Sprout

by Dale Peck

  In fact, it was pretty much impossible to get all the dye out. I learned to wear bandanas—green bandanas, duh—for a day or two after I dyed my hair, but I guess I’m a nervous person, or, who knows, maybe dying my hair makes me nervous, or, you know, self-conscious, because I was pretty much always running my hands through it, which meant that I pretty much always had green palms, and fingers too, and wrists, if I did a particularly bad rinse job. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning I can tell where I’ve been touching myself (again I say: get your mind out of the gutter) because of the pale green streaks and smudges on my skin. The collars of all my shirts are green, and my pillowcases, and the headrests of the passenger seats of my dad’s and Ruthie’s and Mrs. Miller’s cars, and then the fronts of most of my pants too, since that’s where I usually wipe my hands when I notice there’s dye on them. Bathroom towels’re pretty much a wash, and doorknobs, and the wall just beside the door, which is where your hand actually lands a surprisingly large percentage of the time, especially when it’s dark. Ditto the toilet handle, light switches, papers and books (especially my dictionary), the lock on my locker, the edge of my desk, shoelaces, the keys on my computer (before my dad broke it), the remote control for the TV (before my dad broke that too, about which more soon), the flag on the mailbox, and any mail I might pick up, and, well, just about everything else I touched that wasn’t washed immediately afterwards.

  By now you’re probly thinking that if I had a normal mom and dad they would’ve made me stop dying my hair a long time ago, and who knows, maybe you’re right. But my dad took a different view.

  “It’s like a record of your path through life. All the things you touch in the course of your daily routine. Like your toothbrush, or the cereal box, or that bottle of schnapps you tried to hide in number 22.”

  Did I mention my dad numbered his stumps? He numbered his stumps.

  “I didn’t—”

  My dad pulled the flat bottle out of his jacket, and there were the telltale green fingerprints obscuring the unreadable gothic script on the label. It’d been dark when I snuck it out of the house, so I hadn’t seen them.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not mad. And at least I know you didn’t drink any.”

  “How d’you know I didn’t drink any?”

  My dad winked. “I have ways of leaving my mark too.”

  In fact I hadn’t drank any—but I had poured some for Ruthie, and then added water till the bottle was filled back to its previous level. If I’d waited a bit, I could’ve just poured Ruthie’s drink back in the bottle, because she took one sip and spat it out. Schnapps is gross. Fortunately, years of hard drinking had pretty much burned out my dad’s sense of taste (both the oral and aesthetic kind), so it didn’t really matter.

  That “fortunately” was ironic, by the way.

  Duh.

  And so yeah anyway.

  The stains.

  Everywhere.

  And everyone noticed them.

  But no one noticed I was having sex with Ian Abernathy. Not even when one time Beanpole Overholser saw a couple of green smudges around the base of Ian’s cap and asked Ian if I’d dared to snatch it off the top of his head.

  “Nah,” Ian didn’t even blink. “The wind blew it off, and I made ol’ Saladhead here run after it for me, him being such a fast runner and all. Right, Saladhead?”

  “Suck an egg, Abernathy.”

  No one noticed, that is, except Mrs. Miller, who might not’ve known the who but somehow figured out the what. I gotta hand it to her. She was good. I gave her dead mom, drunk dad, cross-country move—everything she asked for, plus crazy friend and the eccentricities of dictionary and dye job, and of course my thoroughly disarming wittiness, and she saw right through me. Made me wonder what else she might know about me—maybe things I didn’t even know about myself. Tell you the truth, it scared me a little. Scared me a lot actually. So much that I skipped our last summer session, and then school started, and then, well . . .

  Then everything changed.

  (She was wrong about the cup though. The one I stole from her cabinet and broke on the kitchen floor. It wasn’t a distraction. Wasn’t just a distraction anyway. But first things first. Or, well, in this case, second things second. I.e.:)

  This is the second part!

  Superman: Easy, miss. I’ve got you.

  Lois Lane: You’ve got me? Who’s got you?

  Wake-up call

  Seven A.M. Sunday morning.

  Who in their right mind would call at such an ungodly hour?

  “Mmmmyello?”

  “I’M STILL ON GREENWICH MEAN TIME!” a foghorn blared into my ear. “MY BRAIN THINKS IT’S ONE IN THE AFTERNOON!”

  I mentioned that Ruthie’s dad took her to England for two months, right? They went on “a motor tour of the historic British countryside” (that’s the brochure talking, not Mr. Wilcox) for July and August. Before she left I predicted she’d return with a fake accent. Sure enough, the voice on the other end of the line made Madonna sound to the manor bjorn. Ruthie’s consonants were sharp enough to cut butter. Her vowels floated along the roof of her mouth like helium balloons trapped in the gym after a dance.

  Fortunately, I’d prepared for this.

  “Scouse me?” I said in the worst British accent I could muster, given the hour and my general lack of interest in all things English. “I Kent understand you.”

  (Ruthie’s dad bought Google, by the way. Not a lot, but enough to let him spend two months in the middle of the summer “motoring acrost” the British countryside. Oh, and he’s a lawyer. That’s how he was able to afford Google in the first place.)

  “You are such a dork. D’you want to do your hair?”

  “Say again? My Cockney’s stuck in my Middlesex, and I’m just about to Cumbria.”

  A groan rumbled over the line while I inspected my roots in the mirror on the other side of the living room. It was hard to focus—my face was all warped and wobbly for some reason. At first I thought it was distance, or darkness, but our trailer’s only seven and a half feet wide for one thing, and plus it turns out the sun is pretty much up by seven in the morning. Who knew?

  Then I remembered we didn’t have a mirror in our living room.

  I squinted. The thing hanging on the wall was actually one of those big-ass chrome rims you see on Pimp My Ride—judging from the size, it had come from an Escalade, or one of those Suburban/Yukon/Denali clones. You gotta hand it to my dad. He could always surprise you. The rim had a few dents, so my guess is he found it by the side of the road.

  “Hell-O?!” Ruthie apparently felt the silence had gone on too long. “School starts tomorrow, and we need to review our schedules.” She dropped the accent on everything but the last word, which came out “shed-yules,” albeit in a quiet voice, already half-defeated.

  “Shed-yules?” I looked around for the three cottonwood bark paintings that used to hang where the rim now protruded from the wall. Saw that my dad’d made a mobile out of them, hung them over the dining room table, i.e., the kitchen counter, i.e., the end table for the loveseat, i.e., the place where we keep the phone. I.e., they were about three inches in front of my face. (Hey, I was just waking up.) I blew on one of the paintings and it spun in a gentle circle until it tapped me on the forehead. “Is that anywhere near Egloshayle?” I said, working the accent as hard as I could. “Sheepy Magna perhaps?”

  “You made a list, didn’t you? Funny English town names.”

  “On the contrary. These are recognized English dialects recorded by the University of Leeds during an eleven-year study conducted between 1950 and 1961. Unlike whatever the hell you’re speaking.”

  Long, defeated pause. Then:

  “I can’t decide which I hate more right now. You or Wikipedia.”

  I glanced at the rim. “Hey, don’t hate the playa. Hate the game.”

  Ruthie’s snort sounded like Transatlantic static. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t keep me waiting. Those stumps still give m
e the creeps.”

  One hundred twenty-three minutes later, Ruthie pulled up in her mom’s hand-me-down BMW convertible. Her hair was in three braids, two of which stuck out from the right side of her head, one from somewhere towards the crown. The British flag was painted on her jeans—and on her tanktop, her right shoulder, and, most disturbingly, her sunglasses.

  “Um, can you see through those?”

  Instead of answering, she took them off. “Look what I can do.” Her left eyebrow climbed an inch up her forehead while the right stayed motionless. “I was practicing my expressions. This one’s ‘perplexed.’ ”

  Turned out Ruthie had read an article or an interview or a blog or something that said aspiring model/actresses need to spend a lot of time looking at themselves in the mirror and practicing various expressions for the camera. Since looking in the mirror just happened to be one of Ruthie’s favorite activities, she was able to throw herself wholeheartedly into her task.

  “You look like a stroke victim.”

  “Stroke victims are often perplexed. Hey, it took me all summer to learn how to do this. It’s a real skill.”

  “Carpentry is a skill. Sharpshooting is a skill. Making a double macchiato with two pumps of caramel and a foam cap is a skill. Raising an eyebrow”—I pointed to the thing wiggling just below her hairline like a fuzzy caterpillar—“not a skill.”

  “Oh god, coffee!” Ruthie threw the car in reverse. “England’s got America beat on the culture front, but until they get a Starbucks drive-through, I’m staying right here!”

  As we sped towards town, I noticed that her eyebrow was still pinned high up her forehead. I wondered if it was stuck there.

  Ninety-eight minutes later, I was stretched out in the old recliner in Ruthie’s mom’s basement “rumpus room” (why no, we never did let her live that one down). Bleach was frying my skull beneath a plastic showercap and I probly would’ve dozed off on a vapor high if Ruthie hadn’t been standing on an old sofa and screaming.

  “Ohmygodyourdad? AndMrsMiller?! I can’tbelieveit.”

  “They’ve been inseparable for like two weeks. He doesn’t

  “They’ve been inseparable for like two weeks. He doesn’t even come home most nights.”

  “Gross! No, wait. Ger-ross! No, let me try again: Ger-row-oh-oss!”

  “Somebody tried to chase her jetlag away with too much caffeine.” I giggled. “Are you suggesting you’re repulsed by the thought of my dad and Mrs. Miller engaging in—”

  “Ix-nay on the ex-say alk-tay!” Ruthie’s bellow rattled the windows in their casements. But then a funny look came over her face. I’d call it whimsical, but really, Ruthie’s not that deep. “D’you think maybe, well, you had anything to do with the two of them hooking up?”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “Well, you know. The stuff you wrote. I mean, you did make them out to be kind of made for each other. Two lonely, mildly eccentric alcoholics bonding through the medium of one lonely, mildly eccentric green-haired boy.”

  My mind flashed on one of my sessions with Mrs. Miller. Sometime in July. We’d finished working and were just “enjoying the afternoon,” which was Mrs. Miller’s euphemism for sitting around until she was sober enough to drive. “Tell me about him,” she’d said in a funny voice. Not the voice a teacher uses to a student, or even an adult uses to a child, but the voice one lonely person uses to another. “Who?” I said hoarsely, “Mr. Sprout?” “Before that,” Mrs. Miller said. “Before you moved here. Before—” “Before my mom died,” I finished for her, and she blushed slightly, then nodded her head.

  I shook my head to clear it now, felt the sting of bleach on my scalp.

  “At this moment my hair isn’t green,” I said. “It’s white, if it hasn’t actually burned off.”

  Ruthie pulled the showercap from my head, checked the bleach’s progress.

  “I mean, did you know you were playing matchmaker? Or was it unintentional? And before you answer, you should know I won’t believe you if you say it was unintentional.”

  I stared at Ruthie, thinking about how I’d stared at Mrs. Miller the same way. Nervous without knowing why. My heart pounding in my chest. Wanting to say just the right thing, but not knowing what that thing was because I didn’t know what I wanted to happen.

  “I was just wondering, cuz maybe, you know, you can write me a boyfriend. I’d like a cross between a pre-O.C. Adam Brody and Krusty the Clown. Gosh, that sounds a little like you, doesn’t it?”

  Actually, that’s not true. Not what Ruthie said (but really, Adam Brody? isn’t he, like, four feet tall?) but what I said. What I thought, I mean, what I wrote, whatever. About not knowing what I wanted. I knew exactly what I wanted. I just felt guilty about it. So guilty I couldn’t even write it, let alone say it. So all I told Mrs. Miller was, “He was the same before, except he didn’t drink, hoard trash, or live by himself in a vine-covered trailer.” Mrs. Miller’s reaction surprised me. She gave me a half-embarrassed smile as if she’d been caught smoking outside the cafeteria, then placed a hand on my knee. “He doesn’t live all by himself,” she said. “He lives with you.”

  “Sprout?” Ruthie’s voice pulled me out of my head. “You still there?”

  “Whuh? Sorry, bleach-fumes blackout.”

  “Whatever.” Ruthie dug into a pocket of her jeans, pulled out a piece of paper that was remarkably unwrinkled, given that her pants fit her like a condom. “D’you bring your shed—I mean, skedule?”

  “Can we rinse first? The bleach is burning through my scalp.”

  “I just checked, you’re fine. This’ll take five minutes. So: what’ve you got first period?”

  I pulled out my class list, tried to focus my eyes, which really were watering from the fumes. “Burdett. Calculus.”

  “Oh! What a mean way to start the day!”

  “Are you referring to Mr. Burdett, or mathematics in general?”

  “Either. Both.” Ruthie shuddered, glanced down at the paper in her hands. “I’ve got study hall.”

  “Which means you won’t be getting in till second period.”

  “Bingo! What’ve you got then?”

  “History.”

  “Crap, I’ve got that after lunch.” There was a beat, during which neither of us mentioned that the after-lunch class was American history—a.k.a., the basics—whereas second period was world history, i.e., advanced. I did, however, pretend to adjust a mortarboard, which pantomime went right over Ruthie’s head, who thought I was trying to point out my burning scalp.

  “Don’t worry, we’re almost done. So, I’ve got studio second period—”

  “Which means you won’t be getting in till third—”

  “—which is . . . psychology. C’mon, everyone has to take

  “—which is . . . psychology. C’mon, everyone has to take psych.”

  “I took it last year, remember? I’ve got Spanish third period.”

  “Well, that’s the morning. What’ve you got fourth?”

  “Twentieth-century fiction.”

  “Do what?”

  “En-glish,” I said. “It’s-the-lang-gwage-that-al-lows-us-to-com-mu-ni—”

  I shut up when Ruthie brandished the bowl of dye threateningly.

  “I’ve got arithmetic,” she said.

  “A.k.a. Math Is Your Friend!” I tried not to snigger. “Fifth?”

  “History.”

  “Oh, right.” I choked back a guffaw. “I have civics.”

  Ruthie put her hands on her hips. “Is there something in your throat?”

  “I’m fine. Sixth period. What’ve you got?”

  “Is it the bleach fumes? Cuz I can kick you out and you can walk the fifteen miles back to your trailer to rinse it out. Don’t let me keep you if you’re not feeling well.”

  I tapped my form. “I-have-in-de-pen-dent-stu-dy-sixth-per-i-od. What-have-you-got?”

  “Does it matter?” Ruthie crumpled her schedule and threw it across the room. “We don’t have a
single class together!”

  By this point I was pretty sure the bleach had not only burned off all my hair, but the skin beneath it.

  “There, there, drama queen. Madonna’s career bounced back after American Life. We’ll get through this too. Now, can we please rinse the bleach out of what’s left of my hair?”

  (Over the past four years, Ruthie had revised her position on the whole Madonna v. Cyndi Lauper question. She now acknowledged Cyndi had brought about her own demise by acting as a muse for professional wrestling—“Although really, she was ahead of the curve by twenty years if you think about it”—and Madonna deserved points for “longevity,” if nothing else.)

  “American Life sucked, it deserved to tank,” Ruthie said as she unceremoniously bent me over the sink. “This year’s gonna suck too.” She blasted my burning skull with a jet of cold water.

  “Hey! This isn’t prison! Go easy on me.”

  “Oh, settle down, you big mary.” Ruthie combed her fingers through my hair to keep it from tangling. The fact of the matter was, after four years she was pretty good at this. She cupped one hand over my forehead to shield my face from bleach-tinged water, used the nails on the other to scratch lightly at my skin, restoring sensation. I closed my eyes, started to relax into the scalp massage, but Ruthie’s next words made me snap my head up and hit it on the faucet.

  “You think Abernathy’s in your Spanish class?”

  There was very little I’d kept from Ruthie in the course of our friendship—there was very little a person could keep from Ruth Wilcox, if she wanted to find out—but I’d never breathed a word to her about what went on between me and Ian. Keeping my voice as nonchalant as I could, I said,

  “Probly. It’s the only thing that keeps his GPA high enough for him to play sports.”

  “Oh right, his mom’s from Chilly. Ugh, he’s so gross.” She grabbed a towel and rubbed it into my hair. “But,” she said almost whimsically, “I would kill for his permatan.” She pulled the towel off, let out a little shriek. “Oh my God, your nipples are rock hard.”