She tucked the journal into her desk drawer and studied her clock radio with a frown. Her mother wouldn’t be home from work for another hour.
The melodic chime of her phone made Melissa jump. Annoyed by its ability to startle her, she snapped “Hello.”
“Melissa? Hi. It’s Ric Davis.”
Her hand squeezed the handset tightly and her mouth went dry. “Why, Ric … How are you?”
“More to the point, how are you?”
“I’m doing all right. I look like a newborn baby, the way my hairs coming back, though.” She touched the dark silky down on her head as she spoke. “But I’m taking the oral medications now and only going in for tests and some IV chemo. You know the routine.”
“Yes, I know it. What have they got you on?” She told him and he said, “Watch that last one. It makes you eat like a pig and before you know it, you’ll weigh a ton.”
“I could use some meat on my bones,” she confessed, staring into the mirror on her dresser and wishing she hadn’t. Her clothes still hung on her, and the baggy sweatshirt she wore did little to hide the hollow gauntness of her frame.
“Some meat, sure,” he emphasized. “But that particular drug will make you bloated. That’s what it did to me.”
Melissa didn’t like the course of the conversation. She didn’t want to be told about more problems, more distortions to her body. Abruptly, she asked, “So what’s new? Going home for Christmas?”
“Yeah, I am. I’m wrapping up exams tomorrow, then catching a plane home. I’ll be back after New Year’s.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“If my prosthesis doesn’t set off the metal detectors at the airport.”
Same old, Ric, she thought. “It’s nice of you to call and check on me, Ric.”
“I told you when you were still in the hospital that I wanted to go out with you. I still do.”
Her dry mouth felt like cotton. “I’m not sure I’m ready to face the world yet.”
“You’re going back to school aren’t you?”
“Yes. But that’s almost a month away. I … uh … I’m hoping I look better by then.”
“In other words, there’s a guy you like and he’s been sort of cool since he found out you have cancer.”
She would have dropped the phone if she hadn’t been gripping it so tightly, yet the uncanny accuracy of his comment made her defensive. “That’s not what it is.”
“Come on, Melissa. It happened that way with me. Her name was Megan.”
She thought about Brad and tan, healthy Sarah. Her shoulders drooped. “I know that the kids at school will have to adjust to the new me when I go back. After all, I look so different now.” She raised her chin and slipped in a note of defiance. “But I’m still me.”
Ric’s low-throated chuckle came through the line. “I know, Melissa. And that’s the girl I’m interested in dating.”
She felt herself softening toward him. Ric did understand, and he had already traveled the road she was about to take. “So call me when you get back to campus. Okay?”
“You’re on,” he said. “Now take good care of yourself, and have a Merry Christmas.”
“Thanks, Ric. You too.” She hung up feeling a wistful nostalgia she couldn’t explain.
Later, when Jory stopped by and she’d told her about Ric’s call, her friend asked, “Ric’s older, isn’t he?”
“Nineteen.”
“Thought you didn’t like ‘older men,’ ” Jory needled.
“Be kind, Jory. I don’t feel very witty today.”
“Well, do you want to date him?”
“I’m not exactly deluged with offers you know.”
“Yeah, but that’s going to change once things level out for you. In a few months, no one will even think of you as having been sick.”
“What do you do? Sit around and compare notes with Michael? That’s exactly what he says.” Irritation had crept into her voice.
“I wish I could sit around and compare notes with him.” Jory rolled her eyes and reached for the bowl of popcorn resting between them on the floor of Melissa’s living room.
Melissa pursed her lip. Why couldn’t Jory and Michael and her mother understand how she felt about herself? Her body had turned on her. Without warning, it had begun making cancerous cells and changed all the rules of her life. “Forget it. If Ric calls again, I’ll decide then if I want to date.”
“You need to get your confidence back.
“You’re right,” Melissa said, resigned. “I don’t feel like dating because I don’t feel like a decent-looking girl any more.”
Eagerly, Jory leaned forward, her green eyes dancing. “What do you say we retire the scarves and go wig shopping. I know just the place. It’s private. The saleslady is sharp and knows her stuff. You’ll love it. You can try on everything in the store. What do you think?”
“Mom told me I could get whatever I wanted for Christmas,” Melissa said, trying hard to catch Jory’s enthusiasm. “I guess I might as well start with new hair.”
Two days later, Jory dragged her into a secluded salon, tucked away in a corner of the mall’s most prestigious department store. The lights were bright, mirrors and wig stands lined the walls, and Styrofoam heads and round boxes clustered on shelves and pieces of furniture. A vanity table with chairs on either side and a swivel mirror in its center dominated the floor area. Settling into one of the chairs, a saleswoman with a soft southern accent and long, slim fingers jotted notes on a pad as she questioned Melissa about her tastes. Without her mask, Melissa felt somewhat exposed, but she was glad she didn’t have to wear it in public any longer.
The woman eyed her with keen, professional interest and noted, “If you want to go through these swatches, you can show me the color that’s closest to your natural hair. And if you tell me a little about the style, I can show you something so similar to your own that you’ll be hard-pressed to tell the difference between your real hair and your new wig.” The idea that she had an option hadn’t occurred to Melissa. “Long or short?” The woman asked.
“Oh, long,” Jory interjected. “And dark. Melissa had hair all the way down to her waist. And none of this fake stuff either. Melissa wants real hair.”
Nervously, Melissa licked her lips and shot Jory a pleading glance. “Whose hair is this, anyway?” she asked with a tense laugh.
The saleswoman intervened. “Natural human hair that long would be very expensive and we’d have to special-order it from the Orient. They seem to be the only women growing long hair these days. Human hair is also harder to maintain, and it’s color can fade. You can buy it,” she added hastily, “but believe me, synthetic hair is much less costly and just as attractive.”
“No,” Melissa said hastily. “I don’t want long hair. And I’m not so sure I want something just like I used to have.” She ignored Jory’s surprised expression.
“Many women want a wig that most resembles their natural hair, but the choice is yours. And we do have many choices,” the clerk said gently.
“I have an opportunity to change my image, don’t I? So why not?”
Quickly the woman crossed to the shelves and returned with a variety of wigs in a range of colors. “Would you like to be a blond?”
“They have more fun, right?”
She smiled and placed a saucy, curly wig on Melissa’s head. The hairpiece felt warm and clung to her scalp, but the tight curls clustered about her face only emphasized the hollowness of her cheeks. “I don’t think so,” Melissa told her.
“How about this?” Jory asked from across the room, where she was searching the merchandise at random.
“That’s our Dolly Parton look,” the clerk said, settling the almost white, bouffant-style wig on Melissa. “We do a big business in theater and stage performers.” One look in the mirror and Melissa cracked up.
“All you need is a guitar,” Jory said, laughing hysterically.
Melissa glanced down at the front of her bulky knit sweater
. “A guitar and two watermelons,” she corrected. She turned to the saleswoman. “Maybe something a little less ‘show biz.’ ”
Laughing herself, the clerk removed the wig and selected another, more sedate one. An hour and twenty wigs later, Melissa finally chose a thick chestnut fall with a little curl that hung just below her ears. It was soft to her touch, but felt odd, too. It was strange to run her fingers through the hair and not have it tug at her scalp. The saleswoman taught Melissa how to care for it, to clean and brush it and secure it to its Styrofoam head when not in use. Melissa paid for it, placing the crisp bills in the saleswoman’s hand, then carried the box through the store, ignoring the festive twinkle of lights and decorated Christmas trees. Outside in the parking lot, she tugged her trench coat closer against a raw, gusty wind.
Beside her, Jory said, “It looks good on you.”
“Sure.” Melissa’s teeth chattered slightly. “Almost like the real thing.” They drove home in silence because Melissa wasn’t sure she could talk without bursting into tears.
Michael made her model the hairpiece when they returned. His expression was reserved, studious. “It’s … uh … different.”
“Beats bald,” she said tersely.
“I like it,” Jory babbled. “Don’t you think it was smart to go with a shorter look? I mean, we’re the only ones who know about her real hair. This way, it just seems like she’s cut it short. Even the color’s just like her own … ” Jory’s animated voice trailed off and Melissa glanced at her. Her friend was looking straight at Michael and, as usual, was wearing her heart in her eyes.
Michael hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans. The sleeves of his navy blue sweater were pushed up, and Melissa noticed his forearms corded with muscle from hard physical labor. Melissa felt sorry that he had to work so hard. “Well, it’s better than the haircut by Delaney,” he finally said with a softness in his tone.
Rising to the gambit, Jory huffed, “I’ll have you know that haircut was a work of art, Michael.”
“More like graffiti,” he fired back, good-naturedly.
Melissa stepped between them and held up her hands in mock surrender. “Please, I don’t think I can referee another round. How about a truce?”
Michael slipped his arm around her shoulders and hugged her to him. “You win, Sis. By the way, you got some mail.”
“Where?” Michael grabbed an oversize envelope from the kitchen counter and handed it to her. Melissa’s heart hammered. Through the glassine window, she read her name, neatly typed by an impersonal computer in Illinois. “It’s my PSAT scores.”
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Jory asked anxiously.
Melissa tore it open and Jory grabbed for the sheet labeled “Interpreting Your Score” while Melissa read the numbers on the printout. “Raw scores: Verbal 55, Math 41. Scaled scores: Verbal 64, Math 67. Selection index: 195. Percentile ranking: 98.” She glanced up.
“You’re a genius,” Jory interpreted quickly. “According to this, ninety-eight percent of all high school juniors in the country scored below you.” She paused before adding sheepishly, “Including me.”
“You got your scores? You never said a word.”
“What’s to say? Only seventy-five percent of all juniors scored below me.”
“But that’s terrific.” Melissa concentrated on Jory’s scores because she still hadn’t absorbed the impact of her own.
Michael had taken the information sheet from Jory and was reading it for himself. “You know what this means, don’t you?” He didn’t wait for a response. “It means you have a real shot at a Merit Scholarship.”
Melissa had always assumed that the news would elate her. Hadn’t that been her dream for over a year? But instead, she felt strangely let down, out of sorts. The thing she’d wanted so badly, worked for for so long, seemed unreal and unrelated to her life right now. “Good for me,” was all she could say. “I won’t know until after the SATs next fall if I’m smart enough to advance,” she told them.
“Yeah, but it says here ‘… about 50,000 high scorers will be given the opportunity to be identified to two colleges of their choice by the Merit Program in the spring.’ You have picked two colleges worthy of taking you, haven’t you?” Michael joked.
“Not yet,” she hedged, her look warning Jory to keep quiet about Princeton. “When you have cancer, your options are different.” She fled the kitchen, jerking the wig from her head.
In the living room she paused to stare at piles of Christmas decorations Michael had brought in from the garage. The boxes were frayed and tinsel hung sadly from one of them. He’d moved aside the easy chair and cleared a space for the tree. She stroked the synthetic hairpiece gathered in her fist. “Merry Christmas,” she whispered to the pile of dark fibers. “Merry Christmas.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Welcome back, Melissa. It’s good to see you again.”
Melissa acknowledged the greeting in the crowded halls as she had all the others her first day back in school. She waved and smiled at people, but she didn’t feel it in her heart. She stopped in front of her locker and fumbled with the lock, concentrating so hard on the combination that she ran through it twice before she realized the locker was open.
“How’s it going?” Jory’s voice in her ear caused her to start.
“Fine,” she lied.
“Everybody’s asking about you … ”
“I know,” Melissa snapped, more sharply than she’d intended. “Geez, Jory. I feel like a freak. I can’t even go to the girls’ room without everyone staring, and when I walk into a classroom, there’s instant silence. When I went into homeroom today, everything stopped and the entire class watched me walk to my desk. I felt like a murderer on death row walking to the electric chair.” Melissa’s blood raced with the intensity of her tirade, but having blasted off her pent-up emotions, she felt mollified. “Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“No problem,” Jory shrugged. “The novelty will wear off as kids get used to having you back. Cancer’s a crummy thing to have happen, that’s all. People just want to know how you’re coping.”
Melissa wanted to tell Jory that people’s interest in her was ghoulish, similar to the chasing of ambulances, being drawn not out of compassion, but out of the morbid. Instead, she gazed into the hand mirror she’d hung on the inside of her locker door. Her face looked puffy, a side effect of the medicine Ric had warned her about. Her makeup looked unreal, too. Why not? she thought. Fake face, fake smile, fake hair … She touched the ends of the wig softly framing her face, and wished she’d opted for one with curls.
“Have you seen Brad yet?” Jory interrupted her dismal thoughts.
“No, not until sixth-period study hall. He’s got soccer practice after school, so he won’t be at Brain Bowl drill either.” Truthfully, she was dreading seeing him. She looked so awful and she was acutely aware that he’d not contacted her once since that single phone conversation when she’d been in the hospital. And Jory had arranged for that.
“Will you be in the cafeteria for lunch?” Jory asked.
“Could we go out for lunch?”
“Sure. Where?”
“McDonald’s … the drive-thru. We can eat in the car.” Her tone turned pleading. “I can’t make it through the rest of the day any other way.”
Jory’s wide green eyes swept her. “No problem. Meet me at my car.”
The warning bell sounded and the halls emptied rapidly. “We’re late,” Melissa observed. “I’m sorry I made you late.”
“Tardiness is my modus operandi,” Jory said, with a wave of dismissal. “I learned that phrase once in civics class. Does it impress you?”
“Deeply.” Melissa squeezed her friend’s arm gratefully. “Thanks, Jory. Thanks for everything.” She hurried off, struggling to keep her throat from closing up with tears. At the door of her classroom, she squared her shoulders and entered, conscious that all eyes had turned i
n her direction. She passed down the aisle to her desk, hearing only brief snatches of whispered words. “Cancer … ” the nameless voices said. “What a bummer … ” and “Remember how pretty she was …”
Melissa arrived at study hall before anyone else and sat down quickly. At least this way, she could avoid an entrance. She could also watch for Brad.
When he came into the room, he was talking to another guy and didn’t look up before sliding into his desk. She swallowed hard, absorbing him secretly with quick, stealthy glances.
His blond hair had darkened since the summer and it was longer, too, brushing his collar. A vivid turquoise sweater stretched across his broad shoulders. As always, his legs were too long for the cramped area beneath his desk. A flash of gold from his wrist caught her eye—an ID bracelet with solid gold links. She was torn between wanting him to turn around and yet hoping he wouldn’t see her. For whatever reason, he never did, keeping his attention riveted on the pile of books in front of him. As a senior, he’d probably already chosen his college and wistfully, she wondered which one. There was so much she didn’t know. So much she wanted to know.
At the Brain Bowl drill that afternoon, Melissa was sharp. Mr. Marshall said, “You did well, Melissa. I’m very impressed.”
“Thank you. I studied a lot over the break.” She carefully avoided references to the hospital.
“It shows.”
She was pleased by the teacher’s praise, but didn’t delude herself for a minute that she wasn’t low person on the totem pole to make the final team. I’ll just have to work harder, she told herself grimly as she hurried down the deserted halls to meet Jory, who was serving detention in the girl’s locker room.
Melissa peeked inside and saw her snapping gum and doodling on her notebook while the gym teacher concentrated on paperwork. Jory waved her away, mouthing, “Fifteen minutes.” Melissa nodded and eased out, hoping the teacher didn’t catch Jory with gum in her mouth, or the punishment might stretch into another fifteen.
Feeling weary, Melissa deposited her load of books at her feet and lounged against the wall. She was mentally reviewing her day when the doors of the boys’ locker room burst open, releasing a boisterous group of guys. Her eyes grew wide as Brad sauntered out. Seeing her, he stopped short. His blue eyes swept over her, then down the empty halls. Trapped. That’s how he looked to her. Cornered and trapped.
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