work. You would think he was leaving for a year in Africa, not a four-hour shift at an ice cream shop two blocks away.

Liz comes inside to get ready for basketball with me, but there’s a message on my home phone that practice has been cancelled. It’s from a guy at the Y, saying that Coach Parker had to rush her dog to the vet. I never pictured her with a pet. I thought she lived alone with her basketball.

I’m lying on my bed, face down. I lift my head and proclaim to all who care, “I’m doomed.”

Liz’s standing in front of my mirror and pulls the strap of her tank top down to inspect her tan. “What are you talking about?”

I can feel my blood pressure rising. “That whole thing with Graham about never wanting to date a girl if he knows her dad.”

Liz drops her chin and turns to face me. “Oh, that.”

“Now what? Somebody save me,” I scream into my pillow.

Liz sits down next to me and pats my back. I don’t need comfort. I need Graham to like me. “That conversation had nothing to do with you.”

“Who else was he referring to? And don’t say I have to tell my dad that Graham’s an axe murderer and never to let him back in the studio.”

“Whoa, calm down, girl.” Liz leans back. “I was thinking something else.”

“
And that something is … ?” I can tell she hasn’t thought about it, because Liz is rarely at a l
oss for words.

“You’re going to have to make him lust after you,” she says.

“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “Maybe I should just go out with Thomas Dunbar instead.”

“The guy that shows up at the gallery just to see how much food he can shove into his mouth?”

“Yes, Monica’s nephew. But he does other things too.”

“Like?”

“He plays baseball and once I saw him at Starbucks.”

“A match made in heaven.” Liz throws her hands up in the air and starts cracking up.

“Okay, fine. You win. So how do I get Graham to lust after me?”

She walks over to my desk and pulls out a pad of paper and a pen. “Tell me what he likes.”

“Art for one. My dad. Um … surfing … watching sports.”

“Well, you’re a good artist.” She nods like she’s trying to convince herself.

“Yeah, I guess, but I’m not going to impress him by hanging my drawings all over the place and he already knows I don’t surf.”

“But you could if you had to. Right?”

“Are you serious? Surfing is not one of those things you can learn on an emergency basis like driving a car.”

“Hmm.” Liz nods as if she’s in deep thought.

I pull a throw pillow off my bed and hit myself over the head with it. “Let’s face it, Ms. Cable was right.”

Liz quickly snaps out of her thought coma. “What? You’re going to let the lady with the mole on her face and pixie-stick legs tell you that you suck? I’ve had enough of this woman!”

I stretch out my legs. They aren’t exactly short and stubby, but you’d never call them pixie stick, either. “She does have a point. It’s a competitive world out there and maybe I’m better off settling before I waste everyone’s time and money.”

Liz shakes her arms at me. “Settling for what? You have so much talent. I don’t know anyone that is as artistic as you.”

“Except for one person.” I point to one of Dad’s daisy paintings above my head.

“Hello, he’s your dad and you’re his daughter. Where else do we get our talents from?”

“Never thought about it that way,” I say. “But it’s just that I don’t feel like I can ever compare.”

“And you’re not supposed to. Damn, next time I see Cable I’m going to shake her.”

“You’re lucky you have Mr. Doug.”

“Yeah, he’s a real winner.” She laughs. “He’s usually cleaning out his earwax with a pencil when he meets with students.”

I totally crack up picturing the six-foot-five counselor poking a no. 2 into his ear while Liz tries to discuss her future aspirations.

“I’ve got an idea.” Liz whips out her cell and scrolls through her contacts list.

“Oh, no!” I sit up. “Who are you calling? I don’t need any more lessons and I’m not up for learning a foreign language now or anything like that.”

She doesn’t get a chance to answer because the person on the other line picks up. “Can I speak to Deena, please?” She puts her hand over the phone. “I’m trying to get you an appointment for this afternoon.”

“For a lobotomy? Don’t you need parent permission for that?”

Liz bops up and down like she’s trying to shut me up. “Hey, Deena. It’s me. Lizzie. You
remember my friend, Cas
sia? Well,
she needs a little help. Can we come by tonight? Cool, you’re the best!
See y
a!”

“Was that your cousin who works at the salon?”

“Yeah, she said come by at seven. I was thinking blond highlights. Something that brings out your features, and … ” She scrutinizes my face. “An eyebrow wax.”

“Me, a blonde?” I get up and walk toward the mirror. I think of the picture of Mom in our big leather photo album, the one where she’s brushing her hair. I like to imagine that she brushed it one hundred strokes every night. I turn around to face Liz. “Black. I want to dye my hair black.”

Liz flares her nostrils. “Why? Goth is out.”

“I think it’ll be a good look for me. That’s all.” Maybe a fresh start begins from the outside.

“I guess you have to feel comfortable in your own skin.”

I hold my arm up to hers. “Looks like we both got some more color today.”

“Yeah, I know. My mom’s always on my case about using sunscreen and that whole cancer thing, but a girl’s got to have a little color.”

“I know what you mean.” But I really don’t. My dad’s never on my case about anything. He always mentions that I have a smart head and I know what to do. But how can that always be true? “Let’s see what’s on TV.” I grab the remote and stop on a makeover show.

“Must be karma.” Liz laughs.

We spend the rest of the afternoon glued to back-to-back makeover shows on TLC. I certainly know what I don’t want to look like.

At six thirty I call Dad to let him know I won’t be back until my transformation is complete, but he doesn’t answer. I hope he’s not on a date, too busy smooching to
answer my call. Total gross-out factor. I contemplate not leaving him a message and making him worry about my whereabouts; would serve him right, too. But I don’t have the guts to do that. Even if he’s the one who dissed my call.

–––––

I like sitting in this swivel salon chair. It makes me feel important. I’m waiting for my consultation with Deena and watching all the satisfied customers admire their hairdos as they twirl from side to side in front of the mirrors. Swish, swish goes the chestnut bob. Whoosh, whoosh, goes the blond layered do. Okay, so I have nothing better to do than add sound effects to everyone that walks by.

“What are we looking for today, sweetie?” Deena stands behind me. I can see her in the mirror. Something is different from the last time I saw her. She’s straightened her hair, and it’s redder now. I want to look different, too.

My eyes meet hers in the mirror. “I want to dye my hair black.”

“So dark?” she asks.

“Yeah. I thought about it and that’s what I want.” I hope.

“I always like a customer that knows what she wants.” Deena picks up a section of my hair. “Who has the nice thick locks? Your mom or dad?”

“My mom. Her hair is really long, too. And black.”

Maybe if I dye mine, it’ll bring me closer to her. I kno
w it sounds corny, but it’s worth a try. I watched a show a couple of years ago about channeling dead people. That if you try hard enough, you can reach them. I set up candles that night and meditated, but no signs of Mom’s existence came to me. I thought maybe I wasn’t trying hard enough, so the next time I set out pictures of her and sprayed my room with perfume. Still nothing appeared, but I did dr
eam of her that night. She was a mermaid seated on the ocean floor, beautiful as ever. Her skin glowed in the sun and her thick black hair covered her shoulders. I reached out and stroked her hair; it felt like silk. We didn’t speak, but we didn’t need too. The touch was enough.

“Ah, I see.” Deena nods her head.

I look around the room for Liz and spot her at a desk in the corner getting a manicure. She holds up two bottles of nail polish. “Which one?” she mouths.

“Pink,” I say. The color of love, relaxation, and contentment. Cotton candy, baby cheeks, and carnations. Not that this pink tank top brought me much luck with Graham today. Maybe the color with a reddish hue will serve her better.

Deena jets off to mix the hair dye and leaves me with a bunch of magazines. I love the crazy, off-the-wall hairstyles that no real person would ever get, but they look cool anyway. The kind where the models wear a lot of shiny makeup and have their hair sticking up in different directions.

Deena’s back with a bottle of dye and a bunch of hair clips. She shakes the bottle. “Are you sure?”

Black, the color of mystery, wisdom, and the unknown. Black like the night, lungs of a smoker, and Kalam
ata olives.

Does she know something I don’t? “Fire away,” I say, before I change my mind.

The dye stings my scalp, but I don’t tell Deena because I’m afraid she’ll stop and I’ll end up with a striped do. I close my eyes and imagine that I’m Mom. Bianca Bernard. Beautiful. Intelligent. Free.

If I knew how long it took to dye your hair black, I might have reconsidered. I feel like I’ve been here all night when Deena finally says I can have a seat next to the stack of magazines while we wait for the dye to set in. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and feel like an android, with my hair all clumped together in several different sections. Deena sets the timer for thirty minutes and says she’ll be back to check on me. I keep an eye on the clock. I’m afraid she’ll forget about me and by the time she remembers, all my hair will have fallen out. Bald is not a fashion option for me.

“How’s it going, Vampire Girl?” Liz plops down next to me.

“Could you at least come up with something more glamorous?”

“Sorry.” She gives me a long stare. “Licorice Chick?”

“I kind of like that.” I hope Graham is the licorice type of guy.

I glance at the time again. Ten minutes left. Deena still hasn’t come by to check on me. Maybe she got cold feet and fled the salon.

“You like?” Liz wiggles her fingers and toes.

“Yeah, the coral polish really brings out your tan.”

“Thanks.” She jumps up from her chair. “I have to call Harry, but I’ll be back.”

“Okay, fine, leave me here … ”

She flips her wrist. “You’ll be fine, Licorice Chick.”

The timer goes off and I call for Deena. She smells like vinegar salad dressing when she returns. I guess she’s got to take a dinner break sometime. She washes out the licorice before I even get a glimpse. Then I’m back in the chair where she claims she’s giving me a
chic
do. I can’t tell much because my hair’s wet, but it’s definitely dark.

When she’s done snipping, she says, “I’ll blow it out for you so you don’t have to leave with wet hair.”

“Thanks.” I could get used to this.

She pulls out a dryer. “Now if you want to stay with the black, you’re going to have to come back in three to four weeks so I can touch up the roots.”

I just nod. I’m not thinking about what I’ll look like in three to four weeks, I’m thinking about what Graham will say when he sees me. Will his eyes drop to the floor? Or will he declare his undying love for me? I wish.

Now Dad, he’s another story. Maybe I should’ve gone blond since it seems like that’s his type these days.

“We’re all finished.” Deena twirls my chair around and hands me a small mirror. “Take a look at the back. It’s very full when you blow it out.”

I squint because I’m not sure if I can take in the whole transformation at once.

“Very mysterious.” Deena smiles. “You like it?”

I purse my lips and tilt my head to the side. There’s definitely a strong contrast between my light skin and my rich black hair.

It takes me a long time to answer her, but finally I say yes. I don’t want to hurt her feelings. Besides, I think I like it.

“Well?” I twirl in front of Liz once we get outside.

“Wow, your cheekbones really stick out with all those layers.”

My mouth drops. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Rock star cool,” she says. “I didn’t think I’d like it, but I do.”

“Thanks.” I’m still skeptical, though. “Rock star cool as in young and cool or aging rocker dude?”

Liz rolls her eyes. “Do you think I’m going to compare you to an old guy that slurs his words and eats bats?”

We both laugh.

–––––

Dad’s not back yet when I get home, so I scour through all the old photo albums searching for pictures of Mom. My favorite photo
is
Bianca and Jacques at a New Year’s Eve soiree in New York City
. Mom’s wearing an indigo dress and Dad has on a navy suit with a big collar. Dad has his arm firmly planted around Mom like he’s her protector.

Bianca. I can imagine Dad saying her name, exaggerating each syllable.
Bee-aaan-caw
. When Graham says my name, it’s like he’s rushing and all the letters stick together. It comes out like
see-ya
. That always makes a girl feel good. Now why couldn’t my parents have named me Olive Juice. If Graham said that nice and slow, I’d melt.

I run my fingers through the underneath of my licorice do. It’s still soft, even with the dye job. I wonder if my mom, Bianca, would’ve approved. “You like, Mom?” I whisper.

I want to know what her name means, so I do a Google search and find a baby name site. Bianca is Italian, meaning white and pure. I push away from my computer and stare in
to the mirror. Then I remember something Dad always says when he’s discussing color. Something very elementary. White reveals. Black conceals. I stare at the black hair of the girl in the mirror. What is she hiding?