Days That End in Y

by Vikki VanSickle

  Mom makes a supportive murmuring noise and folds another strand of Denise’s red hair up in a little foil package.

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid?” I ask.

  “Think about it: I spend more time in a car than anyone I know. Odds are if anyone’s going to get in an accident, it’s me. I’m not being paranoid; I’m just considering the numbers.”

  “Didn’t you fail grade ten math?”

  Mom gives me a warning look that Denise can’t see. “Why don’t you give Benji a call?” she suggests.

  “He has drama.”

  “It’s Saturday; I thought drama camp was just weekdays,” Mom says.

  “He’s decided to help out with the little kids,” I grumble, still not quite believing it.

  When Benji told me he’d decided to volunteer with the Kiddie Camp, I was completely shocked. Benji has never shown any interest in kids before.

  “But why?” I’d asked.

  “It’s good practice.”

  “Practice for what? It’s not like you get to act! You’re basically babysitting for free!”

  “No, but I get to help out backstage and with costuming. And Charity says any time spent with Dean, the director, is valuable. Did I tell you that he goes to theatre school? He had to audition to get in. They only take, like, ten people a year!”

  I knew then that he was a lost cause. Benji takes everything Charity says to be the final word. If she told him it was a good idea, I’d never be able to change his mind.

  “That Benji. What a sweetie,” Denise says now. “That kid is going places, just you wait.”

  I’ve had about enough Denise for one day. I stuff the magazine I’ve been idly flipping through into the rack and stomp up the stairs, making as much noise as I can.

  “Where are you going?” Mom asks.

  “Anywhere but here,” I say. “The smell of hair dye is making me nauseous.”

  “Come back, kiddo! I want to talk to you about dresses,” Denise calls after me.

  Fat chance.

  It’s after four. Surely Benji is back from babysitting future Toddlers in Tiaras contestants.

  But when I call him, his line flips right over to voicemail, which means someone is on the phone. The Dentonator isn’t a phone person, so it can only be Benji. I wait a few more minutes and try again, only to hear a click and the voicemail message, like before.

  Next door, the lights are on in the Dentons’ house, but everything is shut up tight because of the Dentonator’s obsession with air conditioning. Walking into Benji’s house in the summer is like walking into the frozen foods aisle at the grocery store. Before long your teeth are chattering and goosebumps have exploded all over your arms.

  I decide to head over to put in some face-time. The Dentonator answers the door, and cold, refrigerated air leaks out onto the porch. At first it’s kind of nice, like your first gulp of cold water, but then I start to shiver a little.

  “Hi, Mr. D. Is Benji around?”

  Benji’s bulk of a dad points a thumb over his shoulder. “He’s here, on the phone. Tying up the line, again.”

  Again? How many nights does Benji spend on the phone? Who could he possibly be talking to? I’m the one he calls most of the time, and we haven’t talked on the phone for a while.

  “Who’s he talking to?”

  “Don’t know for sure. Probably one of those dramarama people.” The Dentonator has not yet fully embraced Benji’s new-found passion for theatre. I think the poor guy was still holding out for the day Benji decided he did, in fact, like hockey. Adults can be seriously delusional.

  “Charity?” I ask, feeling a little twinge of not-quite jealousy. After all, Charity and I are friends now, even if she is older, prettier and generally better at life than I am.

  “Could be. I don’t know. Do you want to come in and wait? It’s a sweatbox out there.”

  “No, thanks.” I’d rather sweat to death than sit on a couch-Popsicle making small talk with the Dentonator. “Can you tell him to call me when he’s off the phone?”

  “Will do.”

  I go home to wait for Benji’s call. Doug is doing the lunch dishes. I have to admit, Doug is learning the ropes pretty quickly. He has learned, for example, that Annie Delaney will not tolerate dirty dishes in the sink. Still, the sight of him wearing yellow rubber gloves and singing under his breath stops me in my tracks. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to seeing him doing normal house things.

  “Hey there, Clarissa. Shouldn’t you be out living it up with your pals?”

  “They’ve all deserted me to die of boredom.”

  “Well, that will never do. Give me half an hour to finish up here and shower, then we can take Suzy-Q for her walk.”

  “Actually, I’m waiting for Benji to call. We were going to hang out.”

  “Tell you what, if he doesn’t call before walk time, you’re more than welcome to join us.”

  I’m so bored, I agree to this plan. Then I head downstairs to watch TV while I wait for Benji to call. I flip through channels, not really watching anything.

  It feels like the whole world has better things to do, except me. Hurry up, Benji! I concentrate on sending him get-off-the-phone vibes. I don’t really believe in things like that, but freaky coincidental things used to happen to us all the time. Like, I’d pick up the phone to call him and there would be no dial tone, only dead air. After a second a voice would say hello, and it would be Benji on the other end, calling me. That hasn’t happened in a while. We don’t see each other as often as we used to, so maybe the connection has broken. Or not broken, but worn thin over time, like an old rope on a tetherball.

  Half an hour later, Doug is standing at the back door with Suzy tugging at her leash.

  “Any word from Sir Benjamin?” he calls down the stairs.

  “No,” I admit.

  “Well, Suzy and I would love the pleasure of your company.”

  “Just a second.” I call Benji one more time, only to be thwarted by the voicemail once more. I slam the receiver in the cradle. Seriously, who is he having half-hour conversations with?

  “Dog train is leaving the station,” Doug says.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  “So what’s up with you and Benji?” Doug asks as we hit the sidewalk.

  “He’s obsessed with drama camp.”

  “That’s understandable. He’s found his passion.”

  “I know. It’s just that, usually, we spend all summer together. We go on these missions …” I trail off, thinking about the things Benji and I used to do. They’d probably sound stupid to Doug.

  “I like the sound of missions,” Doug says. “Give me an example.”

  “Well, one summer we vowed to watch every single Judy Garland movie we could find in the library.”

  Doug looks confused. “Judy Garland?” he asks.

  “The actress? She played Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz?” Can he seriously not know who she is?

  “Oh, her. That’s pretty old school.”

  “She made a lot of movies,” I say. “Most of them musical. Anyway, that was ‘Mission: Judy!’ And one summer we took the swept-up old hair from the Hair Emporium and left handfuls of it in parks around town so that birds could make nests with it. Then we spent the rest of the summer hunting for nests with human hair in them. We used these old binoculars someone left on the side of the road. They worked fine, but the strap was broken and one of the lenses was cracked.”

  “That’s totally gross and fascinating,” Doug says.

  “You’d better get used to having dead hair around if you’re going to live with us,” I say.

  “I’ll manage. Did you find any nests?”

  “We found two. It was hard to know for sure if the hair was our hair, but if we saw a nest with hair woven into it we just claimed it as our own.”

  “That seems fair. Was this last year?”

  “No, ‘Mission: Birdnest’ was a while ago. Last year we made it our mi
ssion to bike down every street in town.”

  “How long did that take you?”

  “Not very long. Halfway through, Benji got the idea that we should pose with every street sign, but we didn’t want to go back and get pictures of the streets we’d already been to, so we’re missing a bunch.”

  I leave out the part about how we also tried not to be seen, like spies, which meant a lot of ducking behind cars and hiding behind bushes. It seems kind of stupid now, but it made us laugh really hard then.

  “As a fitness professional, I approve of your cycling adventures.”

  “Benji made a scrapbook. It’s called ‘Mission: Biketown.’ We wrote notes in it and everything. He’d probably show it to you if you asked.”

  “I’d love to take a look-see, as long as you don’t mind. Sounds like these missions are a private Benji and Clarissa operation.”

  Talking about the missions makes me feel a little sad. Summer started weeks ago, and neither of us has so much as mentioned this year’s mission. We’ve done lots of stuff together, like barbeques, movies, even a few bike rides, but it feels different, less special. For one thing, there’s almost always someone else with us: Mattie or Charity or some of Benji’s drama friends. Doug is right; the missions were always something just the two of us did. Maybe we’ve grown out of them.

  The thought makes my heart ache, like it’s grown too big for its space in my chest.

  AN EARLY DAY

  The Hair Emporium opens at nine every morning, but sometimes Mom will make an exception. It’s not unusual to hear voices from the salon as early as eight, or sometimes seven-thirty, but it is unusual when one of those voices is Benji’s. In fact, when I stumble to the bathroom at 8:05 in the morning, I’m not even sure that it’s him I hear giggling away with my mother in the basement. I stand outside the bathroom door, straining to make out their voices.

  I’d intended to go back to bed and sleep for at least another hour, but now my curiosity is waking me up, like a big cup of coffee — which, despite my status as a fourteen-year-old young adult about to enter high school, I am still not allowed to drink.

  I manage to make it through the kitchen and down the stairs to the salon without tripping over my clumsy, sleepy feet. Sure enough, there’s Benji sitting in one of the big red leather chairs, flowered cape Velcroed around his neck, Mom running her little black comb through his wet hair, snipping away.

  “Benji? What are you doing here?”

  Mom smiles, but Benji looks guilty, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

  “Good morning to you, too, Clarissa,” Mom says. She is a morning person and doesn’t understand how it can take some people (like me, for example) a little more time to warm up to the idea of being awake. She pats the empty chair next to her. Obediently, I head over, pausing to spritz my face with the water spray bottle Mom uses to keep people’s hair damp. I’ve only been up for five minutes and already it’s too hot to function. The cool mist helps a little. I offer to spritz Benji’s face.

  “No thanks,” he says.

  “Didn’t you just get a haircut?”

  “It’s quite common for men to get trims more frequently than women,” Mom interjects.

  Benji’s hair is now quite short at the back and longer in the front. Before his hair just existed, void of any particular style. It was merely something that grew out of his head and occasionally needed to be brushed.

  “That’s not just a trim; you’re styling it.”

  “That is what I do,” Mom says brightly, then continues to run her comb through Benji’s hair, snipping along an invisible line only she can see.

  “Is it for your camp play?” I ask.

  “It’s not exactly a play; it’s a showcase of famous numbers from musicals throughout time,” Benji reminds me.

  “Whatever. What I mean is, are you getting your hair styled because you’re playing a character who needs a cool haircut?”

  “Like in West Side Story?”

  I frown. A singing and dancing gang member is not exactly what I meant by cool.

  “Sure, like in West Side Story.”

  “No, Dean says we don’t need to look the part; we just need to embody it.”

  “Right. So if it isn’t for the showcase, what’s with the crazy cut?”

  Mom clucks her tongue. “You don’t need a reason to get a haircut, Clarissa! Half my business is people who decide they want a change on the spur of the moment.” She shakes her head in mock disappointment. “And to think you’re my own flesh and blood.”

  Maybe some people don’t need a reason, but Benji always gets his hair cut the first Saturday morning of every month. He’s never had so much as a trim in between visits before.

  “Besides, you’re starting high school in a few weeks. It’s the perfect time for something different. New school, new look. Right, Benji?” Mom squeezes his shoulders and smiles at him in the mirror, making full use of her dimples.

  Benji smiles back. “I wanted something cooler,” he admits.

  “Since when do you care about cool?” I demand.

  “Quiet, please. I must have my client’s full attention for the big reveal.” Mom whips the cape from Benji’s shoulders and brushes the back of his neck with her big fluffy brush, dusting away any stray hairs. “Ready to check out the new you?”

  “Ready.”

  She takes out a hand mirror with a red handle and holds it at just the right spot so Benji can check out his new ’do in the mirror. He pats his hair carefully, as if it might fall out or disappear if he presses too hard.

  “Good?” Mom asks.

  Benji grins. “Good,” he agrees. Then he hops off the chair and takes out a twenty-dollar bill, which Mom waves off.

  “Don’t be silly, your cuts are always on the house.”

  “Are you sure?” Benji says.

  “Absolutely.”

  I resist rolling my eyes. Benji has been trying to pay for his haircuts since the day his dad sent him wandering in here with hair in his eyes and a twenty-dollar bill balled up in his seven-year-old fist. Mom always refuses his money, but they go through the whole charade every time.

  Now that the cape is gone, I can see his whole outfit: his good black jeans and what looks like a new plaid shirt worn open over his cast shirt from The Wizard of Oz. The collar of the plaid shirt is perfectly stiff, and I can still see the crease from where it was folded over a square of cardboard in the store. I am dumbfounded. Thought went into that outfit. Benji looks, well, styled.

  “Is that shirt new?”

  “I got it on the weekend. It’s for school.”

  “And you’re wearing it to rehearsal?”

  Benji looks down at his new shirt, running his hands over the black and teal squares. “Why not? Don’t you like it?”

  “I thought you were supposed to wear all black.” I distinctly remember a conversation in which Benji talked about buying “blacks” that he could “move in” for rehearsal. I remember it because I wanted to know what the difference was between all-black and all-grey clothes when it came to movement, and he couldn’t answer the question.

  “Dean says we can wear whatever we want as long as we can move in it.”

  Stiff jeans and a new shirt don’t seem all that flexible to me, but what do I know? “Don’t you spend all your time rolling around on the floor and getting into character? Won’t it get wrecked?”

  “Since when did you become the fashion police?” Mom asks. “Ignore her, Benji. I think you look great. Like the Biebs.”

  “Mom, do not say ‘The Biebs.’”

  Now Benji looks worried. “Does it look like I’m trying too hard? Tell me the truth.”

  I want to ask, trying too hard for what? Who does he have to impress at drama camp? But he looks worried, and I hate when Benji looks worried, so I say, “No, you look good. Just … different.”

  Which is the truth. The hair, the outfit, the whole thing looks so polished, so put together. Who is this cool new
person, I think. And then Benji smiles and he’s him again.

  “Different is good,” he says.

  “I guess,” I say, not convinced.

  “I should go! Bye, Annie, thanks for the cut. See you later Clarissa.”

  “Later.”

  Mom watches him go. When he’s out of earshot she presses a hand to her heart and sighs. “Bless him. He used to be such a shy little thing and now look at him!”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m going back to bed now,” I say.

  LAZY DAY

  Mom is busy all day with clients, and Doug is at work. I have nothing but time to study the yearbooks in greater depth.

  I settle into the big lounge chair on the back porch with a glass that is full of one-third lemonade, one-third ice tea and one-third ice cubes. All of my hair is stuffed up in one of Mom’s floppy hats. I feel a little ridiculous, but convince myself there is no one around to see me, and besides, I don’t want to be burned in all of the wedding pictures.

  The best part of a yearbook is the autograph section. There are two pages set aside for autographs in the back, but my mom was so popular people wrote on the endpapers and in the margins of some of the photo pages, too. Most of the messages are pretty standard (Have a great year!) or fall under the you-had-to-be-there category (Don’t let the Purpleman get you down!).

  It is clear Mom had lots of fans, judging from the things some people wrote, everything from mushy (You are such an inspiration and I know you’re gonna do amazing things) to creepy (You’re so awesome! I want to be you!).

  I linger over all the mysterious autographs and wonder what they mean. Like who or what is “The Purpleman”? Three different people reference him in their messages. It has to mean something, but what?

  Bill (it feels weird to call him my father) took over a whole page. At the top of the page, the words THIS PAGE BELONGS TO BILL DAVIES are written in block letters. A single message, written in large scraggly letters, fills the entire page, so different from the rest of the autograph pages with their patchwork of cramped messages.