A Hickey for Harriet & a Cradle for Caroline

by Nancy Warren

  “That girl was me. Is me. I’m still overlooked. Old weird Harriet. That’s what they used to call me, you know.”

  “Harriet, you have to trust me. This series could win the Standard a journalism award. The Star won’t be able to touch us. You’ll be a big part of that.”

  She shook her finger at him. “I’m not going back to my miserable teenage years, so don’t drag me back.”

  She stomped to the door and he watched, stunned, still in his crouched position in front of an empty chair.

  “Hey,” he called. “Did we just have our first fight?”

  She turned a furious face his way. “We just had our last fight.” And she was gone.

  HARRIET WAS SO ANGRY she needed a good strong game of something brutal and competitive to work out her frustrations. Instead, she’d have to work at her desk copyediting.

  She stomped back to her desk muttering and almost knocked Tess Elliot flying as she came around a corner like a speeding freight train.

  “Oh, Tess. I’m sorry,” she said as her colleague recovered her balance.

  “Where’s the fire?” Tess half laughed, then caught sight of Harriet’s face. “What is it?” she said in a more serious tone.

  Normally, Harriet wasn’t one for blabbing her troubles, but she was so burning mad she couldn’t stop the bitter words. “Steve Jerkface Ackerman. That’s what’s wrong.”

  Tess glanced right and left in the crowded newsroom and whispered, “bathroom,” then put a surprisingly strong hand at Harriet’s back and pushed her in the direction of the ladies’ room.

  Once inside, they determined it was empty and then Tess said, “What happened?”

  For an awful second Harriet thought she might cry. Normally, she never cried, but lately it seemed that every time she entered the women’s washroom she ended up an emotional wreck. Under normal circumstances she would never confide in a woman like Tess, a woman who had Homecoming Queen written all over her, but she was so upset she didn’t care.

  “You didn’t go to Pasqualie High, but I did and so did Steve. I was the worst nerd you could imagine.”

  Tess nodded, clearly not finding the admission at all hard to believe.

  “I mean, worse than now,” she said earnestly, and it seemed that Tess struggled against a smile.

  “You’re not a nerd. You’re an individual.”

  “Thanks,” she said with real gratitude. “But Steve wants to do an article about my transformation from nerd to cheerleader. A first-person account of how the biggest loser in Pasqualie finally got to wave a couple of pom-poms in the air.”

  Tess’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious?”

  “I am. And worse, so is Steve.”

  “I know he’s not too bright, but surely even Steve couldn’t be that unfeeling.”

  “He’s a man, isn’t he?”

  Tess snorted. “Silly me, I was forgetting. So, what are you going to do?”

  “Well, I’m not kissing him again, that’s for sure. And he can forget the second date.”

  “You’ve been dating Steve Ackerman?” Tess looked as though she couldn’t believe her ears, which didn’t do a thing for Harriet’s ego, or her temper.

  “One date.” Harriet raised her index finger. “One. And it’s the last one. Jerk.”

  “Do you want me to talk to him?”

  “No. I’m hoping he’ll come to his senses.”

  Tess leaned a hip against a sink. “I thought you’d be floating on air today, your first full day as a cheerleader.”

  “I thought so, too,” she replied miserably, “but it’s all a mess.” Forgetting Steve for the moment, she explained about the hair and makeup.

  “You want Caro,” Tess replied. “That woman knows everything about makeup and hair.”

  “Oh, but I couldn’t—”

  Tess sighed and a frown pulled her brows together. “I wouldn’t say this to anyone, but you’d be doing her a favor. She needs to get out of the house and stop moping over Jonathon. Let me call her?”

  “Well, if you think she’d want to…”

  “I know she will. You have a lot in common. You can talk about what pigs men are.”

  9

  HARRIET GRIMACED as she globbed a layer of foundation over the moisturizer that already felt sticky on her skin. Prior to becoming a Braves’ cheerleader her makeup routine had been a flick of mascara over her lashes and a quick application of clear lip gloss to keep her lips from chapping. She’d also accumulated a little vinyl bag full of eye shadows, lipsticks and blushers she’d bought on various whims—most of which she now realized were the wrong colors and belonged in the wastebasket.

  She’d had an exhausting trip with Caroline yesterday after work, and currently owned more cosmetics than she would have believed existed in the world.

  Caro had been as thrilled about the shopping spree as Tess had predicted she’d be, taking Harriet personally to meet Darlene of Darlene’s Skincare Den, the only qualified esthetician in Pasqualie.

  Harriet watched from behind as the woman had bowed and scraped when Caro stepped through the door and couldn’t have been more excited about teaching Harriet all about makeup.

  “Gorgeous skin,” Darlene, a redhead herself, said as she sat Harriet in a reclining chair that reminded her of one at a dentist’s office and shone a bright light on her face. “What’s your regimen?”

  “Pardon?” Harriet asked, mystified.

  “How do you care for your skin, honey?”

  “Oh. I wash it every morning and before I go to bed with a bar of Ivory soap.”

  Darlene shrieked. “That’s it?” She shot Caro a can-you-believe-this glance. “Oh, my dear, it’s a good thing you came to me before you got any older.” She tsked, and peered. “God gave you beautiful skin. Now it’s your solemn duty to look after it.”

  Darlene’s reaction reminded Harriet of the time she’d forgotten to feed her goldfish for two days. The aunts had made her feel like an animal torturer.

  “I suppose you’ve never even had a facial.”

  Since Darlene supposed right, Harriet didn’t bother to answer what was clearly a rhetorical question.

  Darlene and Caro discussed her, almost as though she wasn’t present. What she’d need for her skin care regime—it appeared she was going to have to add a few steps to her regular routine—and what colors and products would suit her best when she was performing.

  While they messed about with her, Harriet had leisure time to fume some more about Steve’s defection. How could he do this to her?

  She’d e-mailed him her final copy of the cheerleader article and he’d responded that it was fine. Since then she’d barely seen him.

  There were more important things in her life than discovering the man she’d had a crush on since high school was a grade-A jerk. There was day cream, night cream, a special cream to prevent wrinkles around her eyes, blusher, bronzer, seven kinds of lip goop, eyebrow pencil, lip liner, eyeliner…Between Darlene and Caro, Harriet ended up with more colored pencils than a children’s art class.

  Still, she had to admit it was a fascinating world. Since the aunts both believed beauty came from within, neither of them ever bothered much with cosmetics so she’d grown up without being exposed to makeup. Well, apart from that brief phase in high school when Harriet had taken a most unfortunate liking to grape-colored eyeshadow. Once she’d realized that instead of appearing sophisticated and exotic she looked as if she had two black eyes, she’d sensibly given up on the stuff.

  Until now. Now she had an entrée into this exciting womanly world of cosmetics and her inner teenager was dying to try everything. It smelled wonderful in the shop, of mingled perfumes and herbal scents. Tiny pots and tubes winked at her from inside glass display cases, calling to her.

  Harriet’s first solo attempt at doing her makeup had her looking like one of the overpainted reject dolls down at Pasqualie Five-and-Dime.

  The second application was better, though she could still hav
e passed for a Saturday-morning cartoon character. By the third try they all agreed she looked pretty good.

  Then Darlene sent her next door to Patty at the hair salon and Harriet got a stylish new cut that left her hair long, but gave it some shape, plus a lesson in different ways to wear it. Up, down, one side up, one down. With curls or straight. It was amazing what a woman could do with a tube of gel and a curling iron.

  By the time Harriet left the hair salon, she and Caro were having so much fun that they ran into Dave’s Workout World. She bought some new workout gear, more of the style the other cheerleaders wore.

  Emerging once again with a heap of bags, they grinned at each other. Caro bit her lip and said, “You know, if you want to go shopping for some regular clothes, I’m game.”

  As kindly as it was phrased, Harriet knew that what she was saying was, Your clothes suck.

  Maybe Caro was right. But it was all too much change in one day. “Thanks, but I think I’m done for the day.”

  Besides, she’d spent most of her life dressing the way Lavinia and Elspeth had taught her to. Harriet was comfortable and it wasn’t as if anyone was looking at her anyway, so she’d somehow never bothered to think about what she wore.

  Then along came this cheerleader gig and suddenly she was showered in stardust and soon would be dressing in the sexiest outfit she’d ever seen. But it was still a uniform.

  She glanced down at herself then at Caro. “I know I’m hopeless, but I appreciate you trying.”

  “You aren’t hopeless at all. You have an understated style, but it suits you.”

  Harriet almost fainted. A former fashion model thought she had style. Style! She batted her fake lashes just to try them out. “Ow!” she cried, dropping a bag and slapping a hand to her face.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I poked myself in the eye with those false eyelashes Darlene stuck on me.” She sighed as she stood in the middle of the sidewalk peeling off the lashes before she blinded herself.

  So much for style.

  “I THINK we want to go a smidge smaller here, and let out the bust a bit,” said the costume fitter, who then nodded and stuffed a pile of pins into her mouth and started pinching fabric.

  “Smaller?” Harriet almost shrieked. There was so much of her showing. Legs up to here, neck down to there, bare midriff, and the small amount of her that was covered, sparkled. The acres of flesh that weren’t plastered with garish blue sparkles were mottled with a red flush of embarrassment.

  “You were extracting a Hun’s rabbit?” the woman mumbled through a mouthful of pins. At least, that’s what Harriet thought she said, then she blinked and played word jumble games in her head until she made sense of the garbled words. You were expecting a nun’s habit?

  “Well, no. It’s just so…small.”

  “If I had that boy I’d be bumping around naked.” Blink. More word clarification. If I had that body I’d be jumping around naked.

  Harriet couldn’t think of a thing to say to that, so she said nothing. Rapidly, the woman’s nimble fingers cinched, pinched and pinned the fabric until it was like a second skin. With sparkles.

  Fortunately, the seamstress was almost out of pins when she next spoke, so her words were clear. “You’ll be fine. You’ll blend in with the other girls. Don’t worry about it.”

  Don’t worry about it. The woman was right. Harriet had wanted this, hadn’t she? Wanted it badly.

  She was simply grumpy because she’d risen two hours early so she could spend ninety minutes on her hair and makeup. Ninety minutes! She’d timed herself. It was ridiculous to spend that much time on her appearance. She hoped it was because she was slow and klutzy that it was taking so long. Surely when she’d had a bit of practice she could get her routine down to half an hour. Which was still twenty-five minutes longer than she was used to spending on primping.

  She glanced at herself in the fitting mirror. Yes, she was glamorous and her hair was like something out of a shampoo ad, but she missed her five-minute beauty routine.

  Straightening her shoulders, and accepting that all of Pasqualie was going to discover she had breasts, she decided to forget about the tinyness of the costume and concentrate on the enormity of her task. She had to learn all the cheers in two weeks. The squad was putting in extra practices so that she and the two spares they’d taken on could be brought up to speed, but still, it was an awesome responsibility.

  “You all right, sugar?” Linda Lou, the runner-up to Miss Georgia Peach asked her, coming up from behind and slipping an arm over her shoulder. Linda Lou had been getting her own uniform touched up.

  Harriet smiled and glanced at the pair of them reflected in the mirror. To a stranger, Harriet probably looked like one of the Bravehearts, which was more heartening than she could have imagined. But she’d stick out like a broken arm if she messed up her steps.

  “I’m so scared I’ll go left when I’m supposed to go right, or back when I’m supposed to move forward.” She imagined the domino effect as one by one the blue sparkly women tumbled to the ground, each one rising to point an accusing finger at Harriet. She shuddered.

  “Don’t worry, honey. We all start out scared, but you’ll pick it up in no time.” She gave her shoulder a squeeze. “You’re a natural.”

  Harriet tried to remind herself that she’d won the tryouts on her own merits, but she couldn’t forget that, unlike most of the girls on the squad, she’d never actually been a cheerleader. And all her dancing and gymnastics had been performed in competition or fun meets.

  She’d never had a whole lot riding on her before, and she felt as though one wrong move could land her on her far-too exposed, sparkly butt.

  She forced herself to think positive as she changed back into her new workout gear and made her way to the rehearsal hall.

  Now that she’d made the team, the other cheerleaders treated her as one of them. “Hey, Harriet.”

  “How ya doin’, H?” and various other casual greetings were like balm to her wounded teenage soul.

  The team practiced for three hours. They’d practice again on the weekend and within weeks she’d be on the field for her first game. She was a nervous wreck when she took her place, but soon she forgot her nerves as she tried to remember every step, move in harmony with the other girls and after a while, she started to enjoy herself.

  For as long as she could pull this magic act off, she, Harriet Adelaide MacPherson, belonged to the in crowd. Of course, like any girl who’d read her fairy tales—and Harriet certainly had—she knew the clock would eventually strike midnight. But until the bell tolled, she would dance in her make-believe ballgown.

  In this new fairy-tale version of her life, there was even a handsome football prince who’d set his sights on her.

  “Yo, Harriet,” Rock Richards called as she packed up after practice. He swaggered toward her, fresh sweat dripping off his impressive biceps.

  “Hello, Rock,” she said, smiling at him shyly and dragging an oversize sweatshirt over her skimpy workout gear. Rock had a way of looking at her that made her feel as if her breasts had been painted in neon colors for his viewing pleasure. She forced herself not to cross her arms over her chest, trying to project the easy sexiness her fellow cheerleaders seemed to have been born with.

  “Hey, Sugar,” Linda Lou cooed as she sashayed past, dancing her fingertips along the back of Rock’s tree-trunk neck. “How’s things?”

  Harriet could imitate the more enthusiastic Kelly, who took a running jump and leaped on Rock from behind, kind of like a baby ape might leap on its mother.

  He patted, pinched or hugged every one of the girls, but for some unfathomable reason, Harriet held his attention.

  “Can I give you a ride to Ted’s?” Rock asked her. She blinked up at him, momentarily speechless. Probably his teammates had dared him to ask her to go with him, she decided when her faculties returned.

  She’d never even considered going to the bar with the other girls. Harriet was,
after all, a realist. She might be able to back flip, spin thirty times consecutively without getting dizzy and do the splits in either direction, but she had fourteen years of training in that stuff.

  On “flirting in bars with men” she had not a minute’s experience. Well, not firsthand experience, anyway. She’d watched plenty of other people flirt, but her dates had all been card-carrying members of Dullards International where the art of flirting was an elective no one bothered to study.

  She was only human. Stupid dare or not, she couldn’t resist showing up with Rock—knowing the Standard softball team was practicing tonight and might be there had absolutely nothing to do with her decision.

  “I’d love to. Just let me change.”

  His gaze skimmed her. “You don’t have to change. You look great. We all wear our workout gear there.”

  She smiled in true glee at the thought of walking into the bar on Rock Richards’s arm where she might be spotted by her colleagues—one colleague especially who needn’t think she was pining for him.

  She felt a little foolish going out in so much clingy black Lycra, but Rock was right. All the girls wore outfits like hers to the sports bar. If she swallowed her bashfulness and went as she was, she might, for once in her life, actually fit in.

  She grabbed her bag, Rock grabbed his and they were off.

  Predictably, his car was a sporty black convertible with a very loud engine. She bit her lip before getting in, but decided she couldn’t put on the plumage of a cheerleader and then act like a chicken. Squeezing herself onto the black leather passenger seat, she fastened her seat belt and hoped for the best.

  He wasn’t a wild driver, in spite of the car, so she was able to enjoy the cherry tree blossoms picked up by the headlights as they passed through town. Snuggled into her brand-new team jacket, she was plenty warm. Heck, even if it had been a hundred degrees outside she’d still have slipped into her team jacket.

  She wondered if she’d feel shy with Rock and if she’d be able to think of anything to talk about. But he solved that problem when he cranked up the music until it almost masked the sound of the noisy engine. Harriet wasn’t familiar with a lot of rap music, and decided there was no time like the present for expanding her musical horizons.