*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.

*The One That Got Away*

Once upon a time I had friends, best friends. But after we graduated high school God cast us far and wide. He flicked his wrist hard and we scattered like so many Pick Up Sticks. None of us touched after that, not geographically anyway. Hefty phone bills and first jobs out of college widened the distance between us, and eventually, marriages and babies. So then what? We had to find new gal pals. But it had gotten harder. Since we weren't spring chickens anymore.  Since everyone we met was so daggone busy. Even so, we didn’t have a choice, did we?

~~~

“Do you wanna be best friends? Just you and me? Do ya, do ya? Huh, huh?” 

 I didn’t answer right away. Didn’t look at her either. Instead I fiddled with the snaps on my daughter’s onesie. Pretended to give my friend privacy while she nursed her baby. Her question surprised me. Made me feel claustrophobic. Like if I said yes, it would be me and her in a Jif jar with a lid on and a cotton ball soaked in nail polish remover. 

I turned away slightly and cupped my hand to push air in my mouth.  And then she moved. Far away.

~~~

“Guess what?” my best-friend-first-through-twelfth-grade said when I answered the phone. “I have unlimited long distance calling now. We can talk like, every day.” 

And we did for awhile. Till I blew it. We got in this tiff, of all things, about her religion and my faith. When she said that one thing just so, I was pretty sure it was over. I heard the word never come out of my mouth even though my personal philosophy is never say never. 

She fell silent and Iwatched our friendship, like an egg, roll across a surface that wasn’t level, but tilted ever so slightly downhill. 

~~~

Soon after, I met another woman, at my son's pre-school. She had the best cheekbones ever but something shadowed her. All the time. One day I figured out what it was—fear. Eventually I got used to it—her scaredy-cat aura. And actually, it seemed to lessen the more we hung out.

 As our kids got taller, we grew closer. At one point though, in my mind, I pretended to be a traffic cop. I extended my arm, flexed at the wrist. Stop. Don’t come any closer. ‘Cause I don’t think we have enough in common. 

See, she didn’t paint her nails, wear lipgloss, or love shoes. I could tell her anything but somehow that didn't seem like enough. We telephoned and emailed a whole lot, but I knew even if she didn’t, that I’d put SaranWrap around my heart.

She moved away, just for a year, but still . . . 


               A     L   O   N   E   (L   Y)    N E   S   S


The just-you-and-me gal visited the other day. We sat side by side on the sofa. 

You’re more like me than anyone I know, I said inside my head.

 I grinned as my kids laughed with hers. Only thing is,  you don’t wear mascara.

 She hugged me as we stood beside her car. “It’s like I never left.”

I stepped back and nodded. Waved as they drove away.  Ask me that question again. I’ll say yes this time.

~~~

When we found out my pa-in-law had super bad cancer, I phoned my best friend from childhood.

“Tell me all that stuff you do again,” I said. “The natural, organic, herbal, and homeopathic stuff.” 
                “Really?”  

I nodded. “Really.”

And she did. Things got better after that. In fact, we're almost back to the place we were before. There’s still a creek that divides the lands of my belief and hers, but after six years, the bridge is coming along nicely. 

~~~

I threw a welcome-home-unload-the-U-Haul party when my one friend moved back. Despite phone calls, emails, and texts (and not having enough in common), I missed her. A whole lot. As I walked up her driveway I wondered if she’d be able to tell the difference in me.  How the SaranWrap around my heart had disappeared.

*My Summer as a Street Walker*

I remember my summer as a street walker. Just about every night, I took a super long stroll. On the chance you might drive by. I always went the same way. To make myself easy to find.

          My heart would do a do-si-do the second I heard your car. I knew its sound. Could make it out a block away. Sometimes two. I’d count the seconds ‘til you pulled alongside me. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

          “Want a ride?”

          I always made it a point to raise my eyebrows and O my mouth. “Well, hello. What are you doing over this way?”

          “Just cruising around.” Liar. You were searching for me.

          You leaned over and opened the door. I slid in. Rubbed the maroon velour upholstery with my cheek. I flicked the yellow Christmas tree-looking air freshener that hung from the mirror. Eventually the pine scent wafted its way to me. Over by the door.

          I thought you’d never kiss me. You'd take me on a tour all around my neighborhood and into the surrounding ones. I just sat there, leaning against my door, the arm rest poking into my kidney. I wondered what it would be like. When you finally did. Kiss me.

          Then came that one storm. It’d been threatening all day. Bubbled dark clouds came and went. The air felt still, yet crackly. I could smell the rain before the first drop kerplopped on your windshield. The downpour came hard and fast. Sounded like a million marbles dropped on your car roof. I cowered in my corner.

          You pulled under a big oak tree, shifted the car into park, and patted the center of the seat.

          “Why don’t you scoot over?”

          So I did. I half sat, half reclined. Rested my head on your shoulder. It was awkward though. I knew I’d probably have a crick in my neck in the morning. I didn’t care. You smelled clean. Like Prell  and Irish Spring. I wanted to lick your arm, the part that supported my left ear. Just to see . . .

          Thunder cracked. I jumped. Lightning lit the inside of your car. I buried my face in your t-shirt. And then you did it. You kissed me. And I didn’t like it.

          After a moment, I pulled back. “Kissing you’s like kissing a Tang jar,” I said. “Don’t you ever shut your mouth?”

          You flinched, like I’d smacked you, so I put my hand over my lips. Tried to stuff the words back in. You put your seat belt back on and started the car. I went back to my place. Over by the door.

I kept on street walking. Went out every other night ‘til school started up again. Thought, maybe . . .  But you were a football player and I was a nobody. I take that back. I wasn’t a nobody. I was a ‘tweener—in between the popular kids and the grits. I liked everyone and everyone seemed to like me. Then we all graduated and that was behind us.

          You found me at Myrtle Beach. Couple days after graduation.  I was beach walking, not street walking. Me and my girlfriends invited you to join us. We were on our way to whatever hotel it was that had that James Taylor sound-alike. In the bar on the top floor, you made sure I always had a cold beer in my hand and a warm arm around my waist. You grinned at my girlfriends and me as we sang harmony to “Carolina on My Mind” and “How Sweet It Is to Be Loved by You.”

          The next night, you accompanied us again. After the guitar guy sang, “You’ve Got a Friend in Me,” you leaned over and blew in my ear. I wriggled. And giggled.

          Your breath  stirred my hair. “Let’s go see if it’s high tide.”

          The log we sat on felt like it’d been under the sea for a decade. I knew my butt was getting damp, but I didn’t mind. You played with the fringe on my jean cut-offs.

          “Those your car wash shorts?”

          I nodded. “Yep.”

          I’d told you how my shorts and I  had caused a car wreck at a four-way intersection the month before. It was for a good cause. The car wash.

          I dug my toes into the beach. Down to where it was cold and smooth. You started piling sand up in great handfuls ‘til all that showed was my knees. I tried to move my feet, but they were stuck tight. I tugged so hard I fell backward off the log. You joined me.

          I shivered as a breeze came off the ocean. The warmth of too much sun undulated off my chest. You balanced on your elbow beside me. In the lightshine of a nearby walkway, your hair appeared blue black. Your teeth flashed as you smiled at something I didn’t know.

          Then it was like my mouth was rainbow sherbet and you wanted to taste all the flavors—right, left, center. I reached up and touched your curls. To see if they were soft from the South Carolina water or crisp from the salt air. Your neck was warm. Hot even.

          I nibbled my bottom lip. “Oh my.”

          You squinted down at me. “What?”

          “The Tang jar’s gone.”

          One corner of your mouth lifted. “Yeah?”

          Sand found my scalp. It itched, but I didn’t scratch. I closed my eyes so you couldn’t see them.

          “Um . . . maybe I should doublecheck.”

What Have I Done?

I’m an expert at going against the flow.  I will not be one of them.  Every other girl at my high school has long, straightened hair.  When they walk by, you can smell the crispy, burnt ends.  Sort of like a campfire.  Not really.  Campfires smell good.

I embraced my curls.  My mom bought me Herbal Essence Tousle Me Softly shampoo and conditioner by the gallon.  Bad hair day?  No prob.  I’d sweep my bra strap-length jumble into a messy, hair-banded bun.  Pull out strategic tendrils to frame my face, accent my Kraft Caramel eyes.

Last semester in biology lab, some girl felt sick.  We had to open windows to let the Formaldehyde fumes escape.  Icy, Appalachian air rushed the room.  I liberated my hair, to warm my neck and shoulders.

“What is that smell?

“Is it flowers?”

“Naw.  I think it’s apples.”

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

“It’s her,” he said.  He stuck his face in my curls and inhaled.  “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?” I practically shouted into my mother’s anxious face.

On my daybed, she clasped her hands, her pointer fingers steeples. 

“It’s darling, sweetheart.  Really it is.”

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

           
“Did you see this coming?  Did you?”

           
Mom stood and fluffed my pillows.  She glanced in the mirror over my dresser.  Used her pinkies to get 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 look like that picture.”

           
I threw 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 call me dyke on a bike.  Dyke!  I hate that word.”

           
Mom joined me on the rug.  Tossed my Converse high tops toward the closet.  She surrounded me with her legs, 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 tweaked some wild, stick out hairs.  Tried to smooth them.  Epic failed.  I fell 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 ears.  Made them moist. 

           
“I want to be beautiful,” I said.  “More than anything.  I told everyone 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 turned my face toward the mirror beside my bed, pointed at us. 

           
“Baby, look 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 turned to look Mom in the eye.  “Does that make me a bad person?”

           
She clasped her hands around my ribs and rocked me.  Shushed and there-thered me.

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

           
A heaving suck of air escaped my mouth.  I felt my face start to implode.  She cupped my cheek and gazed at our reflection. 

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

           
I snorted snot.  “I know.  I mean--   My face is still pretty.  But you don’t know high schoolers.  They’re mean, Mama.  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 stood.  Walked to my dresser.  Got a purple 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.  Wrote in cursive on the glass.  “I am beautiful.”  I made a kissy face, then I underlined the sentence.  Over and over.