by Shane Bolks
“No, this is my problem. I’ll deal with it. I guess I just have to decide if I’m going to go on being a perfect facade or if I’m ready to show the world the real me.”
“You’ll make the right decision. Right now, wish me luck, I have to go call your mother.”
“Better you than me.”
But I’ve barely had time to put a CD in my portable player when my cell rings again.
“Allison? What have you done to my H-O-U-S-E? Rory tells me you’ve been redecorating.”
“Just some paint and wallpaper border, Mom. It looks good.”
“Wallpaper? Where?”
I turn onto my stomach and adjust the phone until I’m comfortable. “Hey, Mom, you know I love you, right?”
That surprises her, and she sputters for a moment before saying, “Allison Lynn Holloway, what did you do to my house?
“Nothing, Mom. I just love you.”
“Oh, good,” she says, clearly uncomfortable with the new me. “Have you found another job, yet?”
“I will, Mom, but I have to wait until my profile is lower. The second Kamikaze Makeover! aired last Saturday and Gray said the reporters started calling again. The last one airs on the Fourth. I was thinking about sending out some résumés after that.”
“The Fourth! Allison, that’s a week away!”
Okay, there’s being real with Mom, and there’s being a glutton for punishment. “Hey, Mom, can I call you back? I’m kind of busy here.” Tanning can take a lot out of a girl.
“Wait. Before you hang up, I wanted to tell you that I forgive you for what you put me through with Lucinda Chippenhall. I won the vote, and I won’t be kicked out of Junior League.”
“Great, Mom. I’m thrilled. Love you. Bye.”
I close my eyes and try to remember times when my mother was sweet and loving—like when I was sick or needed a new outfit.
My mind wanders back over events in my life, and eventually it wanders to Dave. I glance at my cell screen and see that it’s 11:30 A.M. Dave’s probably heading out to lunch now. Maybe he’s meeting Hunter. Maybe he’s taking a new girl out. A twenty-two-year old advertising chick who likes beer and basketball, and won’t tell her mother that Dave’s a nonentity.
Fudge. I roll onto my back. I hate that between moving furniture, wallpapering, and jiving, I keep thinking about Dave. Worse, I hate the way things ended between us. I even hate that he hates me. I need something to take my mind off him. Mitsy’s right. I need a job.
But right now the idea of working for another Miranda isn’t all that appealing. Look how much I got done here, by myself. I’ve got way more potential than I thought. Miranda was holding me back.
I open my eyes. Maybe I should think about starting my own business? Dave said it could be done. People with far less potential than I have start their own businesses all the time. And I’ve got added advantages. I’ve got style, connections, and, most important, capital—my trust fund. It would probably be too easy. I’ve already amassed a client base and maybe I could steal Josh away from Miranda. I could ask Rory to do my financial stuff and Hunter to do the advertising, Josh and I could decorate the office, my dad could probably tell me where the best office real estate is.
And the best part is I could make sure my firm gives something back to the community. We could go into Englewood and paint houses or make over a community center. And not set it on fire this time.
I could really do this. But what would I call the firm? Maybe Mitsy can think of something…
A shadow falls over me.
“Miss, do you live here?”
The sun in my eyes, I squint up at the tall figure of a man looming over me.
“Yes. Why?”
“I’m delivering your flags.”
18
A Chicken Ain’t Nothing but a Bird
I sit up and pull the towel around me. “Oh, great. I’ve been expecting you.”
Without the light in my eyes, the delivery guy’s face becomes clearer. He’s an older black man I’ve seen around many times.
“I need you to sign for these.” He holds out a clipboard and leans the long cardboard box against the lounge chair.
I take the board and sign. “Hey, can I ask you a favor?”
He narrows his eyes. “You can ask.”
“Would you mind helping me mount those flags? My dad is really anxious to get them flying. I’ll pay you.”
He stares at me, then glances back at the house, and back at me. He scratches his salt-and-pepper hair thoughtfully. “When you ask if I’ll help you, does that really mean you’re going to help?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’ll hand you the tools and get you a glass of water.”
He frowns.
“I mean beer. And money.”
“All right.” He heaves a sigh. “Let’s go.”
We walk up to the deck, and I leave him unwrapping the box to search for cash and a beer. The beer is easy, but when I count my cash, I’ve only got eighty-seven fifty-two. And one of the pennies is Canadian, so he might not accept that.
“Here’s your beer,” I say, strolling out on the deck. “Bad news on the money front. I’ve only got eighty-seven dollars and fifty-one cents. Fifty-two if you count the Canadian penny.”
“Just give me the beer, and we’ll call it even.”
“I don’t mind paying you.”
“I know.” He pulls out the first flag and unfurls it. It’s the Massachusetts state flag.
“My dad’s family is from Boston,” I say.
He nods and starts on the next one. “Like I said, you keep your money. You go buy yourself one of them pretty dresses like you used to wear when you were a little girl.” He gives the ugly black cover-up I’ve pulled on a disapproving look.
“You knew me back then?”
He shrugs. “’Bout as much as you knew me, but I seen you around. Always wearing that princess outfit.” He chuckles. “You were a handful.”
The next flag unfurls, and it’s white with a huge cocktail glass on it. We both frown at it. He looks up at me.
“Hey, my dad ordered these. I’m just accepting delivery.”
“Whatever you say.” He starts on the next flag.
“So when did you see me in my princess dress?”
“Oh, often enough. I remember you when you was—oh, let’s see—probably four years old. Your ma was dragging you along the sidewalk downtown and you were sucking your thumb and frowning at her, stumbling over a pile of pink skirts, a lopsided crown on your head. Pretty soon your ma looks down at you and sees that thumb in your mouth.”
“Uh-oh,” I say. I don’t remember the time he’s talking about, but I remember the Thumb Wars.
“Uh-oh is right. Your ma says, ‘Get that thumb out of your mouth. Little girls don’t suck their thumbs.’ You looked up at her with those big green eyes and you says, ‘I’m not a little girl. I’m a princess, and princesses do what they want.’”
I wince. “It’s a miracle I’m still alive.”
“It’s a miracle you turned out to be a decent person. Least it looks that way so far.”
He unfurls the third flag, and it’s got a lighthouse with the words The Holloways around it.
“I’m Jebidiah, by the way. But you can call me Jeb.”
“Okay, Jeb, what do you need to get these things flying?”
He rattles off a list of items, and ten minutes later I hand him a hammer, a screwdriver, and measuring tape, then watch him go to work. After a while he says, “So, now I’ve got my own kids. All three in college, but the littlest girl always reminded me of you. She used to dress up like a princess, too.”
I sip my Diet Coke and nod, thinking about the little girl at the first house we made over for the show. “I bet she was adorable.”
He leans over to shove a flagpole into the bracket he’s attached. “She was. But she was always comparing herself to the other girls, and what she had was never good enough. So one day when she was about twelve, I sat her do
wn, and know what I told her? I said Sheila, I’ve lived here a long time, seen a lot of princesses, heard about even more from my daddy and granddaddy. Those girls, they look happy on the outside, but inside they’s dead. I told her that being rich or famous ain’t gonna make you happy if you aren’t happy with who you are in here first.” He taps his chest.
It’s as if someone’s just turned on the light in my brain. You have to be happy with who you are inside. You have to stop trying to make yourself perfect, and just be you.
“Me, I prefer a simple life,” Jeb says. “I may not have much, but I’m happy. And I’m healthy.” He slips another flag in its mount. “I can still do an honest day’s work.” He steps back and gestures to the three new flags.
“Looking good,” I say. “Where’s the fourth one?”
He frowns and checks the box. “This is it.”
“Let me see the invoice.”
He hands it over and I scan it. “The last one is backordered. Damn. I hope it gets here before my dad comes up. He’s got a thing about these flags.”
Jeb drains the beer and hands it to me. “Looks like I’ll be seeing you again. Thank you for the beer and the conversation. You have a good afternoon.”
“I will. And Jeb, thanks for telling me about your daughter.”
Jeb waves and heads back to his truck, and I sit sown on the deck. Just who do I want to be? And who am I inside?
That’s easy. A sister, a daughter, a designer.
With a nod, I go inside to clean up. After a shower and a nap, I’m ready for business. I find an old passbook Rory and I used to write each other notes in school, turn to an empty page, and start scribbling ideas for my new business.
That doesn’t take long, since I don’t have many ideas, so I sketch an office layout and decorate it on paper. Then I decide to check out what I need to start my own business, and by the time I log off the Internet and shut my laptop, it’s almost nine at night.
I’ve filled the passbook and a few napkins with all my notes, but I don’t feel like I’ve learned anything. I don’t even know where to start. I frown. Maybe I should go to the library tomorrow and see if the librarian can help.
I stand and stretch, then hop off my parents’ bed and walk onto the balcony. The lake is quiet and dark, and there’s a smattering of stars above. Just for fun, I twirl around.
Then I glance at my cell phone. It’s lying on the night-stand, right where I left it, right where it’s been the last two hundred times I looked at it. I am such a chicken. I’m such a chicken I’m growing feathers.
All night I’ve been thinking about calling Dave, but I’m too much of a coward. That doesn’t stop me from thinking about him, especially now that I’m putting his business idea into practice.
Screw it. Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab the cell and walk back onto the balcony. Curling up in the lounge chair, I scroll through the numbers until I find Dave’s. I stare at it.
In my head I hear, Bock-bock-bock-bock-bock! Stupid chicken!
I hit Call and try to remember to breathe.
“Yeah?” It’s Dave, and he sounds sort of distracted.
Bock-bock.
“Dave? Hi, it’s Allison.”
No response. Complete silence. Except for the chicken: Bock-bock-bock-bock-bock.
“Um, don’t hang up on me, okay?”
“Okay.”
That’s two words out of him, and one of them was an agreement not to hang up, so that’s good, right? Bock-bock!
“So, I’m at my parents’ lake house, and I was thinking about you.”
No response. Bad sign. I stare at the dark water of the lake. “I was thinking about what you said about me starting my own business.”
“Yeah.”
I roll my eyes. He’s not making this easy. “I’m going to do it. I’ve been working on it pretty much all day, and it’s not just going to be a regular firm. We’ll do community service projects, too.”
“Uh-huh. Why are you telling me?”
I shrug, hugging my shoulders tightly as the breeze comes in over the water. B-b-b-bock! “I needed a reason to call.” As soon as the words are out, I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for him to cut my head off. Now’s his chance to lay me on the chopping block, pluck me, and fry me in cutting remarks. He can take revenge for all the times I hurt him.
“You don’t need a reason,” he says after three heartbeats. “You can always call.”
I bite my lip. “Thanks. Dave, I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t mean for you to overhear. I wasn’t even thinking when I said it. I didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, you did.”
I don’t argue. The evidence is sort of against me.
“You don’t think I’m good enough for you,” he continues when I don’t protest, “and no matter how often you tell yourself otherwise, you can’t get past it.”
“No,” I say forcefully. “I’ve just got this idea of who I should be with, but I don’t care about that anymore. It’s a fantasy. You’re not.”
“You say that now, but we’ve been through this before. Let’s not—”
“No. Don’t tell me it’s over. I like you, Dave. Really. Like maybe I might even—” Love you, I think, but I still can’t say it. My throat closes up, and I have to take a shaky breath before I can go on. “If it’s over, then make it be because I’m not your type or something, not because I fucked up. Not when I’m trying to make up for that.”
There’s a long silence. I mean, long. I’m afraid Dave might have put the phone down and walked away, it’s so long. The chicken threatens to start bocking again, but I push it down. I’m trembling all over because the words, though unsaid, hang in the air between us. I could really fall in love with him. But what he said is true, too, and I could screw this up all over again.
Finally Dave takes in a breath. “Okay.”
Okay? What does that mean? “Okay, what?”
“Okay, you’re still my type.”
The trembling eases a bit, and I’m able to breathe. “Rory and Hunter are coming for the Fourth. Will you come, too?”
“I’ll think about it. Look, I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”
And that’s the end of that. I lean back in the chair and stare at the lights in the houses on the other side of the lake. I don’t feel worse, but I don’t exactly feel better, either.
By the Friday before the big weekend, I’ve read every library book I could get on starting your own business, made a rough business plan, filled out some loan applications online, and asked my dad to fax me a list of available properties.
I’ve also had my dad contact Baxter about a possible lawsuit against Nicolo. Why should I be the only one who suffers because we fraternized? It takes two to fraternize. Not to mention, after some of the comments the photographer made on TV, I might have a good case against Nicolo for defamation.
Baxter’s working on it.
I spent the morning on the phone with Josh, trying to convince him to give up his lucrative, safe job at Interiors by M to come be my partner in my shaky new venture. I don’t mention that 50 percent of small businesses fail in the first year, and 95 percent fail in the first five. Josh can do the research himself if he wants those statistics.
They don’t matter because we’re not going to fail.
I can’t fail. I’ve never worked so hard in my life. My hair hasn’t been washed in two days, my nails aren’t painted, and I haven’t touched my makeup bag. I glance down at my clothes. I think I wore these yesterday.
After lunch I take the books I have on marketing onto the deck and start reading. I’m trying to understand market segmentation when I hear someone come up behind me. The last flag is supposed to be delivered today, so I turn, expecting Jeb.
“Hey, Jeb. Want a—” My voice dies as Dave climbs the steps to the deck.
He’s wearing black jeans, a tight black T-shirt, and dark sunglasses. His hair is tousled and almost gold in the sunlight.
“Hi.�
� He leans a box on the rail.
I stare, openmouthed. “Hi.”
“Am I still invited for the weekend? You don’t look like you’re expecting me.”
I brush my hair out of my face and straighten my tank top. “Um, everyone is coming tomorrow. Work.”
“So I have you all to myself.” He glances around, not looking in the least like he’s going to explain why he’s not at work. “Who’s Jeb?”
“The delivery guy.”
“Oh, yeah. Here’s your delivery then. I signed for it.” If he thinks it at all strange that I haven’t moved or strung more than five words together, he doesn’t act like it.
“Thanks. It’s a flag for my dad.”
Dave glances at the flags behind him. “He doesn’t have enough?”
I swallow and force myself to stand, wishing I’d worn something more attractive than this paint-stained tank top and gym shorts. “He’s got this thing about one-upping the Boyds.” I point across the water, then step closer so I can see the Boyds’ house, too. “They’ve got six flags, so my dad’s got to have seven. It’s like flag envy or something.” I stare at the Boyds’ flags, flapping in the breeze, and shake my head.
When I look over at Dave, he’s looking at me. He reaches out and I tense. “Relax,” he says, taking an errant curl between his fingers. “I’m not going to bite.” He looks down at my hair and then at my face and then at my clothes. “You look”—he pauses to consider—“natural.”
We’re standing very close, and I can smell that soap and Frank Sinatra scent of his. I take a shaky breath.
“I’ve been redecorating and working on my business plan. I would have cleaned up—”
He drops the curl. “Why? I like you better this way.”
“Guys always say that,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Then you marry the girl and complain that she let herself go. Fudging typical.”
He’s grinning. “Now this is the Red I know. When I first walked up, I thought you were going to have a seizure.”
I frown at being so transparent. “I was just surprised to see you. When I didn’t hear from you, I thought—”
“You weren’t my type?”
I nod and step back, nervous again at the way he’s read my mind. “Something like that.”