by Peg Kehret
“I have a student council meeting at seven. What time is the party?”
“The guests don’t come until eight, but I need to be there by . . .” Laura looked up and stopped in midsentence. “What happened to your hair?” she said.
“I cut it.”
“I can see that.” Laura wrinkled up her nose, as if Ginger’s hair smelled bad. “It’s only two inches long!”
“Two and a half,” Ginger said.
“It’s so shaggy! What did you use, the garden shears?”
“I used Mom’s manicure scissors.” You would think I had stabbed someone with them, Ginger thought, the way she’s acting.
“Why didn’t you go to a hair salon? Why on earth would you do it yourself?”
“I don’t like hair salons,” Ginger said. “The stylists always ask me how I want my hair cut, and I don’t know what to say. They’re the experts. Why do they ask me what they should do?”
“Just say you want a trim,” Laura said.
Sure, Ginger thought. A trim. In other words, have them cut it exactly the same way they cut it the last time and the time before that and the time before that. And I will look the same as I have always looked.
Ginger didn’t want to look the way she always looked. That was the whole point. In the past, whenever the person in the hair salon draped that plastic cape around her shoulders and asked how she wanted her hair cut, what she had really wanted to say was, “Cut it so I look gorgeous. Make me so beautiful that every boy in the eighth grade will be hanging around my locker.” Instead, Ginger always shrugged and mumbled, “I don’t care.”
This time, Ginger wanted to change the way she looked for a different reason, but she didn’t tell Laura that. Instead she said, “I saved fourteen dollars by cutting my hair myself.”
“Next time ask Mom for the fourteen dollars.” Laura began cutting the crusts off a loaf of French bread. “She would gladly spend the money to keep you from looking like a freak.”
“For your information,” Ginger said, “this haircut is practical, stylish, and not at all freaky.”
Tipper catapulted through the back door, wearing his cowboy outfit. He stopped in front of Ginger. “Cool,” he said. “You look like those weird people we saw downtown who had rings in their belly buttons.”
“I rest my case,” said Laura.
“What does he know about hairstyles?” Ginger said. “He’s had a cowboy hat on his head ever since he was born.”
“I like your hair this way,” Tipper said. “Remember that one guy we saw who had half his hair purple and the other half orange? I liked his hair, too.” Tipper took a drink of water and then let out a loud belch.
“Out!” Laura said, pointing to the door.
“I’m practicing my teaching methods,” Tipper said.
“Is Polly Vaughn on student council?” Laura asked.
“No. She ran for it but she didn’t get elected.”
“I’ll call Polly Vaughn,” Laura said, “and see if she can help me. That way, you won’t have to leave your meeting early.”
Ginger returned to the bathroom. She stared at her reflection, knowing Laura was right. The haircut was terrible; she did look like a freak. She wondered if she could wear a stocking hat pulled down over her ears for a few months.
Probably not.
She had not intended to cut off so much hair. She wanted to change how she looked, but not this way. The sides had kept coming out uneven, so she kept snipping, and her hair got shorter and shorter, and then it was too late.
Ginger went into her parents’ bedroom and picked up the telephone. When Karie answered, Ginger said, “I need to warn you. I cut my hair.”
“I had mine cut today, too,” Karie said. “It doesn’t look much different, though. I only got a trim.”
“Mine looks different.”
“Oh, good. I love new hairstyles. Where did you have it done?”
“In the bathroom. I cut it myself.”
There was a slight pause. “How does it look?” Karie said.
“Tipper says I remind him of some people we saw who had rings in their navels.”
“That bad, huh?”
“It’s short. Really short.”
“How short?” Karie asked. “Exactly.”
“About two inches. Everywhere.”
“Two inches?” Karie squeaked. “What did your mom say?”
“She hasn’t seen me yet, but Laura threw a fit. You know how she is about appearances, always worrying what people might think. She was begging me to help her serve a party tonight, and then when she saw my hair she changed her mind.”
“Maybe it isn’t as bad as you think,” Karie said.
“Thanks. I have to hang up; I just heard Mom come home.”
“See you at the student council meeting.”
“Do you know what the meeting is about?”
“Nope. All I know is Nancy Randolph called a special emergency meeting, and she said it’s important.”
• • •
Two hours later, Ginger went into the gym for the meeting. Karie ran to greet her. She walked all around Ginger, looking at the front and back of her head.
“It’s cute,” Karie said, sounding surprised. “It is short, but it’s classy looking. I like it.”
“Thanks,” Ginger said.
“From the way you talked on the phone, I was prepared to see a real hatchet job.”
“It was,” Ginger said. “You are seeing me after Mom spent thirty-two dollars, plus a five-dollar tip, for a stylist at The Velvet Kitten to—and I quote my mother—‘fix this mess.’”
“Oh,” said Karie. “Well, it looks good now. You were lucky they could take you at The Velvet Kitten on such short notice.”
“Mom pleaded. She’s leaving for Chicago in the morning, and she said I had to look decent before she left. The stylist knows Mom because Mom refers a lot of brides to The Velvet Kitten for their wedding-day hairdos.”
Nancy held up her hand. Everyone quit talking and found seats. “I called an emergency meeting because a petition has been filed with the school board to fire Mr. Wren as coach of the girls’ basketball team.”
Gasps of surprise intermingled with shocked comments.
“Why?”
“What happened?”
“Who wants him fired?”
“The formal request came from Mrs. Vaughn.”
Ginger and Karie glanced at each other. “That figures,” Ginger said.
Nancy continued. “The petition states that Mr. Wren is unfit for the job of girls’ basketball coach and cites four reasons:
1. His unwillingness to recognize which players are most capable.
2. His inability to teach basketball skills.
3. His inadequate strategy during games.”
“That is totally ridiculous,” said Karie.
“Unfortunately,” Nancy said, “a few other parents support Mrs. Vaughn. They claim that they were never told at the start of the season about his plan to give everyone equal playing time.”
“That isn’t true,” Beth Sumner said. “He told all of us when we tried out, and he told us again at the first practice. I thought it was great because I knew I’d probably sit on the bench all season if he only put the best players in the games.”
“What’s the fourth reason?” asked Ginger.
“The petition also charges that the practice sessions are unorganized and do not teach any practical skills.”
“What?” cried Susan Fields. “He’s the best coach in the league! I’ve learned more from him in one season than I knew about basketball my whole life before this year.”
“The school board is holding a preliminary hearing tomorrow night at seven o’clock,” Nancy said. “I think the student council should attend and voice our support for Mr. Wren.”
The vote was unanimous.
After the meeting, Ginger waited for her mom to pick her up. She looked carefully around the parking lot, relieved that no white car
was parked outside.
The woman could not have known about an unscheduled meeting, Ginger thought. Normally Ginger stayed home on Tuesday nights.
When Mrs. Shaw arrived Ginger said, “If I never see Mrs. Vaughn again, it will be fine with me. She’s trying to get Mr. Wren fired as basketball coach.”
“I know,” Mrs. Shaw said. “She called this afternoon and asked me to sign her petition.”
“Did you?”
“No, I didn’t,” her mother replied. “It was hard to refuse because Mrs. Vaughn gives Laura and me so much business, but I don’t know anything about the basketball team.”
“I do. Mr. Wren is a good coach and a great social studies teacher,” Ginger said. “He’s in charge of the Natural Helpers program, and he always chaperons the Saturday field trips, and if kids have a problem, they know they can go to Mr. Wren for help and he won’t act like it’s all the kid’s fault for being in trouble.”
“Mrs. Vaughn seems convinced he should be replaced. I suspect she called everyone she knows who has a student at Roosevelt. She wants a crowd at the school board hearing. I told her my husband and I were both leaving town tomorrow morning.”
“The student council is going to the meeting to support Mr. Wren,” Ginger said.
“Be careful what you say. Mrs. Vaughn can be vindictive.”
“What do you mean?”
“She doesn’t have to hire B.A. Catering for her parties, or recommend Celebrations to her friends. Laura and I get a lot of business because Mrs. Vaughn likes us and our work.”
“She’s wrong about Mr. Wren,” Ginger said.
They rode the rest of the way home in silence.
When Ginger got home, Tipper told her, “That lady called again.”
“Did you get her name this time?”
“No. She asked what time you go to school in the morning. I told her seven-thirty, but you might leave early tomorrow because Mom and Dad are going out of town.”
“Oh, Tipper,” Mrs. Shaw scolded. “You must never tell a stranger that your parents are away.”
Tipper looked surprised. “Was she a stranger?” he asked. “I thought she was someone Ginger baby-sits for.”
My baby-sitting customers always leave their names, Ginger thought, and their phone numbers.
Chapter
Seven
JOYCE TOOK THE LAST load of laundry out of the dryer, carefully folding each piece of clothing. There. Everything was clean and ready to pack.
She wondered what size the girl wore. She wouldn’t have any extra clothing with her when she and Joyce left.
Maybe she can wear my clothes, Joyce thought. If not, I’ll buy her new clothes. We’ll have to get rid of the ones she’s wearing when we leave. Even though she’ll come willingly this time, someone may try to find her.
• • •
Ginger woke up before her alarm went off. She felt anxious, as if she’d had a bad dream, but she could not recall what it was. Then she remembered the white car, and the woman who called and asked what time Ginger got home and what time she left for school.
Ginger smelled coffee and heard voices in the kitchen. She looked at her clock. Five-fifty.
She got up and pulled the curtain away from the bedroom window. Heavy mist dampened the gray predawn light.
There was no white car, but the blue and yellow Super Shuttle was parked in front of the house. She knew that Mom and Dad were leaving for the airport at six o’clock. She put on her bathrobe and went out to say good-bye. Laura slouched on the sofa, half asleep. Tipper, in his cowboy outfit, galloped around the room.
Mr. and Mrs. Shaw had already carried out their luggage. They hugged Ginger, Laura, and Tipper, gave them some last-minute instructions, and climbed aboard.
“Bring me a present!” Tipper called.
“I’m going back to bed,” Laura said. Yawning, she left the room.
Ginger watched the shuttle’s taillights slide into the fog. She looked forward to being on her own with Laura, but she wished it hadn’t happened right when a strange woman was calling and asking about Ginger’s schedule. She looked both ways into the mist and saw only the empty street. Shivering, she went inside and locked the door behind her.
Tipper sat at the kitchen table eating a bowl of Cheerios.
Ginger got a pitcher and began mixing a can of frozen orange juice.
Tipper set his empty bowl in the dishwasher. He put on his coat.
“What are you doing?” Ginger said. “It’s only six A.M., and it’s raining.”
“I’m going to Marcus’s house.”
“You can’t go over there now.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too early.”
“Mom and Dad have left. I’m supposed to stay with Marcus while they’re gone. Two kids are signed up for burping lessons on Saturday, and we need to get ready.”
“Laura will take you to Marcus’s house after school today,” Ginger said. “It’s all arranged with Marcus’s mother.”
Tipper took off his coat. “You should have told me last night that I wasn’t going to Marcus’s until after school,” he said. “I got up at five-thirty for nothing.”
Ginger poured herself a glass of juice.
Tipper took his bowl out of the dishwasher and filled it with more Cheerios. This time, he didn’t put milk on them. He munched them dry, using his fingers instead of a spoon.
“You know the day when I asked if you saw who was driving that white car?” Ginger said.
Tipper nodded.
“Did you see who it was, or didn’t you?”
“It wasn’t really a cute guy with a sign. I made that up.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“It was that same lady who talked to us at your birthday party.”
Ginger set her glass down. “When we were in the restaurant?”
“Right.” Tipper chomped another handful of Cheerios.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ginger said.
“I wanted to make Marcus laugh.”
“I wouldn’t have asked you about the driver if it wasn’t important,” Ginger said. “Are you certain it was the same woman?”
“Yes. She was crying.”
“Crying? Are you sure?”
Tipper nodded. “Marcus and I were playing catch in the street, and we stepped on the curb to let the white car go by, and when she went past me, I saw that the lady was crying. And so I looked closer, and that’s when I remembered seeing her before, when she came over and told you ‘happy birthday.’”
So it was her, Ginger thought. She did follow us home. She sat there and watched our house. And she followed Laura to Mrs. Vaughn’s house and went to the party and took Laura’s business card.
“Did you notice anything else?” Ginger asked. “Anything about the car?”
“Like what?”
“Sometimes a car will have a funny bumper sticker.”
Tipper shook his head.
“Or it will have something hanging from the rearview mirror, like a crystal or a pair of dice.”
“No. I didn’t see anything like that.”
“Or it will have something on the antenna,” Ginger continued, “so the owner can pick out the car quickly in a parking lot.”
“It had a ribbon,” Tipper said.
“On the antenna?”
“Yes. A yellow ribbon.”
“You should have told me the truth when I asked you,” Ginger said, “instead of showing off for Marcus.”
“Who is she?” Tipper asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Is she a spy?” Tipper’s eyes grew round. “Are you going to call the police?”
Ginger knew better than to tell her brother that she suspected she was being followed. Tipper would make up a million theories about why someone was spying on Ginger, and he would blab them to everyone he knew.
“She is not a spy,” Ginger said.
“Maybe you do have a boyfriend,” Tipper said, “and that lady is
his mother. She wants to know what sort of girl her son is in love with, so she sneaks over here and watches you.”
“Give me a break,” said Ginger.
Tipper grinned at her. “That would explain why she was crying,” he said.
“Very funny.” Ginger finished her glass of juice. “If you see her again,” she said, “let me know.”
Tipper burped.
As she dressed for school, Ginger thought about Mr. Wren and his future as a coach. Ginger got along well with all of her teachers, but Mr. Wren was her favorite. He had been, ever since the day Bugs died.
Bugs had been Ginger’s first house rabbit. He was a soft gray bunny who quickly learned to use a litter pan. Bugs used to nuzzle his nose against Ginger’s ankles, asking her to pet him. He followed her around so much that Ginger’s dad said she should have named him Shadow.
Last fall, when Bugs was four years old, Tipper accidentally left the front door open. Usually Ginger kept Bugs confined in her room but he had been hopping free in the house that morning, and he ventured outside. A neighbor’s dog—part Rottweiler and part Doberman—caught Bugs and shook him, breaking the rabbit’s neck.
It happened early in the morning; Ginger buried Bugs before she left for school. She had thought she could make it through the day, but when she got to her first-period class, which Mr. Wren taught, and started to tell Karie what had happened, she burst into tears.
Mr. Wren took Ginger to a small private room that was reserved for teachers only. “Stay as long as you like,” he told her. “Go ahead and cry. You need to grieve for your little friend.”
Later Ginger told Karie, “Mr. Wren never once said, ‘It was only a rabbit’ or ‘You can always get another pet.’ Instead, he said Bugs must have been a very special rabbit for me to love him so much. He said I should remember all the fun times I had with Bugs, and cherish my memories.”
As Ginger remembered Mr. Wren’s kindness, she decided it was the very trait that Mrs. Vaughn objected to. Because Mr. Wren cared about all the players, not just the star athletes, he was faced with losing his job as coach. It wasn’t fair.
While Ginger waited for the school bus, a white car approached. She immediately looked at the antenna; there was no yellow ribbon attached. Even so, she stepped back from the curb until the car passed. The driver was a young man, with a baby strapped in a car seat.