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

by C. C. Payne

  While I finished smoothing out my side, I waited. Actually, I’d been waiting the whole time for Kali to say something like, Oh my gosh! This quilt is so ugly! But since she hadn’t, I risked a quick glance up at her while still smoothing nonexistent wrinkles.

  The look on Kali’s face, as she stood looking at her bed, told me she loved that quilt. I could see why. It was as if spring had sprung from pure winter with a great big colorful BOING! For some reason, I felt glad.

  I straightened up and cleared my throat. “Well…I guess I’ll see you.”

  I think Kali had somehow forgotten I was there, because she’d been smiling until I spoke. She caught herself and immediately frowned. “This doesn’t make us friends,” she informed me.

  “No, it doesn’t,” I agreed.

  Kali nodded, satisfied. “But I like the quilt, so…”

  I thought she was going to say, Thank you.

  But Kali continued, “What do you want for it?” What did I want for it? I had no idea. Kali tapped the toe of one gleaming white sneaker impatiently.

  “I…I…I don’t…,” I stammered.

  “You’re so weird,” Kali said, rolling her eyes. “All you do is stutter and fidget and…”

  I hate you. That’s what I thought Kali was going to say, but she didn’t. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. I knew she hated me. And I knew she’d hated Grandma Bernice. She had said so, repeatedly, to Grandma—my best friend—who was dead! If that wasn’t bad enough, now Kali was being mean to me when I’d brought her a gift, a gift made by my best friend, who wouldn’t be making any more gifts ever, ever again!

  For a minute I was tempted to rip that quilt off Kali’s bed and march right out the front door. And that would have been the easiest thing to do, because that’s what I wanted to do. That’s when I realized that forgiveness isn’t an act of weakness. Forgiveness is hard. It takes every ounce of strength and willpower. I trembled from the strain of it. I took deep breaths and tried to calm myself.

  Kali rolled her eyes some more.

  “I want you to remember Grandma Bernice, Kali,” I heard myself say then. “I want you to remember how she forgave you when you told her you hated her. I want you to remember that she was good and kind, even when you were mean to her.”

  Kali swallowed. “She was nice. I liked Grandma Bernice.”

  I stood frozen, gaping at her.

  Kali continued, “She made me the best sandwich of my life—peanut butter and grape jelly’s been my favorite ever since. I make myself one almost every day, but it’s never as good as hers was.”

  “What? But you…you…” I shook my head. It didn’t make any sense.

  Kali’s chin quivered. “I just wished she was my Grandma, that she lived with me, paid attention to me, made me cookies and quilts and just…loved me to pieces the way she loved you.”

  I wanted to tell Kali that Grandma had always said that love was the key ingredient in all her food, but I just stood there, fighting the sudden urge to cry. When I got hold of myself, I drew myself up to every centimeter of my full height, just like I’d seen Grandma Bernice do, and I said, “You will never say another cross word about Grandma Bernice ever again.”

  “No. I won’t,” Kali said quietly, lowering her head so that I couldn’t see her face.

  I nodded once and walked out of her room. Halfway down the hall, I heard Kali sobbing. The way she cried somehow told me that her pain was bigger than me, bigger than Grandma Bernice, maybe bigger than any one person or thing. It was a mystery to me how Kali managed to hide all this pain and seem so totally together at school.

  But then I remembered the wolves. Kali didn’t actually have to have it all together; she just had to appear to have it all together, to appear be in complete control, and then, most likely, no one would challenge her. But I had. I figured that meant I wasn’t the omega wolf anymore. Then, I thought of Alan—my friend—and realized I wasn’t a lone wolf either. I’m pretty sure this makes me just a regular wolf—don’t you think?

  Who Would’ve Believed?

  When I was almost home, I couldn’t help noticing the Lanhams’ trash, torn up and spread out all over their driveway. The dogs had gotten loose again. I tried to look away and walk on past. But Grandma Bernice’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of my mind, “Always leave a place nicer than you found it.” I stopped walking and sighed. Ugh!

  Piece by piece, I picked up all the trash and put the Lanhams’ garbage can back where it belonged, on the side of their house. I didn’t enjoy doing it, mind you. It was about as much fun as forgiveness. But still, I did it.

  Mrs. Lanham came around her house from the back, wearing yellow rubber gloves up to her elbows. When she saw me putting the lid on her trash can, she looked around and said, “Oh, Lula Bell, thank you, darlin’. I was just coming to clean up that mess.”

  “That’s okay. You’re welcome,” I said.

  “You know, I’m glad to see you. I’ve been worried about you,” Mrs. Lanham said, peeling off her gloves. “I thought I saw you riding your bike over by the cemetery not too long ago. That’s awfully far from home.”

  My toes began to dance.

  “But I must’ve been mistaken,” she continued. “You’re such a good, smart girl. You’d never do anything that silly and dangerous.”

  “No, ma’am, I…I…would—won’t. I won’t,” I managed.

  “That’s good. Well, thanks again,” Mrs. Lanham said, and then she was gone.

  I wished that I’d worn rubber gloves. My hands were so grimy and sticky, I thought I’d best not touch anything, like our doorknob. So, I went around to the back of our house to wash my hands with the garden hose.

  “I knew you could do it,” I heard Mama’s voice say as I turned the water spigot off.

  I stood, looked around, and found her sitting in a rocking chair on our back porch. I had to think for a second, but then I remembered: the talent show. I nodded.

  I wiped my hands on my jeans and came to sit in the rocker beside Mama’s. “Did you see Great Uncle Cleburne? Is he okay?”

  Mama pressed her lips together and shook her head. A wave of golden hair fell across her face.

  “Did he die?” I whispered.

  “Yes, late last night,” Mama said, pushing her hair back. She looked tired—not mad-tired but tired-tired.

  “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  She nodded as she stared off into the distance. “I’m just glad I was there when Uncle Cleburne went. Thank you for that, Lula Bell. I’m just so glad.”

  “You are?” I said, because I found that hard to believe. Being there when someone dies had to be scary, I thought.

  Mama stopped rocking and turned to look me in the eyes. Her face was serious. “Honey, if I hadn’t been there, I would’ve missed one of the most precious moments of my life.”

  I nodded like I understood, even though I didn’t.

  But Mama continued to stare at me.

  I looked away.

  “Look at me, Lula Bell.”

  I did as I was told.

  “I want you to know that Uncle Cleburne closed his eyes and smiled. Then he said, ‘I see her! I see Bernice! She has doughnuts! She says she’s waiting for me!’ And then he went. Uncle Cleburne went with a big smile on his face.”

  I didn’t say anything, just sat there, trying to take this in.

  Mama must’ve taken this to mean that I didn’t believe her, because after a few minutes she said, “One of the nurses told me that dying people often hallucinate, due to a lack of oxygen in the brain…but…well…” Mama shrugged her shoulders and started rocking again.

  I started rocking, too.

  After a good long while, I smiled. “Grandma Bernice died happy, too, Mama. On our last Thursday night together, she told me that what she really and truly wanted was to die peacefully in her sleep, having been surrounded by people she loved.”

  Mama didn’t react at all. I wasn’t even sure she’d heard me.

&nbs
p; “She even died on the day she wanted,” I whispered.

  Mama stopped rocking and looked at me. “She wanted to die on her birthday?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Grandma said she thought it was nice when a person died on the same day they were born. She said it gave the impression that things went exactly as planned—she called it ‘elegant.’”

  Mama threw back her head and laughed in spite of herself. She looked almost exactly like she did in the photo on Grandma Bernice’s nightstand.

  For a good while after that, Mama and I just sat, thinking and rocking together in a comfortable kind of silence.

  Finally, Mama stopped rocking and said, “We’ll see Grandma again, Lula Bell. We’re just going to go a little longer in between visits is all. In the meantime, I know she’s happy, and she wants us to be happy, too.”

  I nodded.

  Mama stood. “I’ve got to start thinking about supper.”

  “I’m going to stay out here a little longer,” I said, “if that’s all right.”

  “Whatever makes you happy,” Mama said, winking at me as she disappeared into the house and closed the door behind her.

  At first, I only heard it: the unmistakable vibrating sound of tiny wings that beat somewhere between forty and eighty times per second. Then, hovering in the air, near Grandma Bernice’s lilacs, I swear I saw it: a solid white hummingbird!

  “Let’s go out for supper tonight,” Daddy was saying to Mama when I went inside.

  Mama and I both looked at the chicken thawing on the kitchen counter.

  Then, an amazing thing happened: Mama picked up the chicken and put it back in the refrigerator.

  An Announcement

  I was kind of cranky that night at the Mexican restaurant because our server brought my drink in a kiddie cup—insulting! (If you are a server in a restaurant, here’s a little tip for you: assume that any kid who walks pretty good and doesn’t drool knows how to drink from a glass just fine. Hmph!)

  Anyway, over fajitas, Mama had an announcement to make: “I’ve decided to sell the beauty shop.”

  “That’s good. How’d you finally decide?” Daddy said, setting his glass back down on the table.

  Mama shook her head. “You’ll think I’m nuts.”

  “I won’t think that. I’ve known it for years,” Daddy teased.

  Mama smiled. Then she leaned over the table and whispered to both of us, “I asked Grandma Bernice what I should do.”

  Daddy narrowed his eyes at Mama. “And she answered you?”

  Mama nodded, sat back, and started fishing through her gigantic purse. Daddy looked over at me. He looked just a teensy bit worried.

  Mama handed Daddy a piece of paper. He read it and smiled at Mama.

  “What?” I said, feeling left out. “What? What is it?”

  Ignoring me, Mama said to Daddy, “I was looking for the tape when I came across that letter in a drawer. It was the only letter—I don’t even know how it got there.”

  “WHAT?” I said a little too loudly. People at other tables turned to look.

  “Please excuse us,” Mama said to the other people.

  When the other people went back to their suppers, Mama answered me. “It’s a letter Grandma Bernice wrote to me eight years ago, before she moved in with us, back when I first opened the beauty shop.”

  Daddy read aloud from the letter: “I know your new beauty parlor will bring you much success and happiness. Just remember that time goes by far too quickly. Don’t forget to watch as Lula Bell grows and begins to make her way in the world.”

  “So?” I said.

  “So, Grandma Bernice was absolutely right,” Mama said. “That was the answer I’d been looking for, the one I needed to make my decision.”

  “So you’re just going to stay home and watch me grow all the time?” I said. “Because I’m pretty sure you can’t actually see it happening.”

  “I can see it,” Mama said, smiling.

  Being Uniquely U

  The bad news is that the rest of May and all of June were gone before I knew it. Mama put me to work right alongside her, from morning ’til night—and I hadn’t even complained or anything! But it was like the ironing, I guess: Mama really needed the help. Since she helps me so much, I figure I have to help her right back. (Although, I admit I’ve stopped ironing the sheets. Who notices wrinkles when they’re sleeping?)

  The good news is that the house doesn’t seem so sad and empty anymore. Maybe that’s because it isn’t. Mama’s customers are in and out all day every day, having their hair done in our garage, pouring themselves sweet tea in our kitchen, and gossiping to anybody, anywhere, who’ll listen. Nobody says anything truly mean. Well, okay, occasionally they say meanish things, but whenever that happens, they bless the person they said mean things about right away. Like yesterday, when Mrs. Hubbs said, “Have y’all seen Lily Kate Cohen’s new hairdo?” And then Mrs. Brubaker said, “Oh yes, honey. Isn’t it the awfulest thing you ever saw? God bless her!”

  “Yes, God bless her,” Mama repeated, “and God bless her hair stylist, who is not me—I just want y’all to know that.” (Here’s a little tip for you: apparently, you can get away with saying almost anything about anybody, so long as you follow it with a God-bless-her or -him. Watch this: “That guy is a total idiot! God bless him.” Works pretty good, huh?)

  Well, anyway, Mama turned our garage into a small beauty shop, and there is now a sign on the door that reads “Uniquely U Salon.” I hate the sign and the name—isn’t it terrible?—but when I tried to tell Mama so, she said, “It’s a unique name for a unique salon that encourages its clients to be uniquely themselves.”

  “I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean,” I said.

  Mama said, “Women waste too much time trying to be someone else. If they have straight hair, they want curly hair; if they have curly hair, they want straight hair; if they’re brunettes, they want to be blondes. Whatever they haven’t got, that’s what they want.”

  I thought about this and then said, “Um, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but…isn’t that kind of your job?”

  “Not anymore,” Mama said. “Now, I try to call my clients’ attention to what they do have instead of what they don’t and to make the best of it.”

  I knew instantly that this meant I’d need a different hair stylist when I grew up, since I definitely plan to be curly-haired and blond.

  There is a sign inside the salon that I like, though. It says “The higher your hair is, the closer you are to heaven.” Celia Thompson likes that one, too. She comes over to have her hair done by Mama sometimes. Other times, Celia just comes over to tap dance and sing with me.

  Emilou Meriweather comes over sometimes, too. We get along so good and have so much fun together that several times, I’ve been tempted to ask Emilou why we ever stopped being friends—why, exactly, she stopped being my friend. But I never have. I never will. There are three reasons for this:

  1) Emilou probably decided she didn’t want to be my friend for the same kinds of reasons that I once decided I didn’t want to be Alan West’s friend. So I was no better, no different than Emilou. We’d both made a mistake. Actually, I’d made lots of mistakes.

  2) Even so, Alan never once asked me to explain exactly why I’d done all the things I’d done, which was a good thing, because that would’ve been really embarrassing. Since Alan didn’t ask me, I figured I didn’t have any right to ask Emilou.

  3) I didn’t want to make Emilou feel uncomfortable or embarrassed. I like her, and I like her karaoke machine, which she always brings with her when she comes over.

  Daddy says that Emilou, Celia, and I are all bright, shining stars. (Luckily, we haven’t had any problems with mobs of adoring fans or paparazzi—yet.)

  Daddy still calls every night that he’s away from home, only now Mama and I both talk to him every single night.

  Even breakfast has turned out to be okay. Mama still serves me cold cereal, but there are lots of p
rizes. Why, just yesterday morning I won a Mega-Map of the United States! When I told Daddy, he said that before he left home next time, he’d stick thumbtacks in all the places he’d be performing so that I’d know exactly where he was in the world on any given day.

  Mama still serves cookies from a box, too, although on special occasions, we have Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Both are better than a life without cookies or doughnuts altogether.

  Oh yeah, and Alan West comes over with his camera every afternoon and sits on the back porch, waiting for that white hummingbird to come back.

  This afternoon, I said, “But, Alan, what if it never comes back?”

  “It’ll come back,” Alan said, “and I’ll be here when it does. I’m a very patient person.”

  “I know,” I said, “but what if it doesn’t?”

  “It will,” Alan insisted. Then he smiled. “And when I prove the existence of the albino hummingbird, just think how it’ll look on my permanent record!”

  “Faith is the substance of things hoped for,” I muttered.

  “That’s right,” Alan said.

  We went back to watching the regular hummingbirds zipping around the feeders that Alan had put up in Grandma Bernice’s garden. Oh, we had plenty of hummingbirds all right. They just weren’t white.

  “Alan?” I said quietly.

  “Yes?” he said without looking at me. He was still too busy watching his feeders.

  “Do you think there’s any chance at all that the white hummingbird could be Grandma Bernice?”

  “Like reincarnation?” Alan said.

  I nodded.

  Alan didn’t answer me right away. After a few minutes, he began reciting:

  “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 covered my face with both hands and groaned, “Not this again!”

  “Lula Bell, I memorized the whole thing!” Alan said, grinning, as he continued:

  “I am the sun on ripened grain,

  I am the gentle autumn rain.