Lula Bell on Geekdom, Freakdom, & the Challenges of Bad Hair

by C. C. Payne

  “Aw, Mama, can’t we just eat in front of the TV like everybody else?” I tried. “Daddy’s back out on the road again, Grandma Bernice is…gone…it’s just the two of us anyway—and we could watch the Animal Channel.” (Mama likes the Animal Channel, too.)

  Mama turned from the stove. “No, Lula Bell. I’ve planned a nice supper, and we’re going to sit down at the table and eat it, just like always.”

  “Do we have to?”

  Mama set her wooden spoon down and came over to me. She took my shoulders in her hands. “Yes, we have to do things like we would normally do them. That’s the only way I know. If we act normal, then maybe in time we’ll start to feel normal.”

  “Okay,” I immediately agreed, because I was relieved that Mama was prepared. She had a plan. I didn’t, and at that moment, I figured any plan was better than no plan.

  Even so, our supper table seemed unbearably quiet and empty, just as it had every night that week. No one laughed. No one broke into song or brought up reincarnation or flapped their hands like wings. No one fought to get a word in edgewise. In fact, no one had anything to say. Instead, Mama and I just sat there looking at one another and trying not to mention the great, gaping hole, even though I’m pretty sure it was all we could think about. I know it was all I could think about.

  “How was your day?” Mama tried.

  “Fine,” I lied.

  “Good,” Mama said.

  For a few minutes, there was only the sound of forks and knives on plates. Acting normal was turning out to be much harder than I thought—it was almost as hard at home as it was at school.

  “Oh!” Mama said, like she was relieved to have come up with something to say.

  I looked up hopefully.

  “Mrs. West is expecting you tonight at 7:30. She says you’re doing great, by the way. She says you’re almost ready.”

  I forced myself to swallow the baby peas in my mouth and said, “Ma’am?”

  “Surely you haven’t forgotten—Lula Bell, the talent show’s only a couple of weeks away now!”

  Right. The talent show. The talent show I was supposed to be in but wasn’t. At that moment, I figured I had two choices: 1) Tell Mama the truth, or 2) Show up at Alan West’s house right after supper. Since neither of those choices was tempting, I searched my brain for a third option. Maybe if I practiced the three p’s—if I was practical, well prepared, and punctual, leaving at just the right time (during good weather)—I could run away from home. I thought about that for a minute but wasn’t excited by the idea of living in a tent or under a bridge—I’m more of an indoor girl. So, I went through my options again: Should I tell Mama the truth?

  “Lula Bell?” Mama said.

  “Oh, yeah…7:30, okay,” I said, because this, a mere meal, was hard enough as it was. The truth surely wasn’t going to help.

  After supper, Mama put me to work in the living room, ironing sheets. They didn’t smell the way they used to when Grandma Bernice had washed our sheets, because she always hung them outside instead of putting them in the dryer. But even so, I was grateful I only had sheets to iron that day—because sheets don’t have collars, sleeves, folds, or buttons, all of which cause me big ironing problems. I breezed through the pillowcases and flat sheet, all the while singing a song Daddy’s band played:

  Some folks don’t like our laundry

  hangin’ out there on the line,

  oh, but they don’t know

  what it’s like to wear sunshine

  Down here…

  That’s when the trouble started, because I was left with the fitted sheet, which had elastic that pulled and pushed and fought me every step of the way. Still, I did okay—until I tried to fold it. The fitted sheet wouldn’t fold into a neat little square like the other pieces because of that darn elastic! I tried and tried, but as soon as I’d get one side right, the other side loosened and became an uneven mess. I went from frustrated to furious. Letting out a low growl, I kicked that sheet as hard as I could. The sheer force of this kick somehow yanked my other leg out from under me, causing me to sail through the air and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.

  Mama must’ve heard the boom, because she peeked in from the kitchen, finding me on the floor. “What happened?”

  I shrugged. “I had a fight with the fitted sheet.”

  “And the sheet won?”

  “Fitted sheets are unpredictable—and dangerous,” I informed her. “They really should be outlawed.”

  I was in no mood to play or sing or even hear any music during my music lesson—and I certainly didn’t feel like going on with the show—so I hesitated. But just like always, Mrs. West insisted, “The show must go on!” So it did, and once I got going, the music swept me up and carried me away. I forgot about everything else, including time.

  Mrs. West must’ve forgotten about that, too, because when she glanced down at her watch, she gasped. “Oh my stars! I had no idea how late it was getting—your mama’s probably worried sick!”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll just call her. Can I use your phone?”

  “I don’t know—can you?” Alan said, laughing from his perch at the top of the stairs. “Do you know how to use a telephone?” He seemed to think he’d just told a terrific joke. (Here’s a little tip for you: grammar jokes aren’t that funny.)

  I rolled my eyes. “May I use the phone?” I said to Mrs. West, correcting myself.

  I got a busy signal.

  It was so late by the time I got home that there was no one waiting for me—or so I thought until I climbed the stairs.

  “Lula Bell?” Mama called from her bedroom.

  I pushed her door open a little more and said, “Ma’am?”

  Mama was putting the phone back, and I knew then that she’d been talking to Daddy. I wished I could’ve talked to Daddy, too.

  “I was waiting for you,” Mama said. “I…I thought you might like to sleep with me in the big bed tonight.”

  “Really?” I said.

  Mama smiled. “Really. Go put on your pajamas, brush your teeth, and come back.”

  I nodded. When I returned, Mama was watching the Animal Channel on TV. As I climbed into the big bed with her, the new Curly Q Shampoo commercial was just starting. “Look! Look at that!” I said. “You just wash your hair, and bam! Curls.”

  Mama smiled. “It looks that way on TV, but that’s not how it works. It doesn’t make curls. It’s just a shampoo for people who already have curly hair.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “I’m sure,” Mama said. “I use Curly Q at the salon sometimes. It helps prevent frizz, that’s all.”

  “How is that right?” I asked in a shrieky voice. “The Curly Q people shouldn’t be allowed to get people’s hopes up like that!” (Look, some of us want to go to Harvard while others merely want curls. Is that so much to ask?)

  Mama turned off the TV. I tried to calm myself with slow, deep breaths. Mama’s room smelled like a mixture of fabric softener and hair products—clean and fruity.

  As we lay there together in the dark, Mama said, “I’m thinking of selling the beauty shop.”

  I forgot all about the evil Curly Q people then. “How come?” I asked.

  “I don’t know…I don’t think it makes me happy anymore.”

  “But you love to do hair, Mama.”

  “I know I do. It’s just that doing hair and running a business are two very different things and—well, anyway, I’m only thinking about it.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  For a while I just lay there, listening to Mama’s breathing grow deep and even. “Mama?” I whispered, not sure if she was still awake.

  “Hmmm?”

  “I thought you said we have to do everything like we always did, like normal.” This isn’t normal, I was thinking.

  Mama sighed. “I know, and I do think that. I think we have to go on with school and work and lessons and meals the best we can.”

  I listened.


  “But,” Mama continued, “I guess we have to be flexible, too. We have to adjust some, to be there for one another, to help one another when it’s really hard.”

  I understood. Nights were hard for me, too. There was too much quiet, too much time to think, to wonder, to question, to doubt.

  Mama reached over and patted my leg, rescuing me from my own thoughts.

  Faith is the substance of things hoped for, I remembered.

  “This is nice,” I said then, because it was.

  May the Force Be With You

  By Friday morning, I had come to my senses, and knew I’d made a big mistake: Kali Keele was going to make me pay for what I’d said to her on the bus the day before. For a few minutes, I thought about trying to get out of going to school, but then I realized that wouldn’t solve my problem. If Kali didn’t get me that day, she’d get me whenever I showed up at school. Might as well get it over with, I thought, since I probably wouldn’t be allowed to quit school.

  As I parted my hair in the bathroom mirror, I wondered if Kali might go so far as hitting me. By the time I left the house, I’d decided it would be best to tell Mama that any injuries were the result of a fall or some sort of accident. Because the last thing I wanted was for Mama to call the school or Kali’s parents (or worse, show up in person) and make a big fuss—which would only make things harder for me.

  Since it was drizzling outside, Mama hollered to me on my way out the door, “And for the hundredth time, bring your raincoat and boots home!”

  “Yes, ma’am, I will—I’m sorry,” I hollered back and shut the door—quick—behind me.

  When I got down to the bus stop, I found Alan standing as straight and as stiff as the stop sign next to him, holding a black umbrella in one hand and his briefcase in the other—he looked like a professional fifth-grader, I thought. Meanwhile, on the other side of the stop sign, Kali stood hunched over, head down, hood up, so that I could barely make out her face. Neither of them looked at me.

  Might as well get it over with, I thought again and gave a little cough to announce my arrival.

  Nothing. Huh.

  By midmorning, I realized that my Friday was turning out much better than I’d expected. I felt myself relax just a little. And then I made a big mistake: I smiled at Alan West.

  I didn’t mean to. It was kind of a reflex. I was sitting at my desk, doing my work, and when I happened to look up from my paper, I locked eyes with Alan. So I smiled at him, just a teensy little bit, just so it wouldn’t be awkward.

  And this was enough. It was enough to encourage Alan, apparently, because at lunchtime, he made his way over to the seat across from mine, nodded at it, and said, “May I?”

  I looked behind me. There were only three kids left standing in the cafeteria, waiting to pay. Everybody else had already gotten their food and chosen a seat. Nobody had chosen to sit with me. I shrugged.

  Alan pulled the chair out from under the table and sat down. He didn’t talk much, at least not to me. But Alan looked like he might’ve been having a back and forth conversation with himself in his mind. He made different faces and seemed to be working up to something. He checked the clock. Occasionally, he sort of nodded at me. I sort of nodded back. We exchanged a few reflex smiles. But mostly, we just ate our lunch.

  Emilou Meriweather stopped alongside my table, on her way to dump her tray. I smiled up at her.

  Emilou didn’t smile back. “I heard about what you said to Kali yesterday,” she said.

  I looked across the table at Alan, like, Uh-oh.

  Alan scratched at his neck.

  “Kali shouldn’t have said anything about your grandma,” Emilou continued. “I…I…well, I just don’t know what I’d do if she ever said anything about my grandma—we’re very close.”

  I nodded my understanding.

  “May the force be with you,” Alan said to his lunch tray. I knew this was Alan’s Star Wars way of wishing Emilou good luck with Kali.

  Emilou looked at me, as if to say, Well, that was weird!

  I tried to give her a look back that said, I know!

  Emilou forced an uncertain smile and said, “Okay…well…bye,” and hurried away.

  As soon as she was gone, Alan checked the clock again, then sat up straight and cleared his throat. “Lula Bell, I memorized a poem for you.”

  “Huh?” I said.

  Alan nodded. “It’s believed to have been written by Mary Elizabeth Frye. It goes:

  Do not stand at my grave and weep,

  I am not there; I do not sleep.

  I am a thousand winds that blow,

  I am the diamond glints on snow,

  I am—”

  I laughed. I laughed so hard that I nearly fell out of my chair. I couldn’t help it. At first I was confused by Alan’s outburst of poetry. After that I was a little uncomfortable—poetry isn’t exactly normal lunchroom behavior. Then, I felt nervous and embarrassed, and a giggle bubbled up inside me. I tried to let it out through my toes by wiggling, but it didn’t work. It was like trying to let the Atlantic Ocean out through the kitchen faucet. The giggles just kept building inside me until I had to clap a hand over my mouth to keep them inside. But one escaped through my nose. It was all downhill after that. Once I got started, I couldn’t stop laughing. It was like being in church—knowing I wasn’t supposed to laugh only made it worse.

  I was still laughing but trying to stop when Alan stood, picked up his tray, and left the table.

  When music class was almost over, our teacher, Miss Arnett, said, “Lula Bell, I’d like to have a word with you after class, if you don’t mind.”

  I stayed in my seat after the bell rang, my toes wriggling in my shoes, while the rest of my class filed out, into the hallway.

  When the room was empty, I stood and went to Miss Arnett’s desk. “Ma’am?” I said.

  “I’m afraid I need a favor,” Miss Arnett said.

  I nodded for her to go ahead.

  “Ginny Olmstead has sprained her ankle and won’t be able to perform her dance in the talent show.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “I’m sure Ginny would appreciate that,” Miss Arnett said. “At any rate, I need another performer to fill her slot.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Okay…well…I’ll try to think of someone.”

  Miss Arnett smiled. “How about you?”

  Me? “But I didn’t even audition,” I said. “Maybe I don’t even have a talent.”

  “Everyone has a talent,” Miss Arnett said, “and I’ve heard a lot about yours. We really need you.”

  “You do?”

  Miss Arnett laughed a musical little laugh. “Just think it over and let me know by the end of the day.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  When I was almost to the door, Miss Arnett said, “Lula Bell?”

  I turned around. “Ma’am?”

  “I want you to know that I’d consider it a personal favor to me if you decided to do it.”

  I really liked Miss Arnett. She was young and pretty and smiled easily. I really wanted to do her a favor. But still, I’d have to think about it.

  It turned out to be a no-brainer. If I performed in the talent show, Mama would never have to know how I’d chickened out at auditions and then lied to her about it—repeatedly. Plus, I’d get to do Miss Arnett a favor.

  I stopped by the music room that afternoon, on my way to catch the bus. I poked my head in the door and found Miss Arnett stacking the blue folders that were filled with sheet music.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Miss Arnett turned and smiled when she saw me.

  “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “Wonderful!” Miss Arnett said. “Come to the gym on Thursday, right after school, for dress rehearsal.”

  By the time I got off the bus on Friday afternoon, I’d decided I owed Celia Thompson big time. Since Celia had worn her fiery rain boots that day, I figured Kali and her friends must’ve been so busy talking about t
hose boots that they forgot me—mostly. Because what else could’ve kept Kali from giving me grief that day? I sure hoped “the force” was with Celia—and Emilou. Hey! Maybe “the force” was with me!

  Hmph!

  When the doorbell rang late Friday afternoon, Mama looked at me and said, “I hope it’s not another creamy onion and green bean casserole.”

  “Me, too,” I said, crinkling my nose. (Here’s a little tip for you: nobody wants any kind of vegetable casserole when someone has died—or ever, if you ask me. When you’re hurting, you don’t want to be healthy; you want to be comforted. Brussels sprouts and green beans are not comforting. Macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, fried chicken with gravy, homemade potato chips and ice cream—now those are comfort foods!)

  I followed Mama to the front door, where we found Mrs. Purdy from Grandma Bernice’s quilting bee.

  “I hope you weren’t in the middle of dinner,” Mrs. Purdy said as she stepped inside.

  “Not at all. Please, come in, sit down,” Mama said. “Would you like some iced tea?”

  “No, thank you. I can’t stay. I just came by to drop this off,” Mrs. Purdy said, handing Mama a big shopping bag.

  I eyed the bag suspiciously and listened for the sounds of Tupperware. Now, I’d always liked Mrs. Purdy, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to forgive her if she’d brought us a whole shopping bag full of creamy onion and green bean casseroles. But no, I’d have to forgive her, no matter what was in the bag, I decided, as soon as I remembered the Purdys’ annual Fourth of July picnic. I couldn’t risk missing that party.

  The Purdys have fainting goats on their farm. Fainting goats are goats that faint dead away whenever they’re scared. One minute they’re standing there, looking at you with their goat eyes, and the next minute they’re lying on the ground with their eyes rolled back in their heads. And that’s not even the best part. The best part is watching the people—grown-ups!—as they try to scare those poor goats into passing out every Fourth of July. I think Mr. Purdy likes that part, too, because he stands by his goats and says stuff like, “Nope, they’ve seen that before. Try again.”