Good Girls Part 7

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in plastic; Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in wire; Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in wood. I say "hey" to all the Jesuses. Hey, baby. It's what I used to say to my mom's stomach when she was pregnant with Henry. I don't remember it; I read about it in a notebook I found hidden at the back of my mother's closet. She was only pregnant for five months before she lost him. The last entry in the book, the entry my mother wrote a few months after Henry died, said that I kept patting her belly, saying Hey, baby, Hey baby, Hey baby. She wrote that the last time I said it, my father put his face in his hands and cried. She wrote that I never said it again.

I get tired of walking around, so I slump down on a bale of hay in one of the life-sized Nativity scenes. I glance around. Mary seems smug, Joseph seems stunned, and baby Jesus looks like a glowworm in a blanket, but the bale of hay is the perfect place for a girl to hide from her mother, her father, the world. I gather my hair up in a loose bun at the back of my head, yank one of the elastics I always wear around on my wrist and wind it around the knot. Then I dig in my backpack for Much Ado About Nothing and start reading.

"You can't sit here," a voice says.

82 I look up, confused. I must have been sitting for a while, because my b.u.t.t's asleep. The guy standing over me is maybe fifteen, but I don't recognize him. He's wearing a uniform vest the red of his numerous zits. His name tag says "Walt."

"What's up, Walt?"

Walt is short and skinny, with a very prominent Adam's apple. He also has a serious hair-gel fetish. He's probably the one who set up the Nativity scene that I am ruining with my presence. I'm pretty sure I'm not holy enough to guest-star in any Nativity scenes.

"You can't just sit there," he warbles. "This isn't a library."

"I know that," I say. I wonder if his hair is stiff enough to pop a balloon. "I was just resting my legs."

"Yeah, well. You can't do that, either." He scratches at a pimple on his nose. "You've been back here for forty-five minutes."

"I have not," I say.

"Have too."

I don't feel like getting up. I don't feel like talking to Walt. I don't feel like talking to anyone. "There's no one in the store. What do you care if I sit here or not?"

"I don't care," Walt says. "My boss cares. He told me to tell you to leave. He thinks you're going to steal something."

"Like what?"

83 "How should I know?" he says.

"Think I'm going to smuggle out the baby Jesus over there?"

"Maybe."

"And why does he look like a glowworm, anyway?"

"Like a what?"

"Never mind," I say. I don't know why I'm torturing Zit Boy. It's not his fault that I'm in a p.i.s.sy mood and that his boss thinks I'm going to make off with the Virgin Mary. I shove my book back into my bag and stand up, my b.u.t.t tingling painfully. "I'm going."

"Good," he says.

I feel a weird little snap at the back of my neck, and suddenly my hair falls down. I shake my head and pluck the broken elastic off my shoulder . I'm about to fling it to the floor when I see Walt's face. He's smiling.

"What?" I say.

"Nothing," he says. But he's still smiling.

"What?" I say again, louder.

"You're that girl, aren't you?"

"I'm a girl, if that's what you mean," I say, though I know. Of course I know.

"That senior girl. I saw the picture," he says. The smile is now a smirk. There should be some sort of law against smirking. You should have to be at least eighteen to do it. It should require a license. "Everyone at school has seen that picture," he's saying.

84 "I don't know what you're talking about," I say.

But he's watching me tug at my hair, and he doesn't believe me.

"Sure," he says.

This kid doesn't even shave yet. He probably has a p.e.n.i.s the size of a pencil eraser . "What are you talking about?" I say, practically shouting.

"Nothing," he says. He's starting to enjoy himself.

He's bouncing up on his toes to make himself taller .

"That's right, nothing," I say, practically spitting.

"You know nothing."

Bounce, bounce, bounce. G.o.d should strike him dead. Or at least explode all his zits at once. "You need to look into something for those pimples," I tell him, turning to leave. "I saw a commercial on TV for some stuff that might help."

"Maybe you should be on TV. Or in one of those movies. You'd get paid, anyway," he calls after me. I walk faster, but not fast enough. Just as I make it to the front counter, where some gray-haired man is frowning sternly, I hear Zit Boy call: "Or maybe you like to do it for free?"

Okay. Fine. Christmas store, bad idea. Nativity scene, bad idea. I push open the gla.s.s door with my foot and storm outside. I know I should just go home, but I think that maybe Cookie Puss and Fudgie the Whale could use some company. But what's the first thing I see?

85 A green minivan parked right next to the ice cream store.

A minivan that looks a lot like Luke's mom's minivan, a van that Luke sometimes used when he had lots of stuff to cart around, or when he wanted a little portable pri- vacy. I'm a.s.saulted by flashbacks. Hands slipping up the back of my shirt, looking for the bra clasp. Fingers scrabbling at the front of my jeans. The smell of carpet- ing and warm skin. And then newer memories: slam- ming the door on Luke at the party, my picture on the cell phone, his stone face as he pa.s.sed me in the hallway.

I'm standing frozen on the walk when I see the door of the ice cream shop swing open. I don't have time to think, to consider if it really is Luke's mom's green van and if that really is Luke coming out of the ice cream store with another one of the half-vanilla, half-chocolate milkshakes he lives on. I do the only thing I can: I duck into Sally Beauty Supply. The choppy-haired punk girl at the counter looks up from her magazine, looks me up and down, and then looks down at the magazine again.

Well, here's someone who obviously hasn't seen the infa- mous photograph. Hallelujah. Sighing in relief, I begin fake-browsing the shelves. I have my choice of cheap lip- sticks in every shade known to woman and hair clips with beads, sparkles, or feathers, as well as curlers, crimpers, dryers, tweezers, and other instruments of tor- ture. I pick through nail files and polishes, shampoos and conditioners, gels and mousses. I make faces at the 86 wig heads and then wonder if there are hidden cameras doc.u.menting everything I'm not buying. Moving on to the dyes, I marvel at the colors. Vampire Red. Purple Pa.s.sion.

Too Blue. Flamingo. Fade to Black. For some reason, I like the last color the best, like how it looks, all inky and thick in the bottles. I grab a couple, one in each hand, just to look as if I'm actually shopping, doing something other than hiding from other people's mom's vans.

"You're going to need developer with that."

I whip around and see the girl from the counter standing there. With her plaid pants and a "Luv A Nerd" T-shirt, she's paired black socks with green rub- ber flip-flops. I'm momentarily stunned by her fashion choices, and by the Oreo-sized plugs piercing her ears.

"What?"

"Developer," she says. She pulls a big bottle of white stuff from the shelf. "You can't use the dye unless you mix it with this."

"Oh," I say. "But . . ."

"Have you ever dyed your hair before?" she asks me.

Her hair is Flamingo, with Purple Pa.s.sion bangs. She's clearly an expert.

"Uh, no, but . . ."

She plucks a bottle of dye from my hand. "I know it says 'Fade to Black,' but it's really a very dark brown. I don't know why they don't call it something else. I always thought that Dirt would be a good name."

87 "Dirt?" I say. I would never want my hair to be something called Dirt.

"You should probably get some gloves." She thrusts a box of rubber gloves at me. "The whole box is only five bucks, so it's worth it. Especially if you dye your hair again. And you will, believe me. It's addictive."

She hands me a little plastic bowl and something that looks a lot like a paintbrush. "Use this to mix the dye in.

Equal parts dye and developer. Use the brush to paint the dye on. Start at the roots and work down to the ends. Wait twenty-five minutes and wash it all out until the water comes clear." She eyes me critically, and I see that she's even dyed her eyebrows Flamingo to match her hair. "You have a ton of hair. And it's so blond. Is that natural?"

"Yeah," I say. "But I'm not sure . . ."

She pulls another bottle of Fade to Black from the shelf. "You're going to need more." She looks at the pile I have in my arms and laughs. "I guess I should help you carry the stuff up to the front."

"Thanks," I say. "But I really haven't decided whether . . ."

She turns abruptly and walks to the front of the store.

I follow, because I don't know what else to do. She moves behind the register and faces me. "I say go for it,"

she tells me. "If you don't like it, you can just chop it all off, right?"

88 I dump the stuff on the counter, wondering how I'm going to get out of the store without buying a thousand dollars' worth of products. "It took me years to grow my hair. I can't just chop it off."

Flamingo is amused. "Why not? Is it sacred or some- thing? Are you Samson? Besides, think about how dif- ferent you'll look with dark hair. I swear no one will recognize you."

I'm sure that everyone would recognize me if my hair were blue, with lime-green polka dots. But then, the thought that it might take people a few extra seconds makes me hesitate. Flamingo moves in for the kill. "I dye my hair all the time, and it works out fine for me. If I don't like what's going on, if things are c.r.a.ppy or just boring, I make my hair another color and I'm a new per- son. Easiest thing in the world." She smiles at me, a dif- ferent kind of smile than the ones I've been getting the last few days. A sweet smile, a friendly smile, an I-don't- know-who-you-are-and-I-couldn't-care-less smile. She starts to ring up the stuff, and I don't stop her. "Don't worry," she says. "You're going to be great."

89 We Interrupt This Program for a Special Report I'm twenty-five bucks poorer when I walk home, and I'm not happy about it. I don't know why I let some punk girl in flip-flops talk me into buying stuff that will turn my hair the color of dirt.

Dirt! And who is so dumb that they believe dyeing your hair can make you a whole new person? I fumble around in the bag for the receipt.

90 Great. She forgot to put one in there, and I forgot to ask for it. Twenty-five bucks down the tube because I couldn't face Luke's mom's van.

My dad's not happy, either. Apparently, he went to a lawyer and got some answers on the legal front. Since no one's face is visible in the picture, he tells us at dinner, it would be difficult to prosecute anyone for sending it.

"He did say that we could at least threaten to sue,"

my dad says. "Since it's probably a kid who sent the pic- ture around, we could shake him up."

"What will that do?" I say.

"What do you mean, what will it do?" my dad says, chewing his broccoli vigorously. "It will stop the little monster from doing it again."

"Dad, I don't even know who sent it."

"Did you ask that boy?"

I want to say What boy? but I know what boy. "No,"

I say. "I don't want to talk to him."

"I wouldn't want to talk to him, either, after what he did to you," my dad says. "Now that I'm thinking about it, you shouldn't talk to him. You should let me talk to him. I'll shake him up." For a second, he looks so mad that I worry he'll find Luke and rip his arms off. And maybe some other key parts, too. Not that it wouldn't be a teeny bit satisfying, but I know that if my dad even talks to Luke or his parents I will never, ever hear the end of this. Everyone will just blame me anyway.

91 "Dad, I don't want you to do anything," I say. "I want to forget about it."

"Forget about it?" he says. He turns to my mother.

"Elaine, will you talk some sense into her, please?" He scoops up his plate and practically throws it into the sink. "I have to look at some prom gown catalogs." He stalks from the room.

I push my broccoli around my plate. "Dad's freaking out."

"We're all freaking out," my mom says. "You're not eating."

"I don't like broccoli."

"You love broccoli."

"I love the cheese sauce that goes on the broccoli. I never liked the broccoli."

"I'm worried about you." My mom starts clearing the table. "I called my doctor . He had an appointment available, and I-"

I knew it! I start moaning: "Mom . . ."

"Audrey," she says, her voice firm. "If you're s.e.xually active, you need to see a doctor . This is not debatable."

I wince at the phrase "s.e.xually active." So weird and vague. So not s.e.xy. So not the way I'd describe anything I've ever done. "Do I have to go to a man?"

"He's a good doctor," she says. "I've been going to him for years. But if you want me to make some more calls-"

92 "Fine," I say, too embarra.s.sed for the both of us to argue. "When's the appointment?"

"Next Friday. Four o'clock."

"You're taking me, right?" I say, suddenly terrified that my dad will want to do it.

"Yes," she says. "You might not be comfortable talk- ing to us about these things, but I want you to be hon- est with the doctor."

I nod.

"I mean it," she says.

"I know." I feel like I'm at the doctor's already, splayed out under the bright lights. I can hear the ques- tions now: Are you s.e.xually active, Ms. Porter? When did you first become s.e.xually active? How often are you s.e.xually active? Did you know that s.e.xual activities occurring in green vans are more likely to result in hair the color of dirt?

"Can I ask you a question?" my mom says. She doesn't wait for me to say yes before she says, "Did you care about that boy?"