The Reinvention of Bessica Lefter

by Kristen Tracy

  Grandma stopped at a red light and sucked in her cheeks. “Do not tell your mother that story.”

  “Okay.”

  The whole time Grandma drove home, I kept thinking that she had something else that she wanted to tell me. But she never said anything. So I figured that the pixie cut was going to blow over. Like a storm that settles over your house for an hour and dampens your yard and then drifts away.

  When I got home, I went to my room and pulled out a bunch of my new school clothes so I could try them on and admire how they looked with my pixie cut. I also got out all my bags of school supplies so I could hold up various items and see how they looked with my new outfits. I posed with my pencils. I slipped on my backpack. I operated my heavy-duty scissors in front of the mirror. I guess I heard the phone ring. I guess I heard some arguing. But I was involved in a very comprehensive fashion show and I wasn’t paying total attention. I didn’t suspect that my life was heading toward the gutter until Grandma opened my bedroom door and told me that she had some very bad news.

  “Are you experiencing hip pain again?” I asked.

  Because when Grandma experienced hip pain, which had happened twice before, I had to sleep in the basement and she got my room. And I didn’t enjoy sleeping in the basement, because it didn’t have wall-to-wall carpeting or a radio or sunlight. Also, there were big spiders down there.

  “Sylvie and her mom are coming by to have a talk with you and your mom.”

  “But it’s not three o’clock. Mom’s still at work.”

  “Your mom is coming home early.”

  I took a step back. Mom never came home early. Things were more serious than I had realized.

  I stood there in my new brown corduroys and pink sweater and sneakers with the pink tongues. “The pixie cut was too extreme, wasn’t it?” I asked.

  “Bessica,” Grandma said. “Life is a fluid thing. It doesn’t always go in a straight line. You might want something that is right in front of you, but sometimes you’ve got to take a journey other than the one you expected to get there.”

  I wasn’t surprised to hear Grandma talking about journeys, because she was a direct descendent of the pioneers. And so if you let her talk long enough about any subject, eventually you ended up hearing about handcarts, and the whooping cough, and oxen stuck in mud holes. I ran my fingers through my pixie cut.

  “Will you be there?” I asked.

  She nodded. “I’ve got some news to deliver as well.”

  And I wasn’t worried when I heard her say that, because I thought I knew what she was talking about. Grandma had been complaining about the air quality in the basement for a while, and I suspected that she was going to buy some sort of air-purifying device. But before she was allowed to buy anything that required electricity, she had to check with my parents. There had been an incident involving an electric blanket, and a massage chair, and a minifridge that knocked out all the power in the house, and in the middle of the night my dad had to do something involving a flashlight and the circuit breakers to get us light again. After that, she’d been put on notice about her wattage consumption.

  I changed out of my new clothes and brushed my teeth. That way, if I needed to make a powerful argument, I would have clean and persuasive breath. I remember sitting on my couch thinking that I was going to have an unpleasant conversation. But that was an understatement. Because until this meeting, I had no idea that Sylvie’s mom secretly hated me and had been plotting to destroy my life. I thought she was an okay mom. But I guess that just goes to show you that you don’t really know somebody until she comes to your living room and flushes all your dreams down the toilet.

  hat were you thinking?” my mother asked me. “And where were you during the big shearing event?” She pointed into the kitchen at Grandma. We were sitting on the couch, waiting for Sylvie and her mom to arrive.

  “I was at the bookstore,” Grandma said.

  “I just wanted a haircut,” I mumbled.

  Grandma walked into the living room carrying two dishes of fruit salad that she’d just sliced up and topped with crème fraîche. She handed one to me.

  “Mrs. Potaski is furious!” my mother said. “She makes me feel like an unfit parent.”

  Then the doorbell rang. And before I had a chance to tell my mom that she was a totally fit parent, Sylvie and her mom walked into our living room. I took a big bite of my fruit salad. Mrs. Potaski looked like she’d been painting all morning. She had black smears on her jeans and she smelled bitter, like paint thinner. It worried me that her shiny black hair fell onto her shoulders in a very angry way. I looked at Sylvie. She was in the clothes she’d worn to the mall. Her eyes looked red from crying. And that made me feel terrible.

  “Care for a dish of fruit?” Grandma asked. “Topped with crème fraîche?”

  This was one of the reasons Mrs. Potaski liked Grandma. Because she did grandmotherly things like make dessert. And she didn’t produce sugar bombs like other grandmas in the area who made things out of sweetened condensed milk and coconut and butterscotch chips. Her stuff had nutrients in it, even calcium.

  “No. Thank you,” Mrs. Potaski said. I sat up a little straighter. She’d never passed on one of Grandma’s desserts before. I stopped eating. And then Mrs. Potaski didn’t even take a seat. She just stood in my living room and started saying horrible things.

  “Bessica is a dangerous influence,” Mrs. Potaski said.

  I waited for Sylvie to leap to my defense, but she didn’t. I had to wait for Grandma to do that.

  “Let’s not overreact,” Grandma said. “A bad haircut is temporary.”

  Sylvie looked so sad. I wished she’d told me that she had such pointy ears. Because we could have told Pebbles to modify Sylvie’s pixie cut and leave it longer on the sides.

  “I have already had a long talk with Bessica about the haircut debacle,” my mother said. “And she’s grounded.”

  This was the first I’d heard of this. I guess my mom wanted to look tough and not unfit in front of Mrs. Potaski.

  “That’s not enough,” Mrs. Potaski said. “I plan to take action.”

  Action? I had no idea what this meant. Was Mrs. Potaski going to beat me up? Was she going to sue me?

  “Sylvie will not be attending North Teton Middle School,” Mrs. Potaski said.

  This statement was so surprising and terrible that I couldn’t even believe it.

  “Where is she going to go?” my mother asked.

  “I’m sending her to South,” Mrs. Potaski said.

  “No!” I said. “You can’t. Sylvie is my best friend. And she already has her classes. Plus, she’s been assigned a locker.”

  But Mrs. Potaski didn’t look like she was going to change her mind. She looked ticked off. “I’ve called the principal. It’s done.”

  “Over a haircut?” my mother asked.

  Mrs. Potaski shook her head. “There is something else.”

  When I heard this, I held my breath. Because I had no idea what else I’d done.

  “Bessica led Sylvie into a dangerous construction area yesterday and instructed her to throw her diary into an open pit.”

  My mother’s mouth dropped open and she looked at me.

  “It’s gone forever. All her ideas. All her drawings. Every preadolescent musing she’s had since third grade. Poof. Erased,” Mrs. Potaski said.

  “Is that true?” my mother asked.

  And I wanted to point out that the drawings weren’t so hot and neither were the ideas, but I said something else. “It was a collaborative diary. It was half mine.”

  My mother covered her mouth.

  “Bessica!” Grandma scolded. Then she took away my fruit dish.

  “I feel sick to my stomach,” Mrs. Potaski said. “I still have my own diary from those years, and I turn to it often as a source of immense pleasure.”

  “But she kept ten pages,” I offered.

  Sylvie looked down at the floor.

  “Yes. I’ve seen those
pages,” Mrs. Potaski said. She folded her arms across her chest and frowned at me.

  And I didn’t know why Mrs. Potaski sounded so mad. Why would pictures of the ocean upset her?

  “Do you know what was written on the back of them?” Mrs. Potaski asked me.

  And by the tone in her voice I knew that it wasn’t another ocean picture.

  “A list,” Mrs. Potaski said. And she hissed a little when she said that word.

  “Huh,” I said. I tried to think of all the lists I’d written in that diary. But there were a lot.

  “And do you know what it was a list for?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “It was a list of forty-two regrettable things you did during the fifth grade.”

  I looked at Sylvie, but she was still looking at the floor. I’d forgotten all about that list. How could she let her mother see that? What was wrong with her?

  “Well, we all have those kinds of lists,” Grandma said. “But not everyone writes them down.”

  “I don’t have a list like that,” Mrs. Potaski said.

  And I couldn’t take hearing people talk about me and my list like I wasn’t even there. “But I did those things a year ago. Plus, I regret them.”

  “You still did them!” Mrs. Potaski said. “You are a dangerous influence. I only need to look at my daughter’s hair to confirm that.” Then she looked at Sylvie’s hair and groaned.

  That was when I realized that Sylvie’s mom was most likely crazy and I became worried that I might never see Sylvie ever again.

  Then Mrs. Potaski unleashed a terrible lecture about personal responsibility and key growth years, and I kept wanting to jump in and yell, “I see your point, but Sylvie’s my best friend. You can’t separate us. That’s stupid. And mean.” But Mrs. Potaski never even took a breath, and when she was finished she did something that was the meanest thing anybody had ever done to me. She asked Sylvie to say something to me about this decision.

  “I think it’s a good idea,” Sylvie said quietly. “You talk about going to middle school as a brand-new person. This is a way to make sure we’re equally brand new.”

  “What?” I said. I couldn’t believe she meant that.

  And then I stopped listening to anything anybody had to say. Because I felt that everybody in my living room had become a jerk. Then my mom did a little bit of pleading on my behalf, and even though I wasn’t listening anymore, everybody was speaking loudly enough so that I learned even worse news.

  “I actually switched Sylvie to South two months ago,” Mrs. Potaski said.

  This news blew my mind.

  “What?” I asked. I jumped to my feet and pointed at Sylvie. “Did you know about this?”

  Sylvie shook her elf head. “I just found out today.”

  I sat back down. But for some reason I kept pointing at Sylvie. Until she started to leave.

  “There really isn’t anything more to talk about,” Mrs. Potaski said. “We should get going.”

  I watched Sylvie and her mom walk to their car. My mom followed behind them. I thought she’d keep pleading on my behalf. But I didn’t hear that. Just silence.

  “I know that’s not the news you were hoping for,” Grandma said.

  “I don’t even believe that’s going to happen,” I said.

  “Remember what I said about the journey,” Grandma said. She tried to hand me back my fruit dish, but I didn’t take it. I walked outside because I didn’t want to hear anything else that Grandma had to say. Because she was not improving my mood. And then, standing in the driveway, I watched my best friend wave at me as she was driven away.

  It was so lame. Even if her haircut made her look a little elfin and bulb-nosed, she still looked like a girl. And the diary was stupid. And I felt bad about those things I did in fifth grade. That was why I said I regretted them. Couldn’t anybody else see that? That was when the next rotten thing happened. Except I didn’t know it was rotten yet. I just thought it was weird. A giant motor home pulled into our driveway.

  “Are you lost?” my mother asked as she walked toward the driver’s window.

  Then this old guy in a cowboy hat shook his head. “It’s me. Willy!”

  Why was Willy in my driveway? Why wasn’t he in New Mexico, where he belonged?

  “Rhoda!” Willy yelled. That was Grandma’s name. But nobody called her that; everybody called her Grandma. Except for her Scrabble buddy, Maple, who called her Toots. I watched in horror as Grandma ran to the window and began smooching Willy. I couldn’t stop staring.

  Finally, my mom exclaimed, “This is a surprise!”

  Then Grandma stopped smooching Willy and looked at us. “We’re going on a road trip to visit a few places we’ve both always wanted to see.”

  And I thought my mom was going to object to this by yelling and maybe even swearing a little, because Willy’s motor home was belching black smoke and it was clear to me that this was an unsafe vehicle that my grandmother did not belong inside of. But my mom didn’t do that at all.

  “Wow,” she said. “That sounds like fun. How long will you be gone?”

  Instead of letting Grandma answer, stupid Willy answered, “We’ve decided to take the next six weeks to see some world-renowned caves: Crystal Cave, Jacob’s Cave, Talking Rocks Cavern, Bluff Dweller’s Cave, and more!”

  “Six weeks?” I yelled. “To look at caves?”

  “Lower your voice,” my mother said.

  Just then my dad pulled up. I felt relieved that he was home from work early, because he would talk sense into everybody and force Grandma to continue living in our basement. I loved Grandma. I didn’t want her to leave with Willy. It was like she’d gone crazy. Didn’t she know that we needed her?

  My dad’s reaction was not what I’d hoped for.

  “Nice to see you again, Willy. Cool Winnebago,” he said.

  Then Willy offered to give my dad a tour and take him for a ride. Then my mom said that she’d like to check it out too. Then we all climbed in and Willy drove us down the road in his stupid, belching motor home, and I heard Grandma laughing, and Willy laughing. My mom and dad said stupid things like “I’ve always found caves fascinating” and “The fall is a beautiful time to travel.”

  And I realized that they were probably sick of having Grandma live in the basement and they were probably going to enjoy having a place to set up their home gym again. It was wrong on so many levels. I closed my eyes and pretended that none of this was happening. I pretended that everything was normal. But as I rode along in the motor home, my world swayed. I had to take a seat at the kitchenette. Silverware jingled in the drawer. Pots and pans clinked in the cupboards. When I opened my eyes, everybody looked so happy. Then Willy pulled into our driveway again and we all crawled out of the motor home. That was when my father finally noticed that I was a brand-new person.

  “Bessica,” my father said. “What did you do to your hair?”

  And I said the most honest thing ever.

  “I think I ruined my life.”

  illy kept his motor home parked in our driveway, because he and Grandma still needed a few days to pack and prepare. I didn’t even like to go in the living room anymore, because that stupid Winnebago sat right outside in plain view, reminding me that my life was terrible. Stupid Winnebago. I regretted ever teaching Grandma how to go online.

  I sat on my bed and tried to think of a way to change the direction of my life. But when that started to seem pretty hopeless, I pulled out a pack of gum.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “Do you need anything from the store?” Grandma asked. “Willy and I are going to pick up some additional caving equipment.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “A medical kit, a couple of headlamp systems, and probably some knee pads.”

  Suddenly, the thought of a potential injury occurring while they explored caves across America made me think I might be able to reason with Grandma. She opened the door and smiled at me.

&nbs
p; “Aren’t you worried about your hip?” I tried to make my face look tender and concerned. “How do you expect to examine caves with your current joint issues?”

  Grandma sat down on the bed and hugged me. “You haven’t brushed your hair today.”

  I reached up and touched my hair. I could feel my pixie cut sticking up all over the place. But I didn’t care.

  Grandma ran her fingers through it, trying to smooth it, but that didn’t work.

  “I don’t feel so hot.”

  Grandma nodded. “Isn’t your middle-school orientation tonight?”

  Originally, I was going to go to middle-school orientation with Mom and Sylvie and Sylvie’s mom. But South had their orientation last night. And since that was the school that Sylvie was going to, and I hadn’t heard from her, I assumed that that was the orientation she’d attended.

  “Have you called Sylvie yet?” Grandma asked me.

  It had been five days since the horrible announcement in my living room.

  I shook my head. “It’s official. We’re on the outs.”

  Grandma sighed and hugged me again. For some reason, she smelled more like toothpaste now than she ever had before. “Maybe you need to call her and break the ice.”

  I shook my head again. “What if her mom answers? Mrs. Potaski said some pretty harsh things about my character.”

  “Don’t assume the worst. Do you want to know a secret?”

  “Is it about Willy the Maniac?” I asked.

  Grandma looked at me sternly. “Willy has been exceptionally kind to you and I expect you to treat him kindly in return. And no, my secret isn’t about him.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Tell me your secret.” Usually, hearing about secrets made my mind spin with the energy of a thousand monkeys. But not today.

  “If you want a certain outcome, you should practice the power of visualization.”

  “Huh?” I said. Her secret sounded completely bogus.

  “Before I met Willy, I used to imagine meeting somebody exactly like him. I pictured us together shopping in a store for caving supplies like knee pads and headlamp systems. I even pictured him pulling into our driveway in a rented motor home nearly identical to the one he has.”