*What Have I Done?*

At sixteen, I’m a pro at resisting the flow. Every other girl in my school boasts almost butt-length, straightened hair. As they slink through the halls, I inhale the scent of their tresses—crispy, burned, sort of like a campfire but not really. Campfires smell good.

            For the longest time, I embraced my curls. My mom made sure I never ran out of Herbal Essence Tousle Me Softly shampoo and conditioner. Bad hair day? No prob. I’d gather my bra strap-length jumble into a messy, hair-banded bun, tweak out strategic tendrils to frame my face and accent my Kraft Caramel eyes.

            I remember the time some preppy girl got nauseous in biology lab. We had to open windows to let the Formaldehyde fumes escape. Icy, Appalachian air rushed the room. To warm my neck and shoulders, I liberated my hair.

            “What is that smell?

            “Is it flowers?”

            “Nah, I think it’s apples.”

            I surveyed the guys around me—hotties, creepers, athletes. They all had their noses in the air. The lot of them closed in on me, sniffing. A blonde wrestler boy pointed at me.

            “It’s her,” he said. He hovered his face near my curls and sucked in their fragrance. “It’s her hair. Holy crap!  It smells amazing!”

            I shoved him, pretended offense, but really? That’s my favorite high school moment to date.

~~~

“What have I done?” 

            On my daybed my mother cringed, avoided my eyes, steepled her fingers.
            “It’s darling, sweetheart. Really, it is.”

            She reached out to stroke a random long piece. It looked like an accident, a hairdresser’s lack of expertise. I dragged my hands over the choppy darkness. Moaned.

            “Did you see this coming? Did you?”

            Mom stood and fluffed my pillows. She glanced in the mirror above my dresser, pinky-fingered lipstick out of the corners of her mouth.

            “Tami and I both told you there was no telling what your hair would do short. She said you’d have to blow dry, straighten, and use product to make your hair like that picture.”

            I hurled my comb at the mirror. “When? When did she say that?”

            Mom started to count on her fingers. I crumpled to the floor.

            “What am I going to do? Tomorrow’s school. They’ll call me skate rat and boy. If I wear my leather jacket, they’ll say I'm a dyke on a bike. Dyke!  I hate that word.”

            Mom joined me on the rug, tossed my Converse high tops toward the closet. On either side of me her legs were parentheses of love, no, protection. Well, both.

            “Oh, sweet pea,” she said, “you’re gorgeous. No one would ever think you’re a boy.”

            She tugged at a cluster of wild, stick out hairs, wet her fingers and tried to smooth the strands. Epic failed. I collapsed against her, my hands fists between us.

            “I lied, Mama,” I whispered against her neck. She smelled familiar—fruity, flowery. “I told myself I didn’t care what anyone thought, but that’s not true.”

            Her breath warmed my left ear, made it moist.

            “I want to be beautiful,” I said, “more than anything. I said I wanted to be different but I thought I’d look classy, elegant, like Audrey Hepburn.”

            Mom’s breathing stuttered. Is she crying too? She nudged my face toward the mirror beside my bed, pointed to us.

            “Baby, consider who you’re talking to. I’m addicted to my eyelash curler. I won’t go to the grocery store without makeup on. For crying out loud, I’m a Sephora Very Important Buyer. I know. I know what it’s like to want to be pretty, sweetie. Me of all people? I know.”

            I laid my cheek against hers and our tears swam together. I played with her rings, made them all face up.

            “I kept thinking, even if I’m ugly, some little bald girl can be beautiful with a wig made from my hair. But now? That’s not enough.” I twisted to look Mom in the eye. “Does that make me a bad person?”

            She clasped her hands under my ribs and rocked me, shushed and there-thered me.

            “I never thought I’d be ugly, Mama, never.” My never sounded as if I’d inhaled helium.

            I sagged forward and poked my fingers into my hair. I felt stinging as my face started to implode. Mom reached around me to cup my cheek.

            “But you’re not, sweetheart. There’s no—”  

            The girl in the mirror snorted snot. “I know, I mean— My face is still pretty but you don’t know high-schoolers, Mama. They’re mean. So, so mean. Flesh caught in zippers mean.”

            Mom rested her chin on my shoulder. “I’ll pray for you tomorrow, I promise. I won’t stop, not for a second.”

            I nodded and smiled, tried to anyway. “I know you will. Thanks.”

            I heaved myself up, trudged over to my dresser and plucked an aqua eyeliner out of the mug I made in eighth-grade art class. I stepped in front of the full-length mirror on my closet door and wrote in cursive on the glass: “I am beautiful.” My breath fogged the mirror as I underlined the sentence, over and over.

Dear Jane

Dear Jane McGonigal:

Thank you so much! Because of you, the coolest thing happened. See, I was going through a horrible, harried season in my life where chores, activities, and expectations, as they whirled around me like I was their bazillion-degree sun, pressed burlap bags of poky asteroid shards against every part of me. 
          Each morning I’d pencil an 80-item to-do list (because everyone knows making a list is 75% of the work). After jotting my items to accomplish on butterfly-adorned paper, I’d brew a pot of Italian-roast coffee (crack in a bag, don’t you know) to expedite the task process. At the kitchen table I'd focus on the racing of my heart as I waited for motivation to arrive. After a bit I'd consider my cuticles, drum my fingers, and perhaps pray “teach me to number my days aright that I may have a heart of wisdom." 
           Before I hit the hay each night, I’d inspect my butterfly list, squint through tears at the 74 things that remained undone, and sigh.

~~~~~

One morning I was chatting on the phone with my friend Jill. Yes, I had a timer set to ensure I was a good steward of my time. Yes, I reset the timer twice.

            “Megan is in a tizzy with her wedding plans,” Jill said.

            I grimaced as I pictured a 170 page to-do list. “I can only imagine.”

            “I asked her what I could do to help and she delegated Invitation Duty to me. I googled wedding invites and an hour later it was done.”

            “You’re such a good step-mom,” I said. “So organized. She’s lucky to have you.”

            After I hung up, I experienced a brain blast. “I need a Jill,” I told my creamed and sugared crack in a cup.

~~~~~

That’s where you come in, Jane. As you can probably tell, I am not a great multi-tasker. Why, I can’t even listen to Pandora and type an email at the same time. However, there is an exception to this rule. I am able to enjoy Terri Gross on NPR’s Fresh Air while I fix supper, Francis Chan messages as I sort laundry, TED Talks on YouTube as I make my bed. That’s how I found you, Jane. I adored your TED talk, not the part about you feeling suicidal, that was super sad. I admired your resilience in the face of life yuck; it buoyed me. I cheered as you recognized what you needed to do in order to heal then did it. That video game you invented—Super Better? It inspired me, indeed it did.

            As soon as you said, “Super Better,” I paused in the middle of fluffing my pillows and dashed over to my desk, jiggled the mouse so I could see and hear you. I spoke to you even though you were in the middle of your speech, on the TED stage, inside the computer.

            “I don’t need a Jill, per se,” I told you. “I need a Super Betty, someone to handle all my mundane tasks from here on out. A gal who is organized and motivated, even when though I’m not.”

            Suddenly Super Betty was there! Beside me in my boudoir. She hipped me away from my sleigh bed. “Let me show you how to do a nurse’s corner,” she said as she lifted the bottom right side of the mattress.

            I stepped backward toward the dresser, glanced at my reflection. I wore the silliest grin. “A super hero’s in my house,” I told my reflection. “Yay me!”

            I named her Super Betty, a nod to you, Jane. She wears a sparkly fuchsia and turquoise get-up (With a cape of course. Its pompom fringe is so snazzy!). Her hair is a wild jumble like yours but copper-colored instead of blonde. At one point she told me how she thought about sporting dreadlocks but decided against it since they wouldn’t look as cool as curls when she flies. Her eyes are spring grass green and they throw off golden sparks when she’s really cranking out chores. A couple times each hour, she finds me in the house, wherever I'm reading or writing, and lets me know it’s time to mark something off the 80-item to-do list. I do so with alacrity, with aqua ink. Know what Betty's favorite saying is? “Pass the butter, I’m on a roll.”

            But wait, Jane, there's more. The first week Super Betty showed up, my husband was so impressed, he procured a Super Dave. Dave's first day in the house he brushed a new coat of whitewash on the kitchen table and KAPOW! It looks brand new. Not long after, he disassembled the dog run that our 16-year-old deaf dog refuses to go in now that her sister is dead. Around that same time, my gal pal, Daleen (always quick to catch on to trends) got herself a Terrific Tawanda and she is going gangbusters. I tell you what, Jane, I think I’m on to something, something big. Hold on a second, Super Betty needs me . . .      
           Actually she just handed me my aqua fountain pen and to-do list to mark through thank you note to Jane M. Now she’s tapping her glow-in-the-dark pink wrist watch. Gotta go!

*The Biggest Loser*

My son raised his hand at the kitchen table.

            “This isn’t school, sweetie,” I said. “What?”

            “Why’d you give me a tiny glass with my smoothie?”

            I waited till he took a swig. “Um . . . I seem to have lost something.”

            His eyes bulged. His cheeks puffed. “Like what?”

            I busied myself wiping the stove. “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I said. “Like the mango pit. The shot glass is for the pit pieces.”

            I turned when I heard him gag. A peach-colored smoothie stream filled the little glass.

            “Sorry,” he said as he nudged both glasses across the table. “I can’t.”

            “Aw, c’mon. It tastes way better than the time I lost the plastic measuring spoon. And the extra fiber, it’ll . . .”

            He made his lips disappear, shook his head violently.

            I sighed. “Do you have a quarter?”

            One of his eyes got smaller. “Yeah. Why?”

            “Let’s make a bet. Do you think Daddy’ll figure it out or not?”

            “He totally will,” my son said. “It’s like drinking a stick.”

            My little guy and I tried to keep our faces straight while my husband sucked down his shake. He wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand then kissed me on the cheek.

            “That hit the spot,” he said. “I’m going for a run. See ya later.”

            I waited till I heard the front door catch then I held out my hand, palm up, in front of my son.

            “You owe me twenty five cents.”

            “Gambling’s evil,” he said. “You know that, right?”

~~~

I searched everywhere for the receipt, to figure out how much the watch cost, the gift he gave me for our twentieth wedding anniversary. I found the credit card statement in the bill pay drawer and used my pencil eraser to go line by line. I found the store name then followed the dots over to the right to figure out how much he— My palms, underarms, and the divot under my nose felt suddenly damp.

            “Did you find it yet?” my husband said when he came home from work.

            I reached for his lunch bag and shook my head. He sorted through the mail pile, slicing the top of each envelope with an old butter knife.

            “It’s probably gone forever, you know.”

            I crouched beside the foyer’s settee and ran my hand underneath.

            “I don’t think so,” I said as I withdrew a dust fluff in a pincer grip. “I’m pretty sure I’ll find it when I change my closet over. It’s probably in a pair of shorts.”

            The next week I was at my desk—writing, editing, checking Facebook. I heard a voice. Well, I didn’t really hear it, not out loud or anything but it was definitely there, inside my head. Lift up the printer.

            There it was—a small hill of silver links and a barely blue pearlescent face. My throat felt tight. I blinked a couple times to keep my eyes from spilling over.

            I fished my cell out of my pocket, slid it open, typed a text.

            “Guess what I found?”

            “No way.”

            “Way.”

            I closed my phone, leaned back in my chair, gazed up at the ceiling.

            “Thank you so much.”

~~~

After I dialed my husband’s number, I plugged the sink and ran water, squirted in soap and tugged on my Playtex rubber gloves.

            “Hello, Sunshine.”        

            “Um, we have a problem.”

            I heard his breath hiss out through his nose. “What now?”

            With one hand I bobbed my favorite pottery mug in and out of the bubbles. I admired its pale aqua beauty, the ditch for my thumb, the dragonfly impression beneath the handle.

             “I kinda sorta  . . . misplaced the—”

            Another angry nose noise. “What did you lose now?”

            I rinsed the cup and placed it on the drying rack, stroked the dragonfly with my yellow-gloved finger.

            “The tax return,” I said. “I sealed it, stamped it, drove it to the post office . . .”

            Huff. “Tell me you’re kidding. Wait a minute. Is this April first?”

            I shook my head. “It’s not April Fool’s Day. No such luck.”

            “Dang it!  We’re getting back, like, $2,000.”

            I pushed my lower lip out, pinched the bridge of my nose to stop its prickling.

            “Did you call anybody?”

            I straightened and nodded. “I did, the High Street post office lady, the one who always wears a Pittsburgh Steeler jersey on Fridays. She said maybe somebody’ll find it, be nice, and stick it in the outgoing mail.”

            Snort. “Yeah, right.”

            Days later I grinned and paced as I waited for my husband to answer his phone.

            “Guess what?” I said.
            “What?” His voice was still flat, even though the missing tax return debacle was a week old.

            “Please don’t be grumpy,” I said. “I have good tidings. She has it!  The Pittsburgh Steeler post office lady has our tax envelope. The guy who changes the rugs every week found it this morning. It was under the runner in front of the outgoing mail slot.”

            “Thank God!  And . . . sorry. I was—”

            “I did. I know.”

~~~

Brrriiiinnnnnggggg!

            I slung my jean jacket on the foyer settee before I answered the phone.

            “Hello?”

            It was my friend, Diana. We’d said goodbye not even five minutes ago, at the high school down the hill.

            “You missing something?”

            I tilted my head, pondered for a moment. “I don’t think so,” I said. “Like what?”

            “Uh, like your son?”

            My mouth fell open. I laid my hand over my heart. Pound, pound.

            “My little guy?”

            I spun in a circle, pointed at people: oldest daughter, husband, middle child, her best friend. No son, no man boy of mine.

            “You left him down here,” Diana said. “At the school, after the show.”

            I slammed my forehead with my palm. “Dang it!” I said. “I counted heads, got the right number but the wrong kid.”

            I grabbed my keys and jean jacket. My husband stepped between me and the door.
            "I'll get him. You stay here with the others."
            I whimpered but moved aside, watched him flip through the keys on the fish-shaped key rack then plunge his hands deep in his pockets—pants, coat. All the while I heard his mutters, words like loser and responsibility and grown up.
            I followed him into the kitchen. He dumped his lunch bag on the counter, batted the empty Tupperware containers this way and that. He stood in front of the key rack by the back door, sorted through each peg. That's when I got it. And grinned.
            I walked into the dining room and ran my hands along the top shelf of the antique mantle. It’s where I stash extra front door, back door, and car keys.
            I returned to my husband, dangled the spare key to his car. "Here."
            He enclosed it with his fist. Thirty seconds passed before he lifted his eyes to mine.
            "Thanks. And . . . I'm—”
            "You're welcome and . . . I know."