Words That Start With B

by Vikki VanSickle

  Mattie hasn’t stopped talking since we left the school. She jabbers on about anything and everything: the weather, her mom, her new coat, broken bones. It’s exhausting. I just answer her questions, mostly. Benji and I can hang out together for hours without saying more than a few words. Maybe that’s what happens when you know someone for a long time: you don’t need to talk so much because you know what they’re thinking. With Mattie, everything is new. And apparently everything is up for conversation.

  “Ooh, is this where you live? It’s so cute!”

  “You think so?”

  I look at my house and try to see it like Mattie does. It’s not very big, just one storey, plus the basement. It’s made of pinkish bricks, with a white door, white shutters and white blinds in the windows. In the spring Mom plants red geraniums in the flower beds, but in the winter the garden is bare and she wraps the bushes in burlap bags to keep them safe from the wind and snow. On the front door a sign is mounted just below the knocker that says Guests of the Hair Emporium: Please Enter Through Side Door to the Left of the House. I remember when Mom made the sign, sitting at the kitchen table and carefully painting the letters in a pretty shade of purple that I had helped her pick.

  I take Mattie in through the side door and, because she asks, I give her the grand tour.

  “There isn’t much to see,” I say, but Mattie doesn’t seem to think so. She points at all the pictures on the mantel, wanting to know the names of the people in them, looks at my mom’s books and magazines, asks to see our movie collection. She even comments on the fabric of the throw pillows in the basement.

  “My mom made them out of her old concert T-shirts,” I explain.

  “Really? Cool!” Mattie says.

  “Yeah, it is,” I agree, and I realize that I actually mean it.

  “Can I see your room?” she asks, so I take her in and stand back while she examines everything, from the bed (“You have a captain’s bed? I always wanted a bed with drawers underneath!”), my desk (“Everything’s so neat and organized! My mom would love you!”) and the clothes in my closet (“No offence, Clarissa but you really need to go shopping. You would think the daughter of a hair stylist would be more, well, stylish.”).

  Mattie hops up onto my bed and lies flat on her back. I sit on the edge of the bed. It’s strange to be in here with someone that’s not Benji.

  “Hey! Do those glow in the dark?” She points at the stars.

  “They used to, but not anymore.”

  “Neither do mine,” Mattie says. “Your house is really cool,” she adds.

  “Thanks.”

  “And thanks for inviting me over. I didn’t think you liked me all that much.”

  I blush.

  “It’s not that, it’s just—” but she stops me before I finish.

  “I know. My mom says I can be a bit much sometimes and I need to relax around people my own age.”

  Well, what do you say to that? I can’t believe Mattie’s mom talks to her like that, like she’s her therapist.

  “Oh. Well. Are you relaxed now?”

  Mattie smiles and bounces a little on the bed.

  “Yeah, I am!”

  “Good. Because I need your help.”

  And so I let her in on The Plan.

  ***

  When I finish explaining The Plan, I expect Mattie to jump up and run all the way home. Instead she claps her hands and bounces on the bed again.

  “It’s perfect!” she cries. “Justice is served!”

  “Really? You’ll help?” I can’t hide my surprise. I mean, I was hoping she’d help out, but it requires her to break about five zillion of her goody two-shoes rules. Mattie stops bouncing and looks offended.

  “Of course. Something needs to be done to stop Terror DiCarlo.”

  “Hey! Terror DiCarlo! That’s pretty good!” I say.

  Mattie grins.

  “I’ve never called him that out loud before,” she admits.

  “I like it. Let’s call him that from now on.”

  “Like a codename?”

  “Well, it’s not that much of a codename. I mean it’s pretty obvious.”

  Mattie’s face falls.

  “Oh.”

  “But sure, whatever, when it’s just the two of us.”

  This perks her up a bit.

  “Okay! The Matador and Clarissa take on the Terror!”

  “The Matador?”

  Mattie shrugs, looking a little sheepish.

  “That’s what I would call myself. Like, if I was a superhero.”

  “What would my name be?”

  Mattie sits back, cocks her head to one side and looks me over, her eyes narrowed.

  “Picking a superhero name is very important,” she says. “It has to mean something to you, as well as instill fear or awe in whoever utters it.”

  Wow. She takes this really seriously.

  “How do you come up with this stuff?” I ask.

  Even though there’s no one else around, Mattie leans forward and whispers, “Do you really want to know?”

  I nod.

  “I love comic books,” she confesses, and because I can’t in a million years picture prissy Mattie Cohen reading a comic book, I throw my head back and laugh. At first Mattie looks offended, but then she loosens up and starts to giggle.

  “But don’t tell anyone!” she protests.

  “I won’t, I swear,” I say. “Well, maybe just Benji. But he loves comic books. You should see his collection. He even draws his own characters.”

  “Maybe we could write a comic together,” Mattie says.

  “Maybe.”

  “Now, think!” Mattie scolds. “We have to come up with your name. Do you have a favourite superhero?”

  I shake my head.

  “Not really.”

  “Favourite animal?”

  “Sort of.” I hesitate. “I mean, I’ve always sort of liked eagles.”

  Mattie beams. “Oooh, eagles are perfect! Powerful and majestic. Now we need to make it snazzier. The Eagle doesn’t have enough of a ring to it.”

  My gaze lands on The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, waiting for me on the nightstand.

  “What about — the Emerald Eagle?” I suggest.

  “Perfect!” Mattie cries. “I can see your costume and everything.”

  I’m almost afraid to ask.

  “Really? What would it look like?”

  “Well, green, obviously, with a long feathered cape and talons that retract—”

  “Nope, sorry. I’m allergic to feathers.”

  Mattie’s cheek twitches.

  “An eagle that’s allergic to feathers?”

  We stare at each other before bursting into laughter. We roll on the bed, laughing until we can barely breathe. Mattie sits up, wipes the laughter tears from her eyes and says, “Hey, Clarissa, can we go see your mom’s salon?”

  “Sure!”

  ***

  I haven’t been in the salon since Mom left. I forgot how cute and sunny it can look. Mattie is practically in heaven, smelling the hair products, testing out the chairs, lining up all the scissors and combs.

  “It’s so cool you get to live here,” she says. “Are you going to be a hairdresser, too?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m going to be an actress.”

  It feels weird saying it out loud. I’ve never told anyone that I want to be an actress, except Benji. I don’t know why I told Mattie, the world’s largest big mouth, but it just sort of came out. Mattie considers this, looking me up and down.

  “My cousin did a commercial once,” she says. “All the big movie stars get their start in commercials. But you’re prettier than her, so it will probably be easier for you.”

  “Thanks,” I say, but that doesn’t seem like enough. Am I supposed to tell her that she’s pretty, too? “What about you?”

  “I’m going to be a child therapist.”

  I can feel my eyebrows rise, but I fight to keep them down. As normally as I can, I manage
to say, “Oh?”

  “Every day my mom sees more and more troubled children come into the hospital. She says the therapists and social workers have their hands full. It’s very distressing.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing.”

  Mattie grins.

  “Thanks. I really want to help people.”

  And as she says it, I realize that it’s true. As annoying and bossy as Mattie can be, she’s always trying to be helpful. Maybe her problem is that she just isn’t helping the right people, or she hasn’t figured out the right way to help them. You can’t blame a person for that.

  “I think you’ll be a great child therapist,” I say, and I mean it.

  Mattie smiles so widely that I can’t help but smile back.

  “Knock, knock.”

  Denise is in the doorway, looking quizzically at me. Mattie shoots up out of the chair she’s in and marches over to Denise, offering her a hand and a big smile.

  “Hi, I’m Mattie Cohen, a friend of Clarissa’s from school.”

  Denise is not as good at keeping her eyebrows under control as I am. They practically disappear into her hairline. She shakes Mattie’s hand as she looks over the top of her head at me. I pretend to be looking for dirt under my fingernails.

  “From school, of course. I’m Denise Renzetti, a friend of Clarissa’s mom’s and regional sales manager for Mary Kay cosmetics.”

  Mattie actually squeals.

  “Really? I love Mary Kay!”

  Denise is pleased.

  “You do?”

  Mattie wiggles her fingers at Denise, who inspects her nails.

  “Opalescence, shade 46,” she announces.

  Mattie claps her hands.

  “How did you know?”

  “Because it’s my job! I am a professional.”

  Cripes.

  “Hey, would you girls like a makeover?” Denise asks.

  Mattie gasps and her arms start to jiggle at her sides.

  “Oh, yes, please! Can we, Clarissa?”

  “I don’t know …”

  Mattie grabs my arm and pulls on it, jumping up and down.

  “Please, please, please? It’ll be so fun!”

  “Okay, fine. But no liquid eyeliner. I hate liquid eyeliner.”

  “Not me,” says Mattie, eyes shining. “I love it!”

  Denise takes off her blazer and pushes the sleeves of her blouse back.

  “All right ladies, take a seat. Welcome to La Spa Denise.”

  She opens her pink briefcase and lets us pick out a shade of nail polish while she runs upstairs to get her arsenal.

  I can’t tell who is more excited, Denise or Mattie.

  “Denise is so cool,” Mattie says, tuning the radio to the good station. “Thanks for inviting me!”

  I shrug.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “This is going to be so fun!”

  And, surprisingly, it is.

  When Denise is in Mary Kay mode she spends less time making bad jokes and complaining about her love life. Instead, she talks about the importance of shading your cheekbones, blending the right shade of concealer and making your eyes pop.

  “It’s like painting,” Mattie says.

  Denise approves.

  “It’s exactly like painting,” she agrees. “You need to prep your canvas and use the right brushes for the desired effect.”

  Denise bustles between Mattie and me, scrutinizing our pores and moving our chins this way and that to assess our angles. She turns our chairs around so we can’t watch our progress in the mirror.

  “You don’t want to spoil the reveal,” she scolds.

  “Just like on TV!” says Mattie.

  I start to get impatient. Denise is taking hours with Mattie’s eye makeup. How many coats of mascara does one person need?

  “And — done!” she says.

  “Can we look?” Mattie asks.

  Denise steps back and gestures to the mirror.

  “Be my guest!”

  Mattie looks at me and grins.

  “On three,” she says. “One, two, three!”

  Wow. I can’t believe that’s me in the mirror. My eyes look huge. Whatever shadow Denise used makes them look greenish instead of muddy brown. I never noticed how green my eyes were before. They look pretty.

  Mattie fluffs her hair and turns this way and that, examining every inch of her makeover.

  “I love it!” she gushes. “I feel like a movie star! I could totally pass for sixteen!”

  Sixteen is a little much, but she does look older, and very sophisticated. We both do.

  “You look beautiful, Clarissa! Look out, Hollywood!”

  “So do you,” I say.

  “Let’s take a picture of you girls and we’ll send it to your mom,” Denise says. “I know she’d love to see you all dolled up, Clarissa.”

  Mattie throws her arm around me and flashes her best smile. I stiffen a little bit. It’s strange to have her standing so close, like we’ve been best friends forever. Denise frowns.

  “For God’s sakes, Clarissa, it’s not a mug shot.”

  “Yeah! It’s a glamour shot!” Mattie says. Then she whispers in my ear, so that only I can hear, “Matador and the Emerald Eagle take on the world, one eyelash at a time!”

  I can’t help but smile. Mattie can be pretty goofy sometimes.

  “Got it!” Denise says. “Now I just have to figure out how to upload the darn thing and I’ll send it tonight.”

  “Thank you so much, Denise, this was so much fun! I wish I didn’t have to take it all off tonight. I’d love to show up at school like this. Can you imagine? Amanda would just die!”

  ***

  “Are you wearing makeup?”

  “Yeah, Mattie came over and Denise gave us makeovers.”

  Benji’s eyes practically bug right out of his head.

  “Mattie came over?”

  “So?”

  “And you let Denise touch your face?”

  “It’s no big deal,” I say.

  “I feel like the whole world is changing,” Benji says. “By the time I get back to school you’ll be married to Michael Greenblat.”

  Normally I would slap him but I restrain myself on account of his injuries. Instead, I ignore the comment, like a mature, responsible person. Maybe it’s the makeup seeping through my skin and into my brain, making me more sophisticated.

  “When are you coming back?” I ask.

  Benji looks uncomfortable.

  “I don’t know yet,” he says.

  “Well, you can’t stay home forever.”

  “I know that. I think I’m getting the flu.”

  Benji squirms against the pillows like he’s trying to disappear inside them. He gets a faraway look on his face and I know he’s thinking about the attack. He still doesn’t talk about it. Mrs. Stremecki, the guidance counsellor, told me that when you talk about something that’s bothering you, you allow others to share the burden of your pain, and that although it might be hard, it’s a relief, too. That was when she was trying to get me to talk about my mother’s cancer. Back then I thought it was a load of crap, but now I wonder if maybe there is a slight chance that she wasn’t totally and completely wrong.

  I wish Benji would tell me what happened, so I could help him with his burden. But for now he just stays in bed with that scared look in his eyes. That look makes my blood boil. It makes me want to kill Terry DiCarlo. But now that Mattie is in on The Plan, things are finally starting to look up.

  Baking

  On Saturday Mattie comes over for lunch. She shows up in a blouse, vest and kilt with knee socks. I don’t think she ever wears pants.

  “Let’s make cookies and bring them over to Benji!” she says.

  “We don’t bake things here,” I say. “We probably don’t have all the stuff you need.”

  “We can get one of those mixes,” Mattie suggests. “Then you just add water, eggs and oil. Everyone has that stuff around. Then you just mix it up and plop i
t onto a cookie sheet. I’ve done it a million times.”

  “I’m pretty sure we don’t have a cookie sheet.”

  Mattie is disgusted.

  “How can you not have a cookie sheet? Everyone has a cookie sheet. If only I’d known, I could have brought one of mine.”

  She has more than one? I rummage around in the drawers under the countertop, the ones we never use. There’s an old lime green mixer, Tupperware containers without lids and a dustpan. I’m pretty sure that Mom keeps aluminum pie plates back here somewhere. Aha.

  “What about these?” I ask.

  Mattie is incredulous.

  “You don’t have a cookie sheet, but you have a whole bag of pie tins?”

  “They’re good for mixing hair dyes,” I tell her.

  Mattie inspects the tins and decides that they will do.

  “Now all we need is the mix,” she says.

  “And eggs,” I add.

  “Lucky for us they have eggs and cookie mix at the 7-Eleven,” she says. “Let’s go!”

  ***

  It turns out baking is pretty easy, especially when you have someone telling you what to do. We make a whole batch of delicious, chewy chocolate chip oatmeal cookies with extra chocolate chips. We’ve added some from a bag because Mattie says that cookie mixes are pretty skimpy on the chocolate. Some of our cookies have so many chips in them that the chocolate has melded together into one big gooey chocolate centre. Heaven. We’re letting them cool when the doorbell rings.

  I open the door to find Michael Greenblat staring back at me.

  “Oh, hi, Clarissa.”

  “Michael?”

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  I blink.

  “Late? For what?”

  “Mattie said to come around two.”

  “Mattie said?”

  The next thing I know, Mattie is at my elbow pulling Michael into the house.

  “Hi, Michael! I’m so glad you came! Come in.”

  “But—”

  “Want a cookie? Clarissa and I made them.”

  Mattie holds out the plate of cookies and smiles as Michael grabs two of them and stuffs them in his mouth at once.

  “Thanks,” he mumbles through a mouthful of cookie. At least I think that’s what he said.

  “Those were supposed to be for Benji,” I say, but Mattie pulls me aside and shushes me as Michael peels off his coat and boots and chucks them by the door.