Definitely Daphne

by Tami Charles

  “What do you feel is the source of her wishy-washy behavior?”

  “I think maybe it’s because she’s missing her dad.” I get really quiet after that. There’s a ball slowly growing in my throat. Am I about to cry? Over Rachael’s dad? Or is this about something more personal?

  “Will the same thing happen to me… when Mom leaves?” I ask.

  Dr. Varma leans forward and touches my hand. “We all react differently when it comes to being away from our parents. I think it’s good that you acknowledge what Rachael is going through. It’s probably an even better reason to connect with her. She might benefit from being around someone who understands. Have you told her about your mum’s TDY?”

  “No, I’m actually trying not to think about it,” I say.

  “Well, it is November,” Dr. Varma says. “The holidays will come fast, Annabelle. I’d say it’s time for you to let your friends know. Along with your father, they will be your greatest support system. Also, you have me. I’ll still be around.” She pauses. “How are you holding up on the Daphne end?”

  “I’m starting to feel like it’s hard to keep it a secret. I almost got caught a couple of times.”

  Dr. Varma’s eyes widen. “Tell me about it.”

  I tell her about how John asked to use the restroom at our house and found one of my Daphne wigs in there. And then how after the play, Rachael heard Mom call me Daph, even though I denied it.

  “Well that was a close one, wasn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “You know, I have seen you blossom since you first started coming here.”

  “You have?”

  “Oh, yes. You walk with a little more pride in your step. You’re certainly less shy. And look, you even have some new friends. And even though things seem strained with Rachael, I think you might have a chance at a real connection with that one.”

  I smile. It’s not like I want to be best friends with Rachael or anything. My best friend is Mae, and even though she’s miles away, that will never change.

  “So since you already discovered that you don’t like sports and you do like drama, but you definitely don’t like drama-drama. Let’s figure out something else you can vlog about that you might enjoy. Maybe you can tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “Well on the night of the play I dressed up nicely for once. And I don’t mean like the over-the-top outfits I wear for my vlog, I mean like a real dress with my hair styled in a way that didn’t make me look like a human oak tree. And for that one night I felt, I don’t know… noticed. But in a good way. Even Rachael said I looked nice. And that girl is like the QUEEN of fashion at McManus.”

  I can see the light bulb switch on over Dr. Varma’s head. “So what you’re telling me is you might want to consider changing your wardrobe?”

  “Yes. Well, no. Ugh!” My body deflates, and I become one with the couch. “Here’s the thing — I like the way I dress. But I also liked the attention I got at the play. It was nice to not be so dorky for a change.”

  “Define dork,” Dr. Varma says.

  I run my fingers from the top of my head to the bottom of my shoes, indicating the definition is me.

  Dr. Varma smiles. “There’s nothing wrong with being a dork. Some of the brightest people call themselves dorks. But I do understand liking the feeling you had when you dressed up. So let’s say we title your next vlog as ‘Daphne Does Fashion.’ It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  I think about that for a moment. And then my internal movie starts up. My perfectly styled hair is blowing in the gentle wind. I’m wearing high leather boots, a cute pleated skirt, and a blazer. People are clapping as I enter the school building. I’m signing autographs and saying words like “darling” and “faaaaaabulous.” And this time there is no storm or alarm clock to chase the image away.

  I want to have a real moment like that. I can totally do this, with my fashionista mom’s help.

  “I like it, Dr. Varma,” I say. “You’ve got a deal!”

  28

  Mommy Makeover

  If there are two words that don’t usually belong together in a sentence, it’s mom and makeover. But when your mom is a Master Sergeant in the Air Force by day and hot enough to be Beyoncé’s sister by night, you shut your mouth and take the help. Because some fashion disasters require complete obedience.

  Exhibit A— me. Mom wastes no time going into makeover mode after dinner. She barges into my bedroom, hands full of clothes hangers and the biggest smile on her face. “Let’s pick out something really cute for school tomorrow,” she says.

  It’s like she’s been dreaming of this moment all her life.

  Outside of Mom’s typical Air Force uniform (which, I admit, is pretty sharp), my mom is a diva. She has flawless ebony skin, straight hair that she styles with ease, and outfits for days worthy of a runway. But that’s not me. Typically my wardrobe screams, “I prefer staying home!”

  “What in the world am I supposed to do with all of this stuff?” I sigh, rummaging through the mounds of clothes.

  It looks like Seventeen magazine threw up all over my bed.

  “Listen, as far as fashion goes, you can keep it simple, Annabelle. I get it. You like to be comfortable.”

  “Now you’re speaking my language. Comfort is something I know all about!” I admit.

  And suddenly, I remember our time overseas, on base in the UK. The days of taking math class in our kitchen with Mae and Dad… and we all wore pajamas. That was the life! These days, it’s a struggle to find anything to wear that doesn’t make me look like I’ve spent the whole day watching Netflix.

  Mom lets me try on some of her old jeans. All cute. And surprisingly they all fit even though Mom has curvier features.

  “Those look great,” Mom says.

  I look in the full-length mirror hanging on my closet door. She’s right. I don’t look that bad. In fact, I’m pretty sure I saw Rachael wearing a similar pair of jeans last week.

  I leave those on, and Mom starts showing me her shirts. “Since you typically mix your prints, let’s try something solid for a change.”

  She hands me a blush-pink blouse, with just a little frill on the sleeve. Very trendy. Very not me. But I put it on anyway. I look in the mirror again and can’t believe how different I already look.

  “Mom, this whole outfit looks great!” I say. “It’s not even itchy!”

  “See? Stylish and comfortable! But there’s nothing wrong with dressing casually either. You look beautiful no matter what.”

  My heart fills and sinks just the same. I know she means it, but sometimes I wonder if she says things like that because that’s what moms are supposed to say.

  “My hair.” I sigh and sit in front of my dresser mirror.

  Mom starts playing with a big chunk of it. “What’s wrong with it? I love your hair.”

  “It’s just so poofy. Why can’t it be straight, like yours?” I complain.

  “Annabelle, my natural hair is curly too. I just use a relaxer because it’s easier for my lifestyle. But you know the rules.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah… no relaxer before I’m sixteen.”

  Three years and counting!

  Mom smiles. “If you want something temporary, I could—”

  “Straighten it? Oh, Mom, PLEASE!” I jump out of my seat and hug her. Next thing I know we collapse on the bed.

  “OK, Annabelle. I’ll straighten your hair, but don’t get used to it. Even heated styling tools can damage your hair. And trust me, I know plenty of girls who would pay to have curls like yours.”

  Mom washes and deep conditions my hair in the laundry room sink. After that she sets up my bedroom with her blow dryer, flat iron, jojoba oil, and some spray in a bottle.

  “This is heat protectant spray, so your hair doesn’t get damaged from the flat iron.” Mom demonstrates h
ow to use the flat iron to straighten my curls. Start at the root and follow with a comb to the ends.

  It takes her over an hour to transform my hair from a short mop to long, straight hair that reaches the middle of my back.

  “I had no idea my hair was this long!” I scream.

  “It’s called shrinkage. Natural curls shrink hair to make it look much shorter than it really is,” Mom says.

  When she is done, she applies a soft pink gloss to my lips.

  “Something is missing,” Mom says.

  “What else could I possibly need? This is perfect! I can’t wait to go to school tomorrow.”

  “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  Mom comes back with a necklace in her hand. When she puts it on me, I see what she was talking about. It’s a silver chain with a navy blue, sparkly heart-shaped gemstone.

  “I love this, Mom.”

  “My mother gave me this necklace when I was about your age. She was getting deployed and wanted me to have it to think of her while she was gone. I was waiting for the right moment to pass this on to you. I could have done it the other times I left, but those assignments were just a couple weeks here and there. Giving you this necklace didn’t feel right then. But now that I’ll be in Afghanistan for six months, I want you to have it, keep it safe next to your heart, and know that I’m always there.”

  “I am never, ever taking this necklace off.”

  And cue tears! Mom’s crying. I’m crying.

  Dad knocks on my door. “Hey, what are we boo-hooing about?” he asks, pushing the door open.

  Mom shows him the necklace.

  “I was wondering when you’d give it to her. You look stunning, Annabelle,” he says.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “It’s getting late. You should get some sleep. Put your outfit on a hanger and wrap your hair in this silk scarf so it doesn’t get frizzy,” Mom says.

  They say goodnight and close the door behind them.

  I rush to my phone to text Mae a selfie of the new me.

  Mae: Excuse me, who is this? THAT is not Annabelle Louis.

  Me: I know, ha! It’s my new look. You like?

  Mae: Like? How about LOVE? Especially that necklace! You’re like Annabelle version 2.0.

  Me: Thanks, off to bed. Tomorrow starts my next social experiment: “Daphne Does Fashion.”

  Mae: You got this, amiga!

  29

  The New Kid… Again

  I step into homeroom, and everyone stops talking. Usually Mrs. Rodriguez has to yell at us to hush our mouths, but not today. As I walk to my seat at the back of the room, I hear the whispers.

  “Is that Annabelle?”

  “She’s not wearing weird clothes today.”

  “No, I think that’s a new student.”

  Part of me is loving the attention, but there is a small part of me that wants to hop a plane and head straight back to Germany.

  Rachael turns around and sort of looks me up and down. But then she smiles a little.

  My shoulders ease a bit, and I smile back.

  “Why are you all dressed up? The play is over,” John says.

  “Just felt like doing something different,” I half-lie.

  Confession #1: My therapist and my mom made me do it.

  Confession #2: And I kinda like it.

  But I don’t say that.

  John purses his lips like he has more to say, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sinks lower in his chair and sticks his nose back in his notebook.

  Clairna leans in and whispers, “Look at you, Miss Diva! Don’t get too popular on us now.” Then she giggles.

  I’m wondering if that’s the goal here. Am I trying to be popular? Do I even care?

  And then that inner voice whispers, Yes, you do!

  For the rest of my classes, not one of my teachers recognizes me.

  “Are you the new kid?”

  “Oh, your hair is different!”

  Even the school counselor, Mr. Fingerlin, doesn’t know who I am at first.

  When the lunch bell rings, John, Clairna, and I make our way to the cafeteria. Navdeep is out sick today.

  The McManus Café is famous for putting the word “surprise” on the daily lunch menu. Chili dog surprise, pizza surprise, taco surprise. That last one sent me running to the bathroom on my third day of school! So these days I keep it safe with good old peanut butter and jelly. We take a seat at our “reserved” table in the back of the cafeteria. Near the garbage, with an added bonus of spoiled-milk aroma.

  Clairna and I do most of the talking while John pushes lettuce around the lunch tray and says nothing.

  “Girl, you will never believe who added me on Snapchat over the weekend.” Clairna gets all whispery.

  “Oooh, spill it!”

  “I’ll give you some hints. Soccer team, dark mohawk, sits at queen diva’s table…” Clairna’s voice slows down, and her eyes drift to the side.

  I turn around to see what she’s looking at.

  All of a sudden, Rachael gets up from her table in the middle of the cafeteria and starts strutting her stuff toward us. It’s like a scene straight out of a fashion show in Milan.

  The lights dim, the spotlight is on her. Katy Perry’s Roar is playing on the loudest decibel. In slow motion, everyone stops eating and stares at Rachael, who is headed my way.

  Everything goes back to regular motion as soon as she gets to our table.

  “Annabelle, why don’t you come sit with us today?” Rachael says.

  A glob of peanut butter settles in my throat.

  Clairna looks at me and then softly kicks me under the table. And I’m not sure if that kick means “don’t you dare” or “you’d better go, girl!” Then she puckers her lips and shoots her eyes straight to Rachael’s table. That’s when I know exactly why she wants me to go.… Boys. John, on the other hand, doesn’t even look at me. In fact, he’s barely said two words to me all day.

  “Umm… sure, OK,” I say nervously. “Let me grab my things.”

  I toss out my lunch tray and gulp down half a carton of milk. Because there is no way I’m sitting at Rachael’s table with peanut-butter mouth. Not when all of her friends and some of the boys from the basketball team are sitting there.

  Remember that fashion show strut? Well, it starts up all over again, and this time all eyes are on her… and me. Rachael walks like she owns the place. I try to swing my hips — if I had any — but I know I probably look more like a dog being walked on a leash than anything.

  “You guys know Annabelle, right?” Rachael says to her groupies when we get to her table.

  I wave shyly.

  “Oh yeah, your understudy from the play,” one of the girls says, laying it on thick with the word under.

  “Have a seat,” Natasha says.

  “So, spill it. What’s with the new digs?” Rachael wastes no time getting right to business.

  Suddenly I feel stupid saying the truth — that the reason I dressed up is to step out of my comfort zone. Also because my therapist and parents think I need to try new things to make new friends.

  “Oh, I just have an early dinner tonight with my parents.…” I search my brain for more details to spice up the story, “in the city, with my dad’s company. He’s an executive… at Cisco.”

  Only one-third of that is true. But the rest sounds fabulous enough.

  “Ooh nice!” another girl, Lauren, chimes in. “I love going to the city. So chic.”

  “Where’d you get the necklace?” Natasha moves in a little too close to me, lifting the necklace with her hand.

  “From some fancy jewelry store with Daddy’s executive credit card?” Rachael asks.

  “It’s a family heirloom, apparently. My grandmother was in the army. She gave it to my mom when she got depl
oyed. My mom gave it to me because…”

  I can’t even say the words.

  “Oh.” Rachael shrugs, but doesn’t say anything after that. In fact, she sort of shuts down after that.

  Some of kids at the table start doing army salutes and making silly fighting poses. And the ring leader of them all? Dark, mohawk cut. Super broad shoulders. Soccer shirt. Stuffing straws up his nose.

  Steven Chu. Aka Clairna’s new Snapchat buddy.

  I feel Clairna eyeing me from across the cafeteria. She winks and mouths, “That’s him!”

  The bell rings, and Rachael storms out of the cafeteria.

  “You can sit with us tomorrow, if you like,” Natasha says, gathering her tray and the one Rachael left behind.

  I see Rachael running toward the bathroom on the other side of the cafeteria. Meanwhile, John’s eyes are fixed on me and his face is twisted up like he smells something bad.

  “Um, yeah, maybe,” I say. “Nice chatting with you guys. See you later.”

  I’m pretty sure John is taking his time throwing away his tray and walking out of the cafeteria because he wants me to catch up to him and say something, but I need to get to Rachael.

  When I get to the bathroom, one stall door is closed and I can hear her sniffling.

  “You OK in there?”

  She flushes the toilet and comes out of the stall. Whatever makeup she had on has been washed away by the tears she tried to hide from me.

  “I’m good. You didn’t have to follow me in here. I just had something stuck in my eye.”

  She’s a better liar than I am.

  “Did I say something wrong when I mentioned the deployment stuff?” I ask. “If so, I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, it’s cool.” She shrugs.

  “How do you deal?” I ask.