Plenty of Trouble

by Magenta Wilde

  “I don’t get why it’s supposed to be such a great story. Paul is just … weird,” one girl groused. She had long blonde hair that hung in heavy spirals down her back and over her shoulders.

  “He’s gay,” the girl sitting to her left explained. She had pink hair and chunky black-framed eyeglasses.

  “So what? It’s not that big a deal,” the first one argued. “He could have just become a hairdresser instead of killing himself.”

  The girl doing the explaining sighed. “Back then gays didn’t have things as good as they do now.”

  “It’s not exactly ideal for them everywhere these days either,” a third girl chimed in. The fourth girl in the quartet simply watched the exchange.

  “So why is this story a big deal? This guy sounds like a freak.”

  The pink-haired girl sighed again. “He’s an outcast. Probably all of his self-destructive behaviors stem from him feeling like he doesn’t belong. Everyone wants him to be something he doesn’t want to be: To work at a job he doesn’t want to do, to marry the first woman who’ll have him and then have kids. That would suck …”

  I stopped paying attention to their debate. I’d heard much of the same when we’d discussed the story in Professor Gardiner’s American Literature class years before.

  I continued to look around the café. Everyone appeared comfortable in their routines.

  Then my eyes landed on a young man in the corner near the counter.

  He blew on his steaming cup with lips that were rosebud pink. I was certain he’d probably been told he had a “purty mouth” at some point, and not in a flattering way.

  He looked tall, but it was hard to tell how tall, as he was hunched over a mug of coffee, pulling from it as much warmth as sustenance. His intense gaze at – or rather, into – his beverage, made it seem as if he was invisible. No one else paid him any mind as they placed their orders at the counter and milled past him.

  Much of his hair was hidden under a gray woolen cap, but a couple dark, wavy locks had escaped. He had a thick maroon scarf tied in a complicated knot around his neck. It was probably mostly to fight off feeling cold, but the effect was appealing as well. He wore an old army coat which was decorated with patches; many were there to mend tears, but they were artfully placed.

  Had he not looked so lost and hunched over at that table, he could have worn it with aplomb and looked stylishly undone.

  The jacket rang some sort of bell for me. I wondered if I’d ever seen him before, maybe in my shop.

  Something about him touched my heart. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen. I felt a stinging itch at the corners of my eyes. I always did when I saw someone sitting alone, especially if they were quite young or very old. In part it was because I remembered feeling unmoored right after my father died. I have the ability to see ghosts sometimes. Because I didn’t see my father’s right away, I thought his might be permanently gone.

  Not long after his death, I had started at a new school and felt like an outcast. For a while I felt I couldn’t truly confide in anyone. A few students took my silent depression as a sign I was an easy target. I endured taunting and teasing for a good while until I started finding my way – and my voice – again. My takeaway from those years was that I would never wish feeling like that even upon my worst enemy.

  Continuing to glance at the kid, I grew convinced he didn’t have a regular place to call home.

  At that moment Emily came by and sat across from me.

  She was a tall woman with corn-silk blonde hair. She had a lanky, easygoing vibe to her. Her personality – in addition to an excellent menu – drew customers to her eatery in droves.

  Emily also had that aforementioned magical knack for knowing what flavors a person craved or needed most, as well as what secret desires or wants those flavors represented.

  She saw where my eyes were trained.

  “Poor kid,” she muttered. She motioned that she’d be right back and went and topped off his coffee mug and left a cookie and muffin in front of him, telling him it was on the house. His eyes went up to her, a look of surprise and real gratitude flickering across his face as he thanked her.

  She sat back down with me. He took a bite and had a blissful expression on his face, like he was home for a moment.

  “What flavor,” I asked.

  “Oatmeal for the cookie, and banana nut for the muffin. He’ll get some vitamins and calories and a bit of home comfort.”

  “That’s nice of you,” I said. “He looks like a lost soul.”

  Emily nodded. “I’ve seen him around the last few weeks. His name is Jordan. I’ve gotten that much out of him, and also the impression that he was either kicked out of his home, or that he’d run away from a bad situation.”

  “He does have that aspect to him,” I agreed.

  “I see the wheels turning in your head,” Emily replied. Indeed they were.

  I dug into my wallet and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to Emily.

  “Lady, you already paid. Is Roger driving you that deep into distraction? The Montgomery men may be handsome, but I thought you’d have your head screwed on more tightly.”

  I smiled. “No. And please don’t use suggestive words like ‘screw’ around my mother. She’ll want love-life details that I’m not willing to share. This money is to cover a soup and sandwich for his lunch, and for more coffee or whatever he’d like. Just make sure he gets something that helps lead him where he needs to go.”

  Emily took the money. “That’s kind of you. Who should I tell him is treating him?”

  “Tell him what you like.” I paused. “Tell him I like his jacket. It’s old and battered, but he’s clearly put a lot of love into it. It’s got a certain something.”

  “Both my son and daughter would pay big bucks if they spotted like it at the mall across the river,” Emily agreed. She looked me over. I could tell she thought something was off about me.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Did you do something different to your hair? It looks …” she struggled to find the right word.

  “It looks like crap today. I tried a new shampoo last night and it’s weighed it down and made it dull and frizzy.”

  “Um, okay.”

  “That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “Well, I assume you’re not going to use that shampoo again?”

  “Yes, you assume correctly.”

  “Then I don’t need to say anything more on the matter.”

  I laughed. She was to the point. I was grateful for that.

  With that I stood up and left. Jordan glanced over in our direction. I smiled at him and gave a wave as I made my way out the door.

  I fought the urge to offer him twenty dollars for his cap. He needed it more than I did, after all.

  4

  LATER MY MOTHER made her way to my shop.

  “Anything new?” she asked.

  Before I could speak, she held up a hand.

  “What?”

  “Your hair. It’s a mess.”

  “That’s why I twisted it up in a topknot. I bought a new shampoo and it’s making it both flatter and frizzier. I’m going to return it and get something else.”

  “It doesn’t look right,” she grimaced as she looked at my hair.

  “Believe me. I know.”

  “Really, Poppy, it looks bad. Usually it’s really pretty – even though you insist on keeping it that wild shade of red – but this looks like it’s a fire hazard.”

  “Okay, I get it,” I snarled.

  “It looks like bright red baboon hair.”

  “Oh, come on!” It wasn’t that bad, was it? I reached a hand out to touch some of the strands that were coming loose.

  “Or like a Barbie doll’s hair when you try and wash it with bar soap.” She stared at it with a mix of horror and fascination.

  “Well, I’ll start over tonight.”

  “Why don’t you go over to my house and wash it now and
put some of the gel-cream product I have? Rake some of that in and let it air-dry so your waves take shape. I’ll watch the store while you do.”

  “Seriously? It’s not that bad,” I griped.

  “I beg to differ,” Mom sniffed.

  She reached out to try and fix my hair. I waved it off, determined to change the subject.

  “I think I found someone,” I replied.

  “For what? To fix your hair?”

  “No! Some extra help.”

  She nodded. “When are you planning on having him or her start?”

  I shook my head. “It’s not that definite. I explained spotting Jordan at Emily’s.

  My mother’s expression was incredulous. “Just from seeing a kid in a coffee shop who was wearing a jacket you liked? The jacket could just be some trashy style thing. You know how kids like to spend money to look cheap.”

  “I know. It’s a stretch. But I have a good feeling. Plus, I think he might be homeless. I feel like he could help us, but I also think we could help him.”

  “Do you really think he’s homeless?” Mom looked concerned. My mother had experienced some ups and downs as a teen. Hearing that someone so young had no roof over his head would bother her more than she would want to let on. It was something she didn’t like to talk about at length. Or at all, oftentimes.

  “I suspect he is. So does Emily.”

  “He doesn’t even know who we are. Or what we are. You don’t even know if he wants a job. And if he needs one, how will he find us?”

  She was definitely upset. Her usual confidence had been displaced by worry for this boy.

  “I told Emily to feed him something to send him in the right direction.”

  My mother knew about Emily’s strange ability. She relaxed her shoulders. “Okay. I’ll trust Emily. And you.”

  “Yeah, with Emily’s backing,” I said, nudging her side with my elbow in a good-natured way.

  “I guess when he shows up depends on how badly he needs a job,” Mom sighed.

  “For selfish reasons I’m hoping it’s sooner rather than later,” I admitted. “We could use an extra set of hands with Aunt Lindy and Plenty on their way. Plus, I want Vanessa to help me make some candles and lotions to have them ready to sell as Christmas gifts.”

  “You also might need an extra set of hands around if you need to go and fix your hair. You seriously cannot have it look like that when your aunt and cousin come by to visit.”

  “Yes. That’s clearly what’s most important here.”

  It was sooner rather than later. That afternoon I looked up to see someone walking in front of my shop and peering at the display in the window. I recognized the artfully patched army jacket, maroon scarf and gray wool cap. I quickly grabbed my cell and called Thingamajigs. When Vanessa picked up, I told her to send my mother over right away.

  A moment later Jordan stepped into my shop and looked around. I greeted him casually as he took in the art, candles, soaps, lotions and magical tools.

  Two minutes later, the wooden chimes clanked over the side door and my mother walked in.

  “So is this the boy?” Mom asked.

  His eyes met mine, and then his gaze landed on my mother. His expression was cautious, even fearful. “What’s going on? I’m not going to steal anything!”

  I waved him off. “We’re not worried about that.” I had wards set up in my store to discourage theft. And in the rare occasion anyone tried to walk out with unpurchased merchandise, their fingers would itch until they paid for or returned the pilfered item, or until they donated an equivalent amount to charity. “My name is Poppy, and this is my mother, Fiona. I run this shop and she runs Thingamajigs across the lot. I like your jacket, by the way. Did you do that with the patching and the stitching?”

  He inspected himself for a moment and nodded at me. “I did. Thanks. My name is Jordan. Jordan Keep.”

  “What brings you in here, Jordan?” my mother asked.

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure.” He looked at me. “I remember you, and your bright red hair. I was in this shop one night a couple weeks back, too, but I saw you at Emily’s Eatery this morning. Your hair is, um, different, from when I saw you a couple weeks ago.”

  “See!” my mother was triumphant.

  Jordan paused, deep in thought for a moment. “Were you the one who bought me lunch?”

  I nodded.

  “Thank you,” he said, before turning to look down at the floor.

  I waved him off.

  “What did you have?” my mother asked. “Or did Emily choose something for you?”

  “Mrs. Andersen suggested a turkey and avocado sandwich and wild rice chicken soup. As soon as she said that, I knew that was exactly what I wanted. Is it true,” he asked, his eyes full of questions, “that she can predict what people want before they order?”

  “Where’d you hear that, love?” my mother asked, a grin playing at one corner of her mouth.

  “People whisper that at her restaurant. I heard a couple people say that when they eat or drink what she chooses for them, they know what they need or how to find what they want.”

  “And what did you come away believing?” my mother continued.

  “At first I thought it was just a story,” Jordan said. “But after I finished eating, I had a feeling like I should take a walk. I’ve been doing that a lot lately, but usually I walk around the park or near those old historical cabins and houses by the river. Today I wanted to go in the opposite direction. Then when I walked in front of this shop, I wanted to go in here. It was almost like something pushed me to turn and open the door.”

  My mother raised an eyebrow at me, clearly impressed. “That’s some soup-and-sandwich combo.”

  I smiled.

  “I swear I’m not crazy,” Jordan cut in, looking nervous. “But the impulse was so strong all of a sudden.”

  “We don’t think that’s crazy,” my mother said. “It sounds perfectly logical, in fact.”

  It was cool outside, and I thought we could all use a warmup, so I offered Jordan and my mother a cup of coffee. As I brought mugs for the three of us, I reached below my counter and pulled out a box of cookies, offering them to Jordan. He took one and closed his eyes as he savored the sweet.

  “Better watch it, Poppy. If Tom finds out you’re feeding other men, he’ll lose it,” my mother teased.

  Jordan’s eyes grew wide, but he appeared more curious than fearful. They were a confusing shade of hazel, speckled with flecks of gray and green and amber. “Is Tom your boyfriend,” he asked, looking at me.

  I shook my head and explained who Tom was and how much he loved cookies and cakes.

  Jordan relaxed and began looking around my shop. He went to some Halloween items I had set along one window, his fingers wiggling like they were itching to do something. He made a few tweaks in the arrangement, turning now and then to look at me. Or my hair. I was certain it bothered him about as much as it bothered my mother. As he stepped away from the revamped display, he caught himself and apologized, making a move to put things back to how they were. I held a hand up to still him.

  “Wait a moment,” I walked over there with my mother and we examined his work. “That looks good,” I said, speaking as much to her as to him.

  The side door opened again and in stepped Vanessa. “What’s going on here? Tom’s in the shop now so I thought I’d step out for a second and see how things are here.” She waved to Jordan who eyed her up and down. She looked then to me, squinting her eyes as she took in my visage. “Did you change your hair, Poppy? It looks, uh, interesting.”

  “It’ll be back to normal tomorrow. Period,” I said.

  Vanessa had her mouth open to say something else, but wisely shut it.

  “Wow,” Jordan said, looking at Vanessa with awe. “You are gorgeous. Your highlights are so buttery, and not the least bit brassy. And that coppery eyeshadow really brings out the blue in your eyes.” He seemed to catch himself and stopped speaking.

  V
anessa’s lips turned up in amusement. She went to look at the display he’d tweaked. “You redid this arrangement. It looks better,” she nodded at me in approval.

  “It wasn’t me,” I explained, then tilted my head to Jordan.

  “I didn’t mean to butt in,” he said, “but I’m glad you like it.”

  “Is that what you like to do?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I like to display things or design them.” He looked me over again and his fingers began fidgeting once more. He approached and held his hands up some inches from my face, pausing before he let the impulse take over. Jordan began fussing with my hair, rearranging it slightly. He stepped away and nodded in approval at his work.

  My mother and Vanessa turned and scrutinized the result. “It’s good,” Vanessa said. “He just did a few little tweaks and her hair looks like she came out of a salon, as opposed to …” she trailed off before she risked offending me.

  “Yes,” Mom nodded. “It’s beautiful now. Before, it looked like sad baboon hair. Or plastic doll hair that lost its shape after being washed with soap.”

  Vanessa’s lips quirked. I could tell she agreed.

  I stepped away to look in a decorative mirror I had for sale and examined his handiwork. I had to agree. It looked loads better. He had taken my flattened and frizzy hair, somehow played with the topknot and pulled a few tendrils out. It now looked like it was modern and romantic and entirely intentional – and not the destroyed doll hair to which my mom had likened it.

  “Remind me to keep you on call for date nights,” I mused, as I patted at his handiwork.

  “That was amazing. It’s like you have magic fingers,” Vanessa said. “Come on.” She reached for Jordan and began pulling him to the side door.

  “Where are you taking me,” Jordan stammered, his eyes wide.

  “I’m taking you over to Thingamajigs,” Vanessa replied. “I want you to see something.”

  My mother raised an eyebrow at the gesture and then turned to follow. Had I not been open for another few hours, I would have followed, too.

  Instead I returned to the mirror and admired Jordan’s handiwork. It was almost like he made gold out of lead. I wondered what kind of magical alchemy ran through his veins.