by Ellen Dye
She touched my arm and gave a small bounce—most disconcerting on her well-padded frame—of pure excitement. “You get your very own station, too! You remember those, right?” Her penciled brows rose.
“Yes,” I drawled.
“You’ll start here with theory for a few weeks.” Gwen pointed to the empty classroom. “And then, after you pass the theory exam, you’ll have your very own Key Day Party.” She waved both fleshy arms toward the station for graphic demonstration.
“Sorry?”
“Key Day. It’s a very exciting event! You get your very own key to a station!” Gwen bubbled. “We always do potluck for lunch. You know, that’s where everyone brings—”
“I know what potluck is,” I snapped, but immediately felt guilty. She was only trying to be nice, after all. “How nice,” I rephrased. “Sort of a celebration for moving from the classroom to the floor.”
Gwen’s head bobbed. “Any questions?”
“Can’t think of any.”
“Great!” Gwen turned toward the office. “Let’s do paperwork!” She announced in a tone worthy of a head cheerleader calling for the Victory Pyramid. I was surprised she didn’t clap both hands together.
While Gwen busied herself assembling assorted papers and folders, I sank down in the chair next to her desk, grateful to get the weight off my foot. Once she slid behind the desk, I noticed Gwen’s hair for the first time.
Oddly enough, it was what most hairdressers refer to as School Hair. In most cases, the hair is just over-processed in some way. Frizzy from too many perms, dry from too many highlights, or just generally burnt-looking from too much of everything. There’s a simple reason for this: women tend to want to experiment with their hair. And this tendency expands tenfold when surrounded by a minimum of twelve people, chemicals at the ready, who are more than happy to attempt the experiments.
The results can be horrific.
But, however common this look is with students, it usually doesn’t extend to the school staff. Chiefly because the staff already fried the hair off their collective heads during their own beauty school days.
And Gwen had taken School Hair to new heights. The cut was sort of a shaggy pixie, razor textured, I was sure. The whole—which if the roots were any indication, had once been a lovely shade of honey brown—had been bleached and toned well past her hair’s natural endurance and now hovered between platinum in some areas and a hideous lime green in others.
She tapped her bumpy acrylics on the desk, brow furrowed.
“Do you let the students work on you often?” I blurted. Lord, when would I learn?
“Oh, no. I do all my own color.” She wiggled her lumpy maroon nails in my direction. “Nails, too!”
“Ah.” I gave the standard nod-and-smile combination.
“I graduated in June!” Gwen announced proudly.
I coughed.
“But I just loved school so much I snapped at this job when Mrs. Reilly offered. I was really grateful.”
I was certain every patron of each salon in Worthington, albeit unknowingly, was deeply grateful to Mrs. Reilly as well. The consequences of Gwen working behind the chair were enough to send cold shivers streaking down my spine.
“You’re just going to love it here!”
“I doubt it,” I muttered, once again mentally calculating how long it would take me to get out of here and to work.
“What, hon?”
“Nothing.” I smiled.
“You’re going to have so many friends! It’s going to be great.” Gwen plunged into the final sales pitch touting the wonderful advantages of a career in cosmetology in general and the merit of Dixie Beauty School in particular.
I tuned her out. I’d heard much the same during orientation with Mrs. Lockley, known to us as Mama Dove, during high school. For the first time I felt more than a bit anxious about my age. I knew most beauty school students ranged from eighteen to twenty-five. No, I realized, I probably wouldn’t be making friends here—not when the majority of my fellow students were more Olivia’s age group than mine.
Of course, there would be Gwen. Certainly she was in the ballpark of my own age. But then again, how much Chronic or, more likely in Gwen’s case, Terminal Perkiness could I take?
No. My agenda here would be as I’d decided all along. Get done, take the State Board, and then get to work—all as quickly as possible.
I noticed the drumming had started again. I focused on Gwen’s puzzled expression. “You don’t seem excited.”
“I don’t?”
“Usually students can’t wait to get their kits and jump right in.”
“I’ve done this before, remember?” I gently reminded. “And also I’m a little old to be excited about getting a kit.”
“Can’t be that old. You must be about my age.” She took a peek in the small mirror mounted to the side of her desk and gave her straw-textured hair a fluff. “We’ve still got some good years left. It’s not like we’re past thirty.”
“Thirty?” I squeaked.
Gwen nodded.
“You aren’t even thirty yet?”
“Twenty-five,” she clarified with a smug wink. “Dewey always tells me how young I look.” She gestured to a framed photo of a large man who was missing both front teeth, dressed in hunter’s camouflage, holding a very dead turkey by its feet in one hand and a can of Budweiser in the other.
I blinked. Twice.
I’d heard one picture could be worth a thousand words, but I’d never actually lived the moment. In fact, I’d have to say this one photo said it all about both Dewey and his possible intelligence quotient.
“I need your driver’s license.” She tapped the form on her desk.
Boy, won’t she be surprised. I opened my Prada wallet and produced my license.
Gwen’s penciled brows rose again and kept right on going. Clearly she’d spotted my date of birth. Her heavily painted lips moved silently, counting.
“Forty,” I supplied. “I’m forty years old.”
This was obviously my day for seeing things I’d only previously heard or read about. I’d read scenes in novels where characters’ jaws dropped. I’d even heard other people say they’d seen someone do it. But until this very moment, I’d never seen it myself. Actually, it was an almost comic sight.
Gwen eventually recovered. “Fill this out,” she barked.
I took the paper. Ah, yes, the standard form: Why I’ve Always Dreamed Of Being A Cosmetologist. Some things just don’t change. But in the intervening years my answer certainly had. No computers necessary, I jotted quickly in the allotted space. After penning in all the other required bits, I slid the completed form across the desk.
“Just sign these.” Gwen slid the stack she’d been working on across the desk without so much as a hint of her former bubbliness.
Wow, I didn’t think she’d take the age thing this hard.
The door opened, and a head covered with an even worse case of School Hair—a wild study of various orangish base colors—peeked around. “Oh. I didn’t realize you were with a prospective student.” She looked straight at me and gave a smile that, while broad enough, did not reach her eyes.
Odd. She looked so familiar. Most especially that smile—but I just couldn’t place her. A trick of the light, I decided.
She opened the door fully and stepped through. Her gaze was riveted on me.
“This is Mrs. Reilly,” Gwen stated, without looking up from the paperwork.
The name didn’t ring any bells. Nor did her appearance. From the depth of the harsh crow’s feet and lines around her mouth, I judged Mrs. Reilly to be about Mama’s age. A large woman, she was dressed similarly to Gwen, in a loud stretch-knit combination of flowered tunic and what surely had to be elastic-waist pants.
The clothes weren’t the only similarity. Actually, they looked very much alike, from the disastrous School Hair to the heavy makeup.
“This is Wanda—”
Mrs. Reilly cut her off.
“Wanda Jo Ashton.” She gave that oddly familiar smile again. “Well, I do declare.”
“I’m sorry I don’t…” I began, but then trailed off, at a complete loss for words.
Her eyes glittered in a most unpleasant way. “You don’t remember me?” One fleshy hand flew to her more than ample bosom. “Why, I’m simply devastated. We were so close,” she huffed.
It was the huff that clicked the long-forgotten memory into place. An image formed in my mind and completed itself with roughly two hundred extra pounds.
“Bitsy?” I gasped, looking at the woman who was now anything but. “Bitsy Breckenbridge?”
Her smile was openly malicious now; it seemed to be the only thing about her that hadn’t changed. “And don’t you just look the very same. I’d wondered about that.”
I groaned inwardly.
In classical times, the goddess Athena had the god Ares. In the seventies, Billie Jean King had Bobby Riggs. Notre Dame had Navy. And at Buckston High, I had Bitsy Breckenbridge.
The only difference was, while all the others were indeed mutual competitors, our rivalry was one-sided. And every bit of that one side belonged to Bitsy.
“She’s forty,” Gwen groused, having abandoned the paperwork in favor of scrutinizing her face in the small mirror mounted on her desk.
Wait a minute. “Why would you wonder about me?”
Logical question, since I hadn’t spared a passing thought for Bitsy since she’d left Buckston High with Circumstances.
“Why, I was just sure you’d let yourself go.” She struck a pose with one hand resting on her large hip.
I felt the vein at my temple begin to throb; I applied pressure with one index finger. Let yourself go. Ah, yes, it was one of the sillier things we’d been raised to believe. You’d be sure to keep your man’s interest—and therefore presumably your marriage—if you didn’t gain weight, didn’t forget to dress flatteringly, and always kept your nose powdered. I’d lived long enough to understand the whole concept was hogwash.
However, Bitsy was on a roll. “Why else would a man take up with an ugly, fat woman old enough to be his mama?” Bitsy cocked her head to one side, her gaze raking me from the top of my blonde highlights, through the Anne Klein suit, and finishing at the tips of my Jimmy Choos. “I guess there must be something else terribly wrong with her.” She directed this last at Gwen in a very loud stage whisper.
Talk! strikes again. Damn you, Reed.
Gwen gasped. “Mama, you mean this is the Wanda Jo?”
Mama? Ah, now the similarities between the registrar and Bitsy made sense. Here, in the flesh—and plenty of it—was the Circumstances that had caused Bitsy’s hasty exit from Buckston High. And her even hastier marriage to Euelle Simpson.
“The very same.” Bitsy’s tone was just as hateful as I’d remembered. “I’m remarried now.” She flashed a cubic zirconia mounted in a tarnished setting under my nose. “Bobby Reilly, our football star? You do remember him, don’t you?”
Oh, Lord. He’d lived up to his most unfortunate appellation in more ways than one. Poor, poor Bobby, indeed.
“How nice,” I commented.
“He’s still working at Backhill's. Twenty-four years now.” Bitsy preened.
I nodded politely.
Bitsy opened her mouth again, but I was spared by the loudspeaker calling her to the clinic floor.
“We’ll talk later.” Bitsy took a step toward the door and then paused. “I know. We’ll make it a lunch date. I’ll make chicken salad. I’d love to show you our home. And then maybe sometime later we could get together at your place for—” She clapped a pudgy hand over her mouth. “Oh how rude of me.” She giggled. “But of course you don’t have a home now.” She delivered this last over her shoulder before exiting with an obvious bounce to her step.
Score one for Bitsy.
Mentally I ran through my options. Find another school? Nope, there wasn’t another within two counties. Forget about cosmetology and learn computer skills? Absolutely not. Even if I were to give up my extremely enjoyable techno phobia, there was still the matter of money—I couldn’t possibly afford the tuition for Allied Business School. And… Well, crap. There wasn’t a third option.
Immediately I fell back on Reed’s ploy when dealing with unpleasant people. I looked at my watch; my inner petty side rejoiced that I’d worn the gold Rolex today. “Is this all?” I gestured with a bored wave toward the paperwork scattered across Gwen’s desk. “I’m a bit pressed.”
Fifteen minutes later, even the ice-cold blast of the air conditioner hadn’t cooled my body or my red-hot temper.
For the next twelve weeks, like it or not, I was going to be stuck under the domination of Bitsy Breckenbridge, who hadn’t changed—except in sheer body mass—since high school. And her terminally perky, vanity-obsessed daughter.
Oh, joy.
It was a nightmare turned reality. And in just a couple hours, part two of my worst nightmare would also become a living reality. I started the engine and lowered the shift to Drive.
It was once again time to Ask The Profound Question.
My only small consolation at the moment was I wouldn’t be dressed in a pink, zipper-front tunic with my name crisply embroidered across the pocket, as I had been during my teenaged years. I found this was much too small a consolation.
Damn your lawyer hide, Reed Trews. Damn you.
Chapter Seven
While doing my utmost best not to grind my molars to dust, I tugged up the long zipper. Carefully, I removed my cosmetics case from my handbag as I deliberately avoided glancing at my reflection in the mirror affixed to the wall of the diner’s ladies’ room.
My feet felt odd encased in Olivia’s white, high-top sneakers (one size too big), I wiggled my toes once in the extra space and then gave up—eventually I’d get used to them. Their fit was in sharp contrast to the jeans I wore—my largest pair of Claibornes, and now they were painfully tight. Amazing how losing one’s life could result in such a gain in weight.
Focus, I mentally reminded as I dabbed on the last bit of my cherished La Praire foundation (on your reflection, only from the neck up). However, it was not an easy task, given the glare currently being reflected by my new Pepto-Bismol pink, zippered-front polyester tunic. Naturally my name had been stitched above the left front pocket, a large white scrawl against the hideously-colored polyester. A second scrawl proudly screamed Dew Drop Inn just above my right breast.
Nettie, speedy as ever, had been exceedingly busy this past week with her trusty Singer. She’d whipped up seven tunics, one for each day of the week, in record time. She’d even gone to the extra trouble of embroidering the day of the week along the hemline. Given her burst of industriousness, I now had all vital information—day of the week, personal location, and my name—handy should one of these little tidbits slip my mind. Thoughtful, that.
Oh, yes, I was currently sporting a fashion look that clearly proclaimed the worst effects of a home sewing machine run amok.
As I finished blending the sparse dots of my foundation, I realized two things. First, I was rapidly sinking into a pit of total self-pity. And secondly, I didn’t give a damn. Really.
I wanted a good, freshly brewed cup of venti-sized Verona from Starbucks. I wanted to replenish my entire supply of La Praire cosmetics. And most of all, I wanted to run out of this godforsaken diner, throw this ugly polyester tunic in the nearest trash bin, and crawl under the covers with an entire box of raspberry Godiva truffles.
No, scratch that. What I wanted most of all was to have my old life back.
“Am I doing the right thing?” I turned my gaze upward toward the water-stained ceiling tiles. “Is this really what I’m meant to do with my life?” I paused, taking a breath. “Would you mind just sending me some sort of sign?”
I paused, silently counting to ten. Slowly.
“You don’t have to trouble yourself with anything flashy like a burning bush. Any little sign will do,” I prompted.
The ladies’ room door swung open with a loud whack. Jamie Sue, carrying a circular tray crammed to capacity with red tabletop catsup dispensers, followed.
“Deliver these. Table two wants more tea, and the Pie Club needs warm-ups.” She slammed the tray down on the chipped Formica vanity. “Decaf only.”
If I’d ever doubted before, I didn’t now. Clearly God was a man. And what’s more, he obviously had a sick sense of humor.
I tossed the empty bottle of foundation into the trash and tucked my cosmetics case into my handbag.
“What is that?” Jamie Sue screeched, pointing directly at my tunic.
“My thoughts exactly.” I slung my bag over one shoulder.
Jamie Sue huffed, while continuing to point.
“What?”
“That says ‘Sunday.’ ” Jamie Sue crossed both arms in front. “If I can read that, what does that tell you?” she demanded in a condescending tone.
I took a page from Reed’s book and assumed law-speak. “That despite negative national opinion on the statewide illiteracy rate and the general state of the West Virginia Public School system, you did indeed receive a free and appropriate elementary education,” I espoused, careful to quirk one brow at the end.
Jamie Sue shot me a look that could have stripped varnish. “It means our customers can read it, too.”
“Ah,” I commented, forbearing to argue the point that in most cases the statewide illiteracy jokes were firmly rooted in fact.
“It’s unprofessional.”
I nodded and then slipped the tray of condiments from the vanity, balancing the whole against the flat of my palm.
“Well?” Jamie Sue barked.
“Well, what?” I stepped around my cousin; she moved to block my path to the door. “What are you going to do about it?” she persisted.
I shrugged slightly.
“Today. Is. Monday.” Jamie Sue slowly drew out each word.
“This isn’t a big deal. I grabbed the wrong tunic. I seriously doubt anyone will notice.”
I swear I saw a puff of smoke exit her left nostril. Lord, the girl really had turned into Mama.