by Susan Lubner
“It looks like it could have a panhandle with that boot heel,” she argues.
“Boot heel?” Mrs. Finn asks.
“Yes, see that thing that looks like a boot heel that abuts the Gulf of Mexico?” She points to the wall-sized map that covers half the blackboard. Who says “abut”?
“A-butt?” Tyler Gibbs shouts out. The class laughs. Mrs. Finn twists her mouth into a crooked line. She stands at the front of the class, hands resting on the hips of one of those itchy-looking skirts she likes to wear.
“Stop that now,” she scolds. “Lindsey makes a good point. It does look a bit like a panhandle.”
Then my friend Ro passes me a note via Cameron Cane, who pokes me in the back with his pencil.
“Here,” he says, handing me a small folded triangle.
The note says, Let’s hang out after school. Nina and I want you to film us. Bff Ro.
K, I write on the same note and hold it under my chair for Cameron, who passes it back to Ro. Ever since I told my two best friends about my plan to be discovered by Rufus Carmichael and to get my family on national TV, they’ve been dying for a part in my show. I’m not allowed to bring my camera to school, which really stinks. The cafeteria lady, Miss Turnbull, is a screamer, and that would make for some nice footage.
I turn to a fresh page in my notebook and make a list of the reality shows on TV that I enjoy the most. I decide to organize my favorites into categories. There are some shows that feature people with talent, like the ones who can sing, or dance, or cook, or design and sew their own clothes. I really like those shows. Especially the ones where the audience gets to vote on who they think should win. I put at the top of that column the word TALENT. Then there are the shows like the nanny with the British accent who tries to get a bunch of bratty kids to behave, the married couples who trade families for a week, and the ridiculous women who all date the same man hoping to become his wife (weird, but so fun to watch!). These are the NO TALENT shows. I wonder where my show fits in. No one in my family can carry a tune. We stink at Ping-Pong. And the pillow I made in home ec looks like a trapezoid even though it’s supposed to be a perfect square. We definitely don’t fall under the TALENT category. We are even too plain for the NO TALENT column. What with my happily married parents, and Zelda and I being the furthest thing from brats, we are hopelessly ordinary. I tear the page out of my notebook and stuff it into my pocket.
“Jermaine.” Mrs. Finn sounds irritated. “Are you paying attention?” she asks me. She stands in front of the map, wiping her glasses with the bottom of her blouse. She slides the funky blue frames back onto her face like she means business.
“Yes,” I tell her.
“Then please answer the question.” She waits. The room is quiet except for her booted foot tapping.
“Can you please repeat the question?” I ask. Mrs. Finn sighs.
“I asked if you could name three states that have panhandles.” My eyes scan the map.
“Texas, Florida, and Oklahoma,” I say with relief. I do know a panhandle when I see one.
“Very good, Jermaine,” she says. “You’re paying attention after all.” Mrs. Finn spends the rest of the time in class discussing peninsulas and islands while I worry about my family’s ordinariness. Finally, the bell rings and it’s time for lunch.
The smell of meat loaf in the cafeteria makes me grateful for brown-bag lunches and peanut-butter sandwiches. Ro and I meet Nina and my cousin Melinda at our regular table next to the trash cans. There’s still no news about my missing uncle. Mom told me at breakfast this morning that under no circumstances am I to ask Melinda any questions about what’s going on. I sit next to my cousin.
“Any news about, you know …” I say quietly.
“What?” Ro asks. “What are you whispering about?”
“What news?” Nina asks. Nina dumps her lunch out of her bag. Her apple rolls across the table and I catch it before it falls off the edge.
“Nothing …,” I say quickly, feeling sorry that I opened my big mouth. I roll the apple back to Nina. Melinda stares at me without saying a word.
“What? I heard you say ‘news’!” Nina rips open a package of Pudding Cakes. Ro slurps her milk through a straw. Her dark eyes dart back and forth from me to Melinda, who is squinting at me.
“My dad is out of town, that’s all, he’ll be back soon,” Melinda says calmly.
“What’s the big deal if he’s just out of town?” Ro asks. “My dad is out of town all the time. He flies to China like every other week practically.”
“Oh, Jermaine is a big drama queen now that she’s filming a reality show.” Melinda glares at me. I shouldn’t have said anything, but it just popped out, like a burp. If I could just get one little clue that I could pass on to my audience… Melinda kicks me under the table.
“You are a total drama queen,” Ro announces. “When do we get to be in your show, anyway?”
“Have you heard back from Rufus Carmichael yet?” Nina asks.
“No, not yet, but it hasn’t been very long. And I need you guys right away,” I say. “There’s no way I am going to be famous with my plain old ordinary family.”
“Thanks,” Melinda says sarcastically.
“Not you,” I tell her. I take the crumpled reality-show list out of my pocket and smooth it out on the table. “Look. See this list? I’m trying to figure out what direction to take my show in.” I point to the list of TALENT reality shows.
“Your mom’s pickles are awesome!” Ro says. “She’s talented.”
I tell them about my plan to film Mom in the barn.
“But I can’t have my show just be about her making pickles! A couple of cucumber-slicing scenes is plenty.”
“Didn’t your dad run the Boston Marathon?” Nina asks. “That’s a talent.”
“When he was in college,” I tell her.
“Braids,” Melinda says. She pulls the crust off her sandwich and presses it into a doughy lump. “Zelda braids.”
“What are you talking about?” Ro asks.
“Zelda is an excellent braider.” I say. “Maybe I can have a braiding competition.”
I can tell no one really likes that idea.
“Who would she compete against?” Melinda asks.
“And who would really care?” Ro says.
“Some people might care,” I say halfheartedly. “Then how about if Zelda braids your hair … it could be like a makeover show … new hairstyles.”
“That would be fun,” Ro says. “Is she really that good a braider? “
“She really is,” I say. “She can do a bunch of different kinds.”
“Like what?” Nina asks.
“Zelda invented names for each braid style, like the ‘Low-slung.’ Those are the braids that start low by your jaw,” I explain. “They lie in front of your shoulders, like this …” I reach over and grab a handful of Ro’s long hair and squeeze it together in my fist to make a ponytail. Then I lay it over the front of her shoulder to show her what I mean. “And ‘Chopsticks,’” I continue. “Those are low-slung braids that stay straight and stiff behind your shoulders.” I stand up and walk behind Ro. “ ‘Handlebars’ start high up on the head and come straight out to the sides.” I demonstrate, again using Ro’s hair. “And my favorite is the ‘Drumstick,’ ” I say, taking my seat again.
“A single braid!” Nina guesses.
“Right!” I say.
“Drumstick? Like a chicken body part?” Ro asks.
“No, drumstick as in what you use to play the drums,” I correct her.
“I don’t like that name. It sounds like a chicken leg. You should change it,” Nina says.
“How about PEG LEG!” Ro cackles.
“ELEPHANT TRUNK!” I yell.
“CAT TAIL!” Nina squeals.
“BROOM HANDLE!” Melinda shrieks.
“PAN HANDLE!” I shout.
“PIPE DOWN OVER THERE!” Miss Turnbull bellows.
“Tailpipe!” Melinda whispe
rs. All of us howl with laughter. Miss Turnbull shuffles over to our table. I think she secretly wishes to be the school librarian, because she’s always shushing everyone. Isn’t a lunchroom supposed to be noisy? She could never work in a library anyway. Everyone knows she has the loudest voice in the school.
“DO I NEED TO SEND YOU GIRLS TO SEE THE PRINCIPAL?” she booms. The four of us freeze. The cafeteria is quiet. People snicker and stare. When I’m famous and Miss Turnbull sees my face on the cover of a magazine she’ll tell all her friends, “I know that girl, she’s in my lunchroom!” She’ll wish she’d been nicer.
“That’s better,” she grumbles in her monster voice.
When I’m sure she’s out of earshot I lean closer to the table and whisper: “My house. After school. Braids.”
9
Rolling and … CUT!
It didn’t take much to convince Zelda to participate in this makeover scene for my reality show—just my allowance for the next two months. But, I figure, soon I’ll be rolling in dough; rich and famous go hand in hand.
Melinda, Nina, Ro, and I are crammed into the tiny upstairs bathroom Zelda and I share. Right after school, I set up a mini hair salon. A kitchen stool is at the counter in front of the mirror and Ro sits on top of it staring at herself. I’ve gathered every brush, comb, barrette, elastic, hair clip, and bottle of conditioner, styling gel and shampoo (even Mom’s dandruff shampoo that makes her head smell like bug spray). It’s all thrown together in the big white bucket Dad uses to clean the fish tank. Mom’s pinking shears and a can of Scare-Hair left over from Halloween are next to each other by the sink.
“What do we need all this stuff for?” Ro asks. “I thought we were just doing braids.”
“Aren’t you all psyched to be on national TV?” I ask, changing the subject. I’m really nervous about this scene for my reality show. Even though I told everyone we were just doing braids, I’m hoping they’ll agree to be more adventurous.
Ro tips her head to the side and runs her fingers through her long, shiny hair. “Of course we are,” she says. “Here.” Ro takes her skull ring off her finger. “Wear this for extra luck. It will guarantee your show is a huge hit,” she tells me.
“Thanks, Ro,” I say. I slip the ring onto my index finger.
“You have to give it back after you get us on TV,” she adds.
“I will,” I assure her. Ro’s skull ring really is lucky. It came out of the prize machine at her orthodontist’s office. Ever since she’s worn it, good things have happened—like finding two quarters on her bus seat the very next day, and her grandparents deciding to take her whole family to Disney World next week over February vacation. Ro sees the pinking shears and picks them up.
“What are these for?” she asks.
“Haircuts,” I say nonchalantly. I pan my camera around the tiny bathroom.
Zelda pushes the bathroom door open. “Who’s my first victim?” she asks, standing in the doorway.
Ro looks nervous. “Who said anything about haircuts?”
“I was thinking that braids are kind of boring,” I say slowly. “This is a makeover segment for my reality show, remember? You know, a before-and-after thing?”
“Hey! I don’t look like a before,” Ro protests.
“I know that,” I say quickly. “I meant before your new look and after your new look.”
Zelda squeezes herself into the room. She picks up the can of Scare-Hair on the counter. “What’s this?” she asks, putting it down. It tips over and rolls into the sink.
“In case someone wants highlights,” I tell her. I point the camera first at Melinda’s scalp, then at Ro’s and Nina’s.
“I like my hair color the way it is,” Melinda says. “It’s chestnut.”
“I love your hair,” I tell her. “It’s just an option.”
“I thought this was a braiding session,” Ro repeats.
“I just told you—it’s … whatever.” I zoom in on her puzzled face. My stomach does a little flip. Maybe we should stick to braiding … even though it isn’t very exciting reality-show stuff.
“By the way,” Zelda says, “does anyone have dandruff? Or even worse, lice?” We all shake our heads no. “Good.” Zelda digs through the bucket and pulls out a bottle of Bounce and Beautiful shampoo. “Let’s go. Who’s first?” she asks.
“Depends,” Ro says slowly. “What are you going to do?”
“Over here by the tub,” I instruct. “We have to wash your hair first.” Ro slides off the stool. I film her kneeling on the floor.
“Lean your head forward,” Zelda tells her. Ro crouches tightly up against the edge of the tub. Zelda turns the tap and guides Ro’s head underneath it. Water runs over the back of Ro’s neck and her shirt gets soaked.
“Watch it!” Ro yells. “That’s freezing cold!”
“Whoops,” Zelda says, adjusting the temperature and correcting her aim. She scrubs Ro’s head, then rinses until the strands are squeaky clean and the bubbles disappear. Zelda twists her hair up in a towel. “Okay! Have a seat!” she orders. Melinda, Nina, and I fumble around trying to make room for Ro to get back to her seat at the mirror. Somebody steps on my foot and jostles the camera.
Ro’s teeth are chattering when she gets back up on the stool. “I’m soaked!” She shivers. Zelda pulls at Ro’s tangled hair with a giant comb.
“Ow!” Ro cries. “You’re ripping my hair out!”
“Sorry.” Zelda struggles with the tangles.
“Be careful,” I say. “Use cream rinse.” While Zelda applies the cream rinse, I push pause on the camera, open a drawer under the counter, and pull out a magazine. “In Teen this month they have a big spread on funky haircuts and colors,” I explain. “It’s totally rock star! See,”—I hold it up—“it’s zigzaggy … that’s the new look, you know. Did you know that?”
“The new look, really?” Ro plucks the magazine out of my hand. “It’s cute,” she says. “But … I don’t know … what if I hate it?”
“You don’t have to go short, just a trim,” I say. “Come on, this makeover scene will work really well for my show.”
“Whoa! Am I supposed to use these?” Zelda holds up the jagged scissors.
“Hold on.” Ro jumps off the seat. “Is this going to look good?”
“Are you kidding? You’ll have a zigzag cut! Everyone at school will want one,” I tell her. And I mean it. I imagine my friend’s pretty face with an edgy new cut. I zoom in to get a close-up of Ro. “Once you’re on national TV, you’ll start a whole new trend. Maybe they’ll call it the ‘Ro Cut,’ ” I say excitedly. “It’ll be great publicity for my show!” A win-win for everyone!
“You think so?” Ro smiles and sits back down.
“Can I have one, too?” Nina gushes.
“You do something different …” Ro says. “A Nina cut!”
“Are you all nuts?” Melinda asks. “No one is cutting my hair!”
“This is going to be so great!” I say.
“Do you know how to cut hair?” Ro asks Zelda.
“I learned how to use scissors in kindergarten, duh,” Zelda tells her. Zelda holds the magazine and studies the page. “This is easy. I’ll just cut straight across the ends.” She walks around Ro, snipping at the bottom of her hair. “Can you all give me some elbow room?” Melinda steps back so she is pushed up against the bathroom wall, and I step inside the tub. “These scissors don’t cut very well …” Zelda mumbles. “I think this side is a little uneven.”
“Uneven?” Ro starts to fidget.
“Stop wiggling, please.” Zelda continues to snip. “These things are really dull.” I zoom out so I can get everyone in the scene.
“Stop cutting, it’s too short!” Ro looks frantic. The right side of her hair is much shorter than the left side, and it curves in a shaggy arc above her shoulder.
“Okay, that’s good, Zelda! That’s ENOUGH!” I feel a huge wave of panic. It clogs my throat. Ro’s hair is a disaster!
“It will loo
k longer when it’s dry,” Zelda says nervously.
“Isn’t it the other way around?” Nina asks. “Doesn’t it get shorter when it’s dry?” The room gets so quiet I can hear Melinda’s watch ticking. Then Ro starts to say something but her voice is drowned out by the sound of the blow-dryer blasting. I keep filming because maybe when her hair is dry it will look better. Zelda shuts the dryer off. Ro’s hair looks even worse.
“It’s so frizzy.” Ro’s voice shakes. I feel sick to my stomach.
“Frizzy isn’t so bad,” Melinda and I say at exactly the same time.
Ro bursts into tears. This isn’t what I had in mind. Ro is supposed to have a new and improved look. I just put a terrible spin on the makeover segment … “Makeovers Gone Bad or Makeover Nightmares.” Not a bad idea for a show, actually, if it wasn’t featuring your best friend. Should I keep filming?
“No one cares about my hair!” she hiccups. Her face is red and puffy. Her nose is running. I turn my camera off and lay it on the counter.
“It’s not so bad, it’s … different,” I say. I feel Nina jab me with her elbow as if to say You-so-totally-know it’s awful.
“I saw you!” Ro shrieks at Nina. “I saw you poke her! I have eyes, you know, I can see … I see how awful I look!” Ro’s crying gets louder.
“This was a stupid idea, Jermaine,” my cousin tells me.
“I know that …” I pick up a brush. Frantically, I run it through what’s left of Ro’s hair. “Let me fix it,” I say hopelessly. Nina tucks a piece of hair behind Ro’s ear and Melinda tries to smooth out the frizz with the palms of her hands.
“Hold on. Everyone stop freaking out. Let me finish,” Zelda says. “Step aside,” she orders me. “The girl in the magazine has pink on the ends of her hair. Let me try something.” She finds the can of hair color, shakes it, and squeezes a corroded-looking glob. Then she rubs and pats the color into the ends of Ro’s chopped-up hair. It looks rusty and greasy. Ro starts to wail again. Big, loud, gut-wrenching sobs. “Well, that we can wash out,” Zelda says softly.
“It’s ugly!” Ro cries.
“We should have stuck to braids!” Nina says. She hands Ro some tissues.