Send Me a Sign

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “I like your new highlights,” I said as I got in the car.

  “Thanks.” She turned on the radio.

  I turned it off. “Lauren says one of the freshmen is becoming a great tumbler.”

  “Monica. You were better, but she’ll do.” Hil swore at a slow car in front of her and drummed sparkly nails on the steering wheel.

  “Anything else new? I feel so out of it after missing all that school.” I was embarrassed to be asking; I should know.

  “Not really.”

  Maybe the direct route was best. “Are you mad at me?”

  “No.” The slow car turned into a driveway and Hillary accelerated with a jerk.

  “Sorry I’ve missed so much practice.”

  “Whatever. It has nothing to do with that.”

  “Then what? Because of Ryan?” I instinctively grasped the empty air at my neck.

  “What, you mean how you’re supposedly not dating him, yet he’s been your spokesperson for the past two weeks?”

  “He has not.”

  “Really? He and Lauren are the only ones you bother to talk to anymore. Explain why I should tell you anything when you don’t trust me enough to tell me what’s going on?” She glowered at the yellow lines blurring ahead of us.

  “I’m here now. Hil?”

  “Forget it.” She sucked in a breath and asked, “So, are your parents splitting up?”

  “What? My parents? No. Why?”

  “I thought—the whole Connecticut thing? My parents sent me away when they tried a last-ditch effort to fix their crap marriage.” She sniffed once, her voice raw. “I thought maybe your parents—you’ve been totally non-Mia since you got back.”

  “No. They’re fine.”

  “Oh. Forget I said anything.”

  “I’d tell you—if my parents were divorcing. I’d tell you that.” That would be easy.

  “Would you? You know Ally has all these theories about what’s going on with you. Mia’s depressed, Mia’s anorexic, Mia’s in rehab, Mia’s got mono.”

  I tried to laugh but it came out mangled and fake. “Ally’s so dramatic.” Though mono would’ve been a great cover and part of me wished I’d thought of it.

  “Is she? Where’ve you been? I stopped by your house more than once and there was never anyone home. Once I ran into Mac ’n’ Cheese—he was coming out your front door and said he was feeding Jinx. Why did Gyver have to feed your cat if you were home sick?”

  “You must be spending too much time with Ally—now you’re being a drama queen too.” I sounded like my mom—pacifying, belittling.

  Hil flinched. “I’m worried about you. Don’t you get it?”

  I stared out the window and directed my lie to the row of mailboxes. “I’m fine.”

  Hil sighed. “Never mind. After the game we’ll go to Lauren’s party—thank God her parents are away. We’ll talk there, okay? You can tell me how Winters is wonderful and I’ll try to believe it.” She gave me her pretty and persuasive smile and I wanted to nod, but I couldn’t. “You are going, right? It’s at Lauren’s. You know, your new best friend’s house? Wait … let me guess; you’re busy with Ryan?” Her voice was acid and ice.

  “You’re still—” The rest of that sentence, “my best friend,” felt awkward and forced. “I can’t go, but he can if he wants.”

  “But he won’t. He’s like a puppy.” She relented. “Please, Mia.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You two are so lame. He used to be hot and you used to be fun. He’s just a guy. It’s not worth it!” She pulled into the parking lot behind the field house.

  “Is this the part where you explain to me how it’s so different than what you and Keith did for a year and a half? You’re such a hypocrite!” I snapped.

  She got out without answering, but the parking lot lights reflected off tears on her cheeks.

  I stayed curled in the passenger seat, knees to chin, bloomers visible to anyone who walked by, and tried to convince myself I hadn’t just made things worse.

  A knock on the window made me jump. Ally waved and mouthed, “You okay?” I nodded and uncurled my knees, wishing I’d stayed home, wishing Ally wasn’t waiting with a what’s-wrong? expression. Wishing I didn’t have to smile and lie.

  Chapter 28

  I should’ve been expecting it. Every morning there was more hair on the pillowcase and less on my head. I couldn’t wear dark colors because the contrast with my blond hair drew attention to my excessive shedding. Still, I went down to breakfast on Saturday unprepared.

  “Kitten, have you thought about when you’d like to go back to the hairdresser?” Mom looked at a box on the kitchen table.

  “There’s not much left to cut.” I resembled one of those toddlers with stringy, wispy hair.

  “I think it’s time to accept the inevitable. The best thing would be to cut it off and wear this.” She reached into the box and pulled out a wig packaged within some sort of netting. “It’s real hair—your hair. Remember?”

  “Oh.” My hands strayed upward. “It’s that bad?”

  “It’s not bad. You still look beautiful. It’s just, if you want to pretend you have hair, we need to switch to the wig before what’s left on your head is gone.”

  The wig looked like a shiny dead animal. “Today?”

  “It doesn’t have to be. Whenever you’re ready—I’ve already talked to the salon. So, when you’re ready …” Her eyes skipped by me and fixed on the telephone.

  “I guess today works. There’s no point in waiting, right?” I looked at my feet; my toes were clenched within my socks.

  “Absolutely! I knew you’d make a mature decision. I’ll reserve the salon so you have privacy. Don’t worry, you’re going to look just as pretty in the wig.”

  I ducked out the front door while she was on the phone. Mrs. Russo answered my knock. “Mia? What are you doing over here so early? And in your pajamas? Get in here before you freeze.”

  “Is Gyver up?” I asked.

  “This early? I don’t expect him to surface before noon. He was at a concert last night.” She took a plate from the cabinet and piled it with fresh fruit and toasted raisin bread.

  “Oh.” I sat at the table and poured juice. “Thanks. Did you and Mr. Russo already eat?”

  “Yes. Why don’t I go wake lazy boy up to keep you company?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Dearest, you would not be over here at nine in the morning on a Saturday—in your pajamas—if everything was okay.”

  I stared at the tablecloth. “Mom thinks I should shave my head and wear a wig.”

  Mrs. Russo refreshed her coffee and joined me at the table, leaning in and giving me her complete attention—the same way Gyver did. “How do you feel about that?”

  I shrugged. “It makes sense. It’s not like I have much choice, and my head’s itchy.”

  “You wouldn’t have to wear a wig.”

  “Walk around bald?”

  She put a hand on my arm and waited me out.

  “I don’t want to be bald.” Once I started to cry, I couldn’t stop. Mrs. Russo bundled me in her arms and rubbed my back, rocking and cooing comforting words.

  “I. Don’t. Want. Any. Of. This.” And finally the words I’d been fighting against since July came spewing out. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.”

  “I know,” she soothed.

  “I just want—”

  “Nancy? Is Mia here?”

  At the sound of my mother’s voice, I jerked upright, stifled a half-formed sob and wiped my cheeks on my sleeves.

  Mrs. Russo pressed her lips together for a moment, then leaned over and touched them to my cheek. “We’re in here. Eating some breakfast.”

  Mom walked in. “There you are, kitten! Good news, we’re all set for ten thirty today.”

  I examined my raisin toast and hid my giveaway splotchy cheeks. “Great. Thanks, Mom.”

  “Would you like some fruit? Bread? Coffee? There’s p
lenty.” Mrs. Russo pointed to the mugs on the table and began assembling a plate.

  Mom poured herself a cup of coffee. “When I can’t fit in my pants, I’m blaming your raisin bread. It’s sinfully good. Right, Mia?”

  I um-hmmed, but my legs began to bob under the table. I couldn’t fake it right now, and if I didn’t leave soon, she’d notice. “Can I go wake Gyver?”

  “Absolutely. Tell lazy boy it’s time to join the living,” Mrs. Russo said.

  I knocked twice before I heard a noise that was half-groan and half-snarl. “It’s early, Mom.” His voice was muffled by the door and maybe a pillow.

  “It’s Mia,” I said to the doorframe.

  “Mi? What?” Less muffled; perhaps the pillow had been removed.

  “Can I come in?” I waited five quiet seconds. “I’m coming in.”

  Gyver sat up and rubbed his face with the palm of his hand. His hair was an anarchy of black locks and the pillowcase had left creases on his cheek. He was shirtless. One foot and part of his calf were sticking out from under his blanket, making it clear he didn’t wear pajama pants to bed either.

  “Hi,” I said shyly, sitting down in his desk chair.

  “You’re in my bedroom. In your pajamas.” His words were sleep-slowed and rusty.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, waiting for his inevitable innuendo.

  Gyver blinked. “And you’ve been crying. What’s wrong, Mi?” He sat up straighter, alert.

  “Nothing.”

  He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

  “Nothing really. At least, nothing that matters. My mom wants me to get my hair cut today.”

  He raised the other eyebrow.

  “Cut off,” I clarified.

  He nodded and waited. Were the Russos born with magical listening powers or did they cultivate them?

  “It’s superficial, but I like my hair. I don’t want to wear a wig and I don’t want to be sick.” I was making trails in his carpet with my big toe. “Go ahead, tell me I’m being shallow.”

  “C’mere.” He patted a spot next to him.

  “Um … what do you have on under there?”

  He grinned. “Would you like me to show you?”

  When my cheeks lit up with blushes, he laughed and amended, “I’m joking, Mi. I’ve got boxers on. Come here, would you? I’ll stay safely under the covers.”

  I sat on his bed—the way he’d sat on my hospital one. He gave me a sleep-warm hug. “You okay? You want to cry?”

  “Did that already. I’m just so tired of it all, Gyver.”

  He leaned his cheek against the top of my head; I could feel the heat from his bare chest radiating through my pajamas. “I worry about you, Mi. It seems like you’re more worried about people finding out you’re sick than the fact that you are sick.”

  I heard him, but I didn’t have an answer. I continued to fidget: tracing lines with my fingertips on the inside of the arm he’d wrapped around me.

  “Maybe you should give them a chance. If your friends aren’t there for you when you need them, what good are they?” he asked.

  I needed to push things back to safe waters—I should push away from him. I forced a laugh. “Maybe you just make it too easy; I don’t need them when I’ve got you.” I’d planned to add “and Ryan,” but my voice betrayed me and I was suddenly nervous. “We should go downstairs. Mom’s waiting in the kitchen.”

  “Yours or mine?”

  “Both.”

  “So I guess I can’t pull you under these blankets and take advantage of your fragile emotional state.” Gyver laughed at my startled expression and rolled away from me to reach for something on the far side of the bed—revealing a pair of light-blue boxers decorated with purple musical notes. My cheeks burned again. I shifted my gaze and tried to shift my thoughts.

  “Here.” Something landed in my lap. I looked down at a black newsboy cap with a band logo on the front. “I got it last night, but it’ll look better on you.”

  He gently brushed my hair back and placed it on my head. My “thanks” was breathless.

  “No problem. Now, can you get out of my room so I can get dressed? If you’re going to wake me up early to go to a salon, the least you can do is properly fortify me with caffeine first.”

  “What? You don’t have to—”

  “Go.” Gyver nudged me through the blanket with his foot.

  “You don’t have to beg. I’ll come with you—but most public places require pants. And I require coffee.”

  I forced myself to laugh, half-relieved and half-disappointed to be leaving his room. “I’ll have a mug ready for you.”

  “Yes, please. And Mi?” I paused at the door and turned around. Gyver grinned. “I caught you checking out my boxers. Couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

  My face blazed again: embarrassment plus anger. I pulled the door shut—loudly—and headed downstairs to make him an overly sweet cup of coffee.

  Chapter 29

  “Be honest.” My posture was debutante perfect in the salon chair. “Do I look like an anorexic alien?” I hadn’t seen myself yet, but I could imagine a huge, bald head on a too-skinny neck.

  Mom was horrified. “No! Of course not. You look beautiful.”

  Gyver spun my chair toward the mirror. “Actually, you’re kinda right—as usual.”

  Mom was more horrified. “MacGyver! My daughter certainly doesn’t. You don’t, kitten.”

  I looked at Gyver’s reflection; he was making faces behind my back. I laughed nervously and lowered my eyes to my own face, sucking in a deep, loud breath.

  “Your eyes look bigger,” offered the optimistic stylist. “You’ve got killer blue eyes.”

  “Exactly!” Mom agreed emphatically. “Once you put on your wig, no one’ll know.”

  She held it out, but I ignored her and continued to study the large-eyed, bareheaded girl in the mirror. I twisted the chain around my neck, pulling the charm out from under my smock so I could slide it back and forth while I processed.

  “What’s that?” Gyver frowned, reaching for the pendant.

  “Is that new?” Mom also leaned in to inspect the gold heart.

  “Ryan gave it to me last night.” I pulled away from Gyver’s grasp and tucked it self-consciously under my shirt. He’d surprised me with it after the game—when I’d bailed on Lauren’s party and yet another of his rain check dates—pressing a small jewelry box in my hand while I was still making excuses. I knew I was probably supposed to respond with, “Yes, I’ll go out with you,” but I couldn’t hide my disappointment that my necklace wasn’t inside the green velvet case.

  Ryan had looked disappointed too, saying, “I’m still here, Mia. I know you thought I’d run after seeing you in the hospital, but I’m still here. Trust me.” I’d kissed his cheek and asked for help with the clasp, but it felt different on my neck. A heart wasn’t good luck. What does it signify if you lose your lucky charm?

  “Your boyfriend?” asked the stylist. “How pretty! You’re lucky to have such a nice guy. I wish my boyfriend bought me jewelry.”

  Gyver snorted.

  “She is lucky!” Mom gushed. “He’s handsome, thoughtful, and last year’s junior prom king. Now let’s try the wig.”

  Instead I put on Gyver’s hat. “I think my scalp needs to settle.”

  Mom blinked. “Oh. That’s fine. It’s not like anyone’s going to see you in here.” She scanned the empty salon. “Do you want to wait in the car while I pay?”

  I nodded and yanked off the smock before the stylist could undo the snaps. Gyver took the keys from my mother and put a hand on my shoulder as we walked out.

  With the doors shut, me in the backseat, Gyver in shotgun, and the radio tuned to one of his stations, I took the hat off. My head felt exposed and prickly. “Awful?”

  Gyver leaned against the headrest, eyes closed and singing along with a song while he rolled a guitar pick between his fingers. “Are you compliment fishing? Because you couldn’t look awful if you tried.” />
  I put the hat back on. “I wish you’d be serious.”

  “You look fine.”

  “Fine? I hope Ryan’s okay with ‘fine.’” I was crushed. What did I want Gyver to say?

  He opened his eyes and scanned me from the top of the hat down to the heart pendant. “So Ryan’s your boyfriend now? It’s official?”

  “What?” I stopped fussing with the rim of the hat and looked at him. “No, Mom just refuses to listen, and I’m sick of correcting her.”

  “What kind of game are you playing, Mi?”

  “Game?”

  He turned around in his seat, searing me with intense eyes. “You’re jerking the guy along. Either you like him enough to date him or you don’t—so either go out with him or let him go while he’s still got some dignity left.”

  I pulled the hat brim lower and stared at my fingernails. When I had I let them get so ragged? “You don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s not like that.”

  Gyver nearly yelled his response. “I know exactly what I’m talking about—you’re going to break his heart.”

  I scoffed. “I am not going to break Ryan’s heart. He doesn’t care that much.”

  Gyver paused for a second, his voice dropped to a deep whisper. “Well, if he doesn’t care, why’s he doing all this?”

  Why was Ryan doing this? I could think about that later, right now I was too focused on Gyver and too unsettled. “He’s hardly the only thing I’m worried about. Does it look real or will people guess? What if Ally and Hil find out? How do I keep a wig on while cheering?”

  “Enough.” He held up a hand—the pick held between pointer and middle finger—and shut his eyes again. “Didn’t you hear? It makes your ‘killer blue eyes look bigger.’ Are you really going to make me tell you you’re gorgeous, so you feel good about yourself for Ryan? You know I think so. I need a much bigger dose of caffeine if you’re going to be whining about The Jock and the cheerbitches.”

  If his eyes had been open, he would’ve seen how much his words hurt, but he only sighed and rubbed his closed lids. I spent hours locked behind my bathroom door with the wig and the arsenal of products Mom bought to care for it. I ached to call Hil, have her come do hairstyling-goddess tricks and tell me honestly how I looked. She’d hug me and allow a five-minute cry if it was awful, then say “that’s enough” and tell me her plan to make bald the newest trend. But after our fight yesterday, I couldn’t convince myself to press the buttons to bring her to my dramafest. Probably because I was scared she wouldn’t come.