by Debby Mayne
I manage to get all my sales calls done early, so I can go home and take a quick shower before I go to her office. Back when I first started dating, Mama told me girls like their guys to smell nice, and from experience I know she’s right.
Priscilla’s car is in the parking lot when I arrive. As I walk up the stairs to her office, I hear female voices, so I pause and listen.
“Look, Mandy, I don’t mind if you use my office, and I want you to be comfortable, but you can’t take over everything. Don’t mess with my personal things.”
“But you’re not here,” Mandy whines. I cringe. I know Priscilla likes the girl, but seriously, she’s about as immature as they come. “And how about when the new girl starts? I don’t want her to think she doesn’t have to listen to me.”
“Why would she think that?” Priscilla asks.
I’ve heard about all I can take, so I knock on the door and open it a few inches. “Anyone here?”
“Come on in, Tim,” Priscilla says. “Mandy and I are just finishing up.” She glances at me then does a double take. “Hey, you look nice.”
That’s what I’m talkin’ about. I know I must be smiling from ear to ear.
“And you look even prettier than the last time I saw you.”
Before she has a chance to get all embarrassed and blushy, I nod toward Mandy. “So how’re you holding up without the boss lady around all day?”
Mandy shrugs and turns her pouty face away. “Okay, I guess.”
Priscilla looks at me and smiles with twitchy lips. “Mandy’s been interviewing for a short-term assistant while I’m gone. She needs someone to answer the phone so she can handle the more . . . pressing details . . . like collecting orders and screening new products.”
Mama didn’t raise no fool. I catch the hint and decide it’s time to take the bull by the horns. “We’re coming out with some new lines soon. Is it all right if I bring some samples and catalogs by for Mandy to take a look at, or do I have to wait ’til you’re back in the office?”
“Mandy?” Priscilla says. “How about it? Would you like to see the new products?”
A smile takes over Mandy’s face. “What do you think? Of course I want to see them. When are you coming, Tim?”
“Since I know you’ll be here waitin’ for ’em, I’ll drop by real soon.”
“Okay, sounds good. When you come in, just let my assistant . . .” Her face turns red as she glances at Priscilla. “Let the girl at the desk know I’m expecting you.”
I want to laugh, but it’s obviously not appropriate since she’s feelin’ all full of herself. Instead, I step back toward the reception area. “I’ll wait out here until you’re ready to leave.”
Priscilla talks to Mandy a few more minutes before telling her it’s time to go home for the day. Mandy don’t waste a second. She’s outta there in a flash without so much as a good-bye, have a nice night.
“Ready?” Priscilla says.
I point my hand toward the door. She takes a few steps and stops, turns toward the mirror on the wall, and then spins around to face me. “Do you think I need to change my hairstyle?”
I laugh. “What brought that on?”
She pulls her hair back and lets it fall on her shoulders. “Sheila and Chester have both asked me what I’m planning to do with my hair for the reunion. I hadn’t even thought about it.”
“Your hair looks nice,” I say. “I’m sure they just expect something different because it’s such a special occasion.”
“Ya know, I’ve been in the beauty business for almost nine years, and I’ve noticed that hairdressers don’t seem to mind dishing out advice, but they don’t take it well. I don’t want to be one of those people.”
“You’re not, are you?”
Her face scrunches into the cutest little look of consternation, my word-of-the-day not too long ago. “I’m afraid I might be.” She turns back around and plays with her hair in front of the mirror for a few more seconds. “Until Sheila said something, it didn’t dawn on me, but since I’m doing a major makeover on one of my old classmates, I’m thinkin’ someone might need to do the same for me.”
“Trust me, Priscilla, you don’t need a major makeover.”
She gives me a lopsided grin. “A minor one, maybe?”
I lift my hands in surrender. “I didn’t say that.”
“But a new hairstyle and maybe some updated makeup?”
I can’t help laughing at the way she puckers her lips in front of the mirror. “You look beautiful to me just the way you are. I don’t care how you wear your hair.”
“C’mon, let’s go,” she says as she reaches over and grabs her purse off the reception desk. “I have to get back to Piney Point before it’s too late.”
We head out to her favorite steak house. After we’re seated, I listen to her go on and on about small-town goings on. She’s only been in Piney Point a short while, but it seems to me like she’s gone and gotten herself deeply involved in so many of the petty details in the office. What puzzles me is that she seems to get a kick out of it, although she’s trying to pretend it annoys her.
“Celeste and Laura don’t get along, but Laura’s run so many people off the committee she can’t afford to lose what she’s got,” Priscilla says. “I know she means well, and she’s trying to make sure everything runs smoothly, but she needs some work on how to delegate and make people want to help.” She goes on to explain how much there is to do in the short time they have left.
“Don’t you think most of this stuff should have been done a long time ago?” I ask. “What happens if they can’t get either band?”
Priscilla leans back. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
“Well, I know a DJ here in Jackson who might come over in a pinch. Old friend of mine. I’ll give him a call.”
We talk about how it might actually be better to have a DJ so there can be a wider variety of music. That leads us to discuss the different personalities at work in this situation. Her classmates are older, but not everyone has grown up.
“You’ve got Celeste, the biggest wallflower in our class who still carries a chip on her shoulder.” She holds up one finger. “Now that I’ve committed to this makeover, I feel the pressure, but she’ll have to go along with what I want her to do, or she’ll make me look bad.”
“I’m sure she’ll do fine.”
She taps a second finger. “Then there’s superorganized but bossy Laura. Except she’s not so organized now that she has four kids. She’s starting to hand over some of the responsibility to me, and I don’t want to let her down.”
“As long as you don’t offer to do too much . . .”
“I have to do something, or this reunion will be a mess.” Priscilla’s shoulders droop. “Then there’s the matter of my makeover that I hadn’t even considered until Sheila and Chester—”
“You shouldn’t put so much pressure on yourself,” I tell her.
“You don’t understand, Tim. I have to worry about these things. This is our ten-year reunion, and I was voted Most Likely to Succeed. I can’t let them down.”
Priscilla just summed everything up in a nutshell. She’s worried that she won’t live up to expectations. What is it about high school reunions that brings this out in people?
19
Priscilla
I wake up Sunday morning to the sound of Mother and Dad scurrying around getting ready for church. They like to attend early services, and I would ordinarily go with them, but I want to see a few people who won’t wake up at the crack of dawn, so I’ve decided to go later.
When I walk into the kitchen, Mother turns around and smiles. “Hey, sleepyhead. The coffee is still hot.” Her cheerfulness catches me off guard.
“What are you and Dad planning to do for lunch?” I ask.
“We were talking about taking a drive down to Biloxi since it’s going to be such a pretty day. Wanna go?”
“So everything’s okay with y’all?”
Her lips
tighten as she nods. “Of course everything’s okay. Do you wanna go with us?”
“Not today,” I say. “I thought I’d go to the late service and see if some friends want to get together later.”
“Sounds nice.” She glances over as Dad enters the kitchen. “Ready to go?”
Dad still looks half asleep, but he hugs me and tells me he loves me. Then he and Mother take off for church with only a small amount of bickering, which I actually find somewhat comforting. As long as they have a little tension simmering, I figure they won’t blow up with an explosive argument.
I’m happy to have the house to myself. The past week has been emotionally draining, so church will be a pleasure. I’ve heard there’s a new pastor who preaches with enthusiasm and is able to relate to the young people. Then it dawns on me. I’m a little more than a year away from being thirty, that magic year when people aren’t considered young, but they’re not exactly middle age either. Or is it? Sheila laughs about middle age and says it’s always ten years older than she is, no matter how old she gets.
Being out of high school for ten years gives me a different perspective on everything. A lot of the silliness that we thought was so important, I now realize, is downright insignificant, even though the old feelings seep back in for the reunion. What really matters is what we’ve done with our lives, and I wonder how many people are satisfied with where they are.
I know what’s going on with a few people, like Laura, Pete, and Celeste. Then there’s the school royalty. I’ve heard stories about the Michael and Trudy Baynard split. Stuff hit the fan just a few years after they got married, and their divorce, according to Mother and Dad, was the talk of the town for the better part of a month. I always thought Trudy was selling herself short by dating Michael, who thinks he’s the hottest thing in Forrest County. Granted, he was the captain of the football team that won a regional championship, but most people know that’s the only decent thing he had to put on his résumé.
Trudy is so gorgeous, and people still love to talk about her. Guys used to fall all over themselves, while girls talked behind her back—the very same girls who smiled to her face and acted all chummy, hoping some of her status would rub off on them. I haven’t seen her since she moved to Atlanta, but I’ve heard whenever she comes to town, she creates quite a stir. Trudy and I occasionally spoke to each other when we were teenagers, and she seemed nice enough, but everything with Trudy revolved around her looks and her man.
As I sip my coffee and nibble on a piece of toast, I think about how important image is and how people cling to what they want people to believe. I know I’m guilty of trying to be what people expect, but it’s hard to face old friends I haven’t seen in years without wondering how I measure up.
It’s stressful enough to carry all that high school baggage around, but thinking others will sneer when they think all I am is a little beauty shop owner really bugs me. I’m a successful businesswoman of a growing chain of salons, but how will they know unless I tell them? And wouldn’t that be tacky? They might not realize I’m building an empire. I want so badly to shout from the mountaintops that I’m just now getting started. Only Mississippi doesn’t have any mountains, and I can buy all the hair salons in the state, and no one will be impressed. My parents certainly aren’t.
That realization hits me like a ton of bricks. I want people to be impressed. Whoa. This is a tough thing to admit, even to myself.
It takes me nearly an hour to get ready for church. I try on two different outfits and play with my hair for a few minutes before I finally let it fall where it may. Sheila and Chester are right. I need to do something different.
And maybe Maurice will notice me. As much as I don’t want any man to be the motivating factor in freshening up my look, I have to admit it.
As soon as I walk into the sanctuary, a familiar calm washes over me. I get this feeling no matter what church I walk into—whether it’s in Jackson or Piney Point. I stand in the back and look around. Laura and her family are sitting in the second-tolast pew, on the right-hand side. Laura looks rather frazzled, with the back of her hair all crushed and looking like she forgot to brush it, and her lipstick smeared beyond her lip line. Three of her four children sit between her and Pete who looks oblivious. A few pews in front of them I see Sheila and her husband, their heads together. I smile as I think about what a good marriage they have. If I ever find the right man to spend the rest of my life with, I want to be like them.
I can’t see people in the very front of the church, but if things haven’t changed, Celeste is right up there in the second or third row. The first row is generally reserved for the pastor, his family, and anyone who’s doing readings during the service. I head up to the front, hoping my hunch is right and that Celeste will be there, alone. I’m happy to see her as she glances over her shoulder and catches my eye.
I think she’s somewhat surprised when I ask her if the seat next to her is taken. “No, I’m alone,” she says.
She’s wearing a very cute print V-neck, ruffle-front top that I saw on the mannequin in Olson’s Department Store on Main Street. It disguises her poochy tummy that develops when people don’t stand up straight. A chunky coral necklace brings out the color in the top and adds a glow to her skin.
“You look nice today, Celeste,” I say.
Celeste turns red, brushes the overgrown choppy bangs behind her ears and smiles. “Thank you.”
I don’t want to make her any more uncomfortable than I know she already is, so I stop with the compliments. We still have a way to go with her makeover, but I feel good that I had a hand in making her look better than I ever remember her looking.
The music starts and gets my attention. We stand and sing about twenty minutes worth of praise and worship songs that start out up-tempo and gradually slow down so we can let the meaning of the songs sink in before the scripture readings. The pastor then preaches one of the best sermons I’ve heard in a very long time. His message is centered on how Jesus looks at our motives as well as our actions.
We watch a short play that emphasizes the message, and then services end with more music. I stand up and stretch as I turn to face Celeste, who appears to be very uncomfortable when she looks back at me.
“What are you plans for lunch?” I ask, surprising even myself. “Would you like to go somewhere?”
“Um . . . sure.” She now has a white-knuckled death grip on her pocketbook. “What are you in the mood for?”
I’m not sure what the choices are these days. “Doesn’t matter to me.”
“How about Olson’s Café?” she asks.
“Sounds good.” Since the restaurant is less than two blocks away, we decide to leave our cars in the church parking lot and walk. “It’s such a pretty day.”
“I know.”
Now that Celeste and I are walking down the street, I realize that as long as I’ve known her, we’ve never done anything together outside of school-related activities before. That just seems wrong. Conversation is strained, and I have no idea what I can say to get her to open up a bit more. When I ask questions, she gives short answers—none of the back-andforth conversation you’d expect from two women who have known each other all their lives.
As we approach Olson’s Café, I make an observation. “Oh good. Looks like it’s not crowded.”
“Not yet anyway,” she replies.
The Olson family owns about half of the businesses on Main Street, including the department store, a café, a card shop, and a craft store that always seems to be on the verge of bankruptcy. On the outskirts of town, there’s an Olson used car lot and an Olson collision service.
We order our lunch—me a Cobb salad and Celeste a club sandwich—and sit in near silence, with the exception of my occasional questions and her blunt answers. I regret inviting her to lunch, but it’s too late now.
“Have you been to the new mall in Hattiesburg?” I ask.
“No, I’m not much of a shopper.”
“I hear
they have some great sales.”
She sighs in what appears to be annoyance. “That doesn’t appeal to me.”
I want to ask what does appeal to her, but I don’t. I’m still a southern girl to the core, and that would be downright rude.
Our food arrives, giving us something to do besides clear our throats and squirm in uncomfortable silence. I’m relieved when I look up and see Jimmy walk into the café. I lift my hand to get his attention.
Celeste leans forward and whispers, “What did you go and do that for?”
“Sorry,” I say. “I figured it would be the nice thing to do since he appears to be alone.”
“It’s not the end of the world to be alone.” Her mouth puckers.
I feel sorry for Celeste, but I’m not about to let her ruin my day . . . or Jimmy’s. I scoot over so he can join me in the booth.
“Hey, Priscilla,” he says then tips his head toward Celeste. “Are you comin’ to the reunion meetin’ on Wednesday?”
“I didn’t know there was one.”
I see Celeste jerk and Jimmy jump. “Ouch! Why’d you kick me, Celeste?”
“Oh, sorry, was that your leg?” Her eyes bulge, and her nostrils flare. “I thought it was the table.”
Even an idiot can pick up on that not-so-subtle hint. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it Wednesday night.”
“That’s okay,” Celeste says a little too quickly. “We pretty much have everything wrapped up anyway.”
That didn’t appear to be the case last time I met with them, but it’s obvious they’ve gotten together since.
Lunch drags on, as hard as I try to make conversation. Everything I begin gets shut down by either Celeste or Jimmy, and I’m happy when we’ve all finished eating and Celeste and I walk back to the deserted church parking lot.
“See you soon, Celeste. It was nice having lunch with you.”
She smiles. “Yeah, see ya.”
That was about as fun as watching grass grow, I think as I drive home.
Mother and Dad get home around eight at night, both smiling—something I’m happy to see for a change. Dad wanders off to their room to get ready for bed, so I take advantage of the opportunity to talk to Mother.