by Sarah Weeks
I stopped dead in my tracks.
“You put it in the dryer?”
“Yes.”
“Remember I told you not to do that because it might shrink and it was already too small to begin with?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. You did tell me that, didn’t you, sweetie?”
I ran down into the basement in my underwear and yanked open the dryer. Crossing my fingers, I reached into the warm, dark drum.
“How is it?” my mother called from upstairs.
How it was, was horrible. The shorts were so tight I could barely get them on, the shirt had shrunk to the point that you could see my bellybutton if I lifted my arms, and the socks didn’t even reach my knees anymore. There was nothing I could do about it; I was already late for practice. I ran back up the stairs and into the kitchen.
“Oh, dear,” my mother said when she saw me. “That does look a little snug. Do you want me to try to let out a seam or two?” She stepped toward me with the scissors.
“Don’t come any closer,” I said, holding up my hands. “You’ve done enough already.”
Fennimore was still sitting on the stool with the towel around his shoulders. He looked a little overwhelmed.
“I’m sorry,” I said to him. “I completely forgot about my practice. We can go to your house and look up the blue-footed boobie tomorrow if you want.”
“Okay,” he said. He started to take off the towel. “Maybe we’d better do the trim another day too, Mrs. Strang.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “We’ll be finished before you know it.”
“I’ve gotta go,” I said, rushing toward the door. “’Bye, Fennimore! Sorry!”
The last thing I saw before I slammed the door shut behind me was my mother with her long silver scissors poised over Fennimore’s head.
Chapter Seven
An hour and a half later I came home, tired and sweaty. My soccer shorts had completely split up the back the first time I’d kicked the ball, and the shirt had torn open under both arms right after that. The coach scrounged around and dug up the only extra uniform. It was a size husky, and because everyone on my team was pretty scrawny like me, nobody had been able to use it. It’s a good thing you don’t need your hands for soccer, because mine were both busy the whole time trying to keep my clothes on. I was exhausted.
As I headed up the walk to my house, yanking up my shorts for about the twelve millionth time, I was surprised to see Fennimore sitting on the back porch with his head in his hands. He was wearing his jacket and a knit hat I thought I recognized as one of my father’s pulled way down over his ears.
“Fennimore?” I said. “What are you doing out here?”
He raised his head. He looked like he’d been crying.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
Speechlessly he reached up and slowly removed his hat.
“Oh, man,” I whispered when I saw what the matter was. “Man oh man oh man.”
He wasn’t exactly bald, but my mother had managed to get him about as close to it as you can get without actually being there. His whole head was fuzzy like a peach.
“Wow. You look—you look different,” I said. I knew it was a dumb thing to say, but it was the best I could come up with.
“Just a little trim? Yeah, right, she distracted me with cookies and then she sheared me like a sheep.” A fat tear slid down his cheek and he brushed it away with the back of his hand. “My mama is gonna kill me.”
“It’ll grow back,” I said.
“Unless it grows back by the time I get home, I’m gonna get switched.”
“It’s not your fault, Fennimore. My mother said she was only gonna give you a little trim. I heard her. I’ll make sure she tells your mom that. Promise.”
Fennimore reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip of blue paper. I recognized the stationery. My mother’s.
“She wrote me a note,” he said.
I took it from him and read it.
Dear Mrs. Adams:
I’m afraid I got a little carried away trimming Fennimore’s hair this afternoon. He’s quite concerned about your reaction, but I’ve assured him that although it wasn’t my original intention to give him a buzz cut, the look actually suits him quite well. I hope you’ll agree.
Sincerely,
Lorraine Strang
P.S. Fennimore asked to borrow a hat. No hurry to return it; my husband has others should the weather turn cold.
P.P.S. Would you and your family care to join us for fondue some night next week?
I folded it and handed it back to Buzz.
“Do you want me to go yell at her?” I asked.
“What good is that going to do?” Fennimore stood up and brushed off the seat of his pants. “It is what it is.”
“I shouldn’t have left you here alone with her,” I said. “I’m sorry. She’s always been okay with my hair. Honest. I had no idea she could do something like—like that.” I pointed at his fuzzy head.
Fennimore put the hat back on and pulled it low over his ears. “You know, before we moved, everybody told me I was gonna love it here. People in the Midwest are so friendly, they kept saying. Well, so far all anybody around here’s been doing is making fun of the way I talk and dress and telling me I need to fix my hair different. I was just fine where I came from. I wish I’d never left.”
He was raising his voice. I felt awful.
“Do you know what they call me behind my back at school?” he asked me, his voice getting louder still.
I knew, but I didn’t want to say.
“Southern Fried Chicken Boy.” Another tear spilled down his face. “Can you imagine what they’re gonna be calling me when they get a load of this haircut?”
“I’ll tell everybody what happened,” I said. “Maybe my mom can come talk to the class or something.”
“Like that’s gonna help. Everybody already knows your mother’s nuts. They’ll say it was my own fault. They’ll say I was crazy to come over here with you, knowing what kind of family you come from.”
My throat burned from trying to hold back my own tears now.
“I’m not really like them,” I said quietly.
Fennimore snorted.
“Where I come from we have an expression for people like you. ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,’” he said. Then he started down the sidewalk.
“Do you want me to come home with you? To help explain things to your mom?” I called after him.
“Don’t bother,” he said without looking at me.
I watched him turn up the block, his hat pulled down low, his head hanging, and his hands shoved angrily into his pockets. His whole body spelled misery.
“I’ll see you in school tomorrow, Fennimore!” I shouted.
But he didn’t even turn around.
Chapter Eight
“How could you do this to me!” I yelled as I banged in the door and stomped into the kitchen, where my mother was fixing a salad for dinner.
“I’m sorry, sugar pleat. I told you I forgot I wasn’t supposed to put your uniform in the dryer. Come over here, and let me look at those pants you’ve got on. Criminy, they’re huge, but don’t worry, a couple of quick tucks will make them snug.”
“I’m not talking about my uniform, Mom. I’m talking about what you did to Fennimore.”
“You mean his hair?” she asked.
“What hair? He’s bald, Mom.”
“He’s not bald, for heaven’s sake, but it is shorter than I’d intended it to be. I started off trimming it just the way I do yours, Guysie, but I had trouble getting it even. Those cowlicks of his are murder. I kept having to take off a little more here and then a little bit more there trying to even it up. So I tried doing it with your father’s electric beard clipper, and pretty soon, somehow or other—”
“You accidentally cut off all his hair and ruined his life,” I finished the sentence for her.
“Oh, pooh,” she said, giving the salad a last whirl i
n the spinner. “A person’s life can’t be ruined by a little haircut. It’s just going to take some getting used to is all. If you want my honest opinion, I think now he really looks cute as a button.”
“Are you for real?” I asked. “You think he looks cute?”
“All the boys I knew back in high school wore their hair like that. It’s a classic buzz cut. And it certainly suits him better than that plastered-down look,” she said, taking the top off the spinner and popping a piece of lettuce into her mouth.
“Mom!” I shouted. “You wrecked Fennimore’s hair. Don’t try to convince yourself that you didn’t. And that’s not all you wrecked either. You wrecked my chance of being friends with him too.”
“Nonsense,” my mother said. “He told me you’re the only one at school who’s really made an effort to be nice to him. He’s dying to be your friend, Guysie.”
“That was before you scalped him, Mom. He’s not even speaking to me anymore.”
My mother was quiet.
“I know he was upset,” she said after a minute. “He wouldn’t leave here until I found him a hat to put on. But it will grow back. Hey, you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to make him a batch of cookies and take them over to his house right now. That boy eats snicker doodles like there’s no tomorrow.”
“You’re not going over to his house. You’re not going near him ever again. If you didn’t insist on acting weird in front of every single person I know, maybe I’d have found a best friend by now. Did it ever occur to you that maybe it’s your fault that I haven’t?”
“I didn’t mean to cut his hair so short,” she said. “I wrote his mother a note. I even asked them to dinner next week. Let’s see what she says. I’m sure Fennimore will come around, sugar pleat.”
“Oh, I get it, you shave Fennimore’s head, ruin our friendship before it’s even started, and then expect it all to miraculously disappear because you’re inviting his family to one of your bizarre-o dinner parties? What the heck is fondue, anyway? And why are you calling me sugar pleat?”
“Fondue is a festive interactive cheese dish, and sugar pleat is a combination of sugar plum and sweet pea. It’s a term of endearment, you know, a nickname, like—”
I clapped my hands over my ears.
“I don’t want to hear this, Mom. I don’t want to hear about interactive cheese and I don’t want a nickname—not from you, anyway.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.
“You wouldn’t understand,” I muttered.
The phone rang, and she went to answer it.
“Oh, Mrs. Adams”—my mom shot me a quick look—“how do you do. I’m so glad you called. If it’s about the haircut, I can explain…uh-huh…Yes, yes it is quite short, but it was an honest mistake. You see, I was trying to even it out and…What did you say?…Really?…You do? You like it?… Well, isn’t that wonderful!” My mother shot me another look, this one triumphant and a little smug. “Call me Lorraine, why don’t you…. Okay then, Barbara it is…. What’s that? Oh, you would? I’m so glad. In fact, I’m abso-tootin-lutely tickled!”
She put her hand over the receiver and whispered to me: “She says they’d love to come to dinner next week. And she loves Fennimore’s haircut. Seems Fennimore’s father had one just like it back in the old days. So there, smarty pants.” Then she went back to her conversation with Fennimore’s mother.
“How about Sunday night?…That’s good?…Great. We’ll see you then. Right-o. Bye-bye!”
My mother smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
“You see, I told you it would all work out in the end, Guysie. Fennimore’s mother said she’s been trying to convince him to cut his hair shorter for years. They’re all coming to dinner on Sunday.”
I was shocked at the way this was turning out, but mostly I was relieved. Maybe Fennimore wouldn’t stay mad at me. He might even be over it by the morning. He might even be over it already. After all, his mom wasn’t mad. I thought about calling him up right then and there to find out where I stood, but I decided not to press my luck. He might need a little more time to get used to his new look.
I went to bed that night feeling pretty hopeful that Fennimore would forgive me. He was going to have to deal with whatever mean stuff kids at school said about his hair, but I’d help him do that. Together we would get through it. Together. I liked the sound of that. Maybe, just maybe, Fennimore had potential after all.
I thought about the conversation we’d had about the names of the streets in the neighborhood. That was pretty funny. Blue-Footed Boobie Boulevard. I laughed right out loud remembering that. And I thought about the way he’d belched the alphabet too. How cool was that? I smiled as I remembered something else. Fennimore Adams wanted to give me a nickname. Guy Wire. I decided to tell him the next day that I liked that name just fine.
Chapter Nine
I heard Kevin Brudhauser’s obnoxious booming voice as I entered the school yard the next morning.
“Hey, look, everybody. The Southern Fried Chicken’s been plucked!” he shouted.
I knew this meant that Fennimore had arrived ahead of me. I hurried to find him and help him out. He was sitting on a bench by the basketball courts.
“Hey,” I said. “How you doing?”
“Bruck, bruck, bruck, the bird’s been plucked!” Kevin taunted Fennimore from the other side of the court.
“How am I doing?” Fennimore asked bitterly. “Oh, just swell.”
Then he got up and walked away. So much for thinking things were going to be okay between us. He was just as mad today as he had been the day before.
All day Fennimore avoided me. I tried sitting with him at lunch, but he got up and moved as soon as I sat down. I wrote him a note and passed it to him during science, but he tossed it in the trash without even reading it. Kevin taunted and teased him all day, and I’m not sure who felt worse about it, Fennimore or me.
That afternoon, when I got home, my mother asked about how it had gone.
“He hates me more than ever, thanks to you.”
“I don’t see what the problem is. Mrs. Adams told me she loves the haircut, so he certainly didn’t get in trouble at home.”
“Mom, it doesn’t matter what his mother thinks. Don’t you get it? Kids made fun of him all day.”
“Well, I think he looks—”
“If you say ‘cute as a button’ one more time, I’m going to start screaming.”
I took my backpack upstairs and spent the next hour doing homework. At four o’clock I couldn’t concentrate anymore. I decided to go over to Fennimore’s. I knew he lived on Robin Street, so I rode my bike the two blocks over and started looking for his house. Finally I spotted him sitting on his front stoop, bouncing a tennis ball on the steps. When he caught sight of me, he got up and started to go inside.
“Wait!” I cried, jumping off my bike and running across his yard. “I’m sorry, Fennimore, I’m really sorry about your hair. You’ve got to believe me when I say I had no idea my mother was going to botch it so badly. Let me make it up to you.”
He stopped with his hand on the doorknob.
“How are you going to do that?”
“Well, I sort of thought of a plan.”
“I’m listening,” he said.
“You could pretend to be sick and stay home until it grows back,” I suggested. “I could bring you the homework so you wouldn’t get behind.”
“That’s lame,” he said. “Everybody’s already seen my hair. Don’t you think they’d figure out why I wasn’t coming to school?”
“I guess so,” I said. “But there has to be something we can do.”
“We don’t have to do anything,” he said.
He went inside, slamming the door behind him.
I rode home and went straight to my room. I pulled out a sheet of paper and a pencil and began to think hard. There had to be something I could do to fix things up with Fennimore. I came up with a few possibilities.
The first idea I had was to sneak into Kevin Brudhauser’s house at night and shave his head. The plan was appealing, but there were some obvious problems with it. One, I wasn’t allowed to go out alone after dark. Two, Kevin lives on the other side of town, so my mother would have to drive me and wait while I cut off his hair.
I moved on to Plan B. Pretend to be the principal. Call up Mrs. Brudhauser and tell her Kevin was being suspended for a month. That would give Fennimore’s hair time to grow back. I liked this plan a lot better. I pulled out the Cedar Springs phone book and looked up Brudhauser. Before dialing the number, I practiced speaking like Principal Cappert. He has kind of a high whining voice, and after a few tries I thought I was coming pretty close to it.
I dialed the number and let it ring three times. Kevin picked it up.
“Hello, young man, may I speak to your mother, please?” I said in my best Cappert imitation yet.
“Strang, is that you?” he said.
I hung up immediately. So much for Plan B.
And then it hit me. How could I have missed it? There was one and only one way to make it up to Fennimore. It was pretty extreme, but I was willing to do it.
“Mom!” I called as I ran down the stairs. “Get the clippers!”
Chapter Ten
“Are you sure about this, Guysie?” my mother asked.
“Positive.”
“I’m not sure it’s really you,” she said reluctantly.
“I don’t care,” I said. “I’m not doing it for me, I’m doing it for Fennimore. I don’t want him to have to bear it alone.”
“That’s awfully nice of you, honeybunch. You must really care about him, huh?”
When I’d first laid eyes on him, I’d been completely convinced that he and I would never be friends, but now I was ready to cut off all my hair just to make him feel better. I guess she was right. I did care about Fennimore.
“Go ahead,” I said to my mother. “Do your worst.”
She pinned a towel around my neck and went to work on me.