Yes, No, Maybe So--Part II

Like every other guy in town, Jude had the hots for Katie. After all, she did resemble a cross between Cher and Brooke Shields. Even though Jude was pretty good looking, he was strange, and I’m not just saying that because he’s my brother. Jude had this theory that if you didn’t shower for a day or two after you sunbathed, the dirt would sink into your skin and increase your tan factor. He brought this theory up every time he lay out with us.

            “Ooooh, ga-ross!” we’d squeal. Gross was our favorite word and we always said it as if it had two syllables.

            I blame Jude’s weirdness on illegal pharmaceuticals. He didn’t take Nancy Reagan’s advice to just say no to drugs. He smoked a boatload of pot. In fact, he grew it in his room. Mom thought it was a really pretty houseplant.

            “I never would have guessed Jude had a green thumb,” she said.

            His grades weren’t great but I reckon he was a little smart because he figured out how to fashion a pot pipe out of a salt shaker. It was shaped like a catfish and the one time I walked in on him getting high, he looked like he was kissing a thumb-sized sea creature or giving it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The room he shared with my oldest brother Matthew often smelled like a fall burn pile.

            Jude liked to brag about sniffing glue to Katie Lynn and me. I knew he was telling the truth because I saw the squeezed tubes of model glue in the woods whenever I walked our dog over that way. He also told us how he and his buddies did acid every day during their high school years. One of his friends dropped so much it damaged him forever.  He never made it to college. Heck, he never even made it out of his parents’ house. He was like the poster child for that commercial that showed an egg being cracked open: “This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs.” And then they’d show the egg frying.

            Jude was always getting into trouble. Like the time the police called the house and informed Mom they’d nailed him shoplifting. She gave me the job of phoning my father at his office and telling him. Man, was Dad honked off. Right after he picked Jude up at the police station, he drove him to a barber shop and told the guy to shave Jude's head. Mom boohooed for days. I don’t know which bothered her more—his criminal record or the removal of his pretty copper curls.  I found them one day when I was snooping through her dresser drawers. Dad must’ve had the barber put the hair in a baggie for her. I snuck outside with them. Stuffed them into a garbage bag inside a trash can. Just because.

            In addition to being a klepto and a druggie, Jude consumed scads of beer. In fact, the first time I ever got drunk was with him. Jude and his friend Robbie had snuck a case of Rolling Rock into the basement. Katie Lynn and I walked downstairs to watch Charlie's Angels, and there they were—the boys and the beer.

            “Want some?” Jude asked.

            “No,” I said.

            “Yes,” Katie Lynn said.

            I have no idea how my folks never figured out two college boys were getting two ninth grade girls tipsy in the basement. I take that back. I do have an idea.

Pretty Old

                                     (A pretty old picture of me)

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

I put my finger on the page and looked up. A freckly, buzz-cut boy stood in front of me.  He ground his gloved palms together.  He's 11, maybe 12.

“Yes?”

“I just got in trouble for being mean to my little sister.”

I clicked my tongue.  “That’s not good.”

“My mom told me to do a random act of kindness to make up for it.”

“And I’m the recipient?  Not your sister?”

He nodded.  Looked over his shoulder.

I dogeared my page and closed my book.  Cradled my mocha mug.   Tried not to grin.

“Let’s hear what you’ve got.”

I winked at his mom a few tables away.  She held up crossed fingers.

The boy cleared his throat.  “You’re pretty old.”

I put my hand on my chest and coughed.  The mom sagged.  I'm pretty sure I heard her moan. 

“I’m so sorry,” she mouthed.

I winced as he pulled out the chair next to mine.  He sat.  Took his gloves off and rubbed his hands on his jeaned thighs.

“That didn’t come out right, did it?”

I shrugged.  Puffed air at my bangs.  “I’ve been called worse.”

He leaned toward me.  “No, ma’am,” he said.  “You don’t understand.”

I watched his eyes.  They started at the top of my head.  Slid down past my shoulders.

“Your hair’s so shiny.  You could do a shampoo commercial.  And your eyes.  Are they blue or green?  Your fingernails’re almost black.  That’s cool.”

I felt a small, wry smile begin to bloom on my face.

“I didn’t mean you’re old, ma’am.  I mean, you are.  Older than my mom anyway.  But you’re pretty and old.  Pretty old.  Get it?”

I covered his hands with mine.  “I got it, sweet boy,” I said.  “It’s taken me half a lifetime to get it.  But I got it.  Finally.”

“What the heck do you need a bra for?” my middle oldest brother said.  Hooted really.

I whimpered and hightailed it from the dinner table to my petal pink bedroom. 

“He’s right,” I told the only stuffed animal I ever loved.  It wasn’t even an animal.  Jot was a giant smiley face with a tee tiny body. 

“I’m too flat to need a bra and too chubby to need a belt.”

Mom came in and sat on the end of my bed.  “Let’s go to Sears.  After I do the dishes.”

I didn’t take my face off Jot’s teeny neck.  “Can I get a stretchy bra and panty set?  Light purple?  Like Jot?”

Mom touched my back so lightly I barely knew her hand was there.  “Sure, honey.  Anything you want.”

I sat in the audience and watched my best friend get crowned third place in the Miss Flame beauty contest.  Next to me, her mom and dad clapped so hard I wanted to hold my ears.  I applauded too.  ‘Cause it was the nice thing to do.  I should want her to win, right?  But she’s everything I’m not. 

I squashed the thought down.  That’s mean.  It bobbed right back up like the candy bar in the swimming pool in “Caddyshack.” 

She looks like a cross between Cher and Brooke Shields.  Me?  Cindy Brady plus Dorothy Hamill hair equal me.

Last year’s Miss Flame handed my gal pal a daisy bouquet.  Nestled a twinkly tiara into her almost-black updo.  Her legs come up to my armpits and she’s a C cup.  I sighed.  I’m an A. 

My friend’s mom stood and took a picture of the first, second, and third place Miss Flames.  I blinked a buncha times to make sure I wasn’t blind.  

The mom turned to me.  “You want a picture with her?”

I smiled, a grimace really.  “Sure.”

So everyone can look at the photo album and call her gorgeous and me cute.  Cute is a four letter word.

“I want to try something,” my hairdo girl said.  “Don’t peek.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and waited while she fiddled behind me.  What’s she up to?  A few minutes later, she twirled the chair around to face the mirror.  I tilted my head.  Who’s that?

“Do you like it?”  Tami said.

My eyes looked a little buggy in the reflection.  I stuck my hands out from under the fuschia cape and reached up to touch my hair.  It felt so soft.  And sleek.  Barely there.

 “I’ve never had straight hair,” I said.  “I look different.  Pretty.”

“Pretty?”  Tami said.  “You’re beautiful.”

I felt a ball of air inside me.  Behind my breastbone.  Have I held my breath all my life?  Just waiting?  For someone to call me beautiful?

“You look 15 years younger,” the receptionist said.  “Your kids are gonna think you’re the babysitter.”

“Bangs are the new Botox, you know,” the nail tech said.

Tami took the cape off me and patted my neck with a huge powder puff.  I stepped toward the mirrored wall.  My breath made a silver circle.  I slicked my lips with petal pink lipgloss.  Made a kissy face.

“You should enter that Mrs. America beauty contest,” the shampoo girl said.  “I bet you’d win.”

I put my fingers under my eyes.  To hide the crow’s feet. 

           

“But I’m old,” I said, even though I didn’t feel it.  “Getting there anyway.”

Tami snorted.  “You’re not old,” she said.  “You’re beautiful.  Really.”

I turned to face her.  “Will you say that again please?  A little louder?”  So I believe it.