Making Faces (7 page)

Fern waited outside the wrestling room. She
had placed the notes Ambrose had written Rita in a big, Manila
envelope. Bailey had offered to return all the notes at practice.
Bailey knew all along about the game Fern and Rita had played. He
said he would be discreet and just give them to Ambrose after
practice was over. Bailey was an honorary member of the team, the
statistician, and the coach's sidekick, and he attended wrestling
practice every day. But Bailey had a hard time with discreet, and
Fern didn't want to make matters worse and embarrass Ambrose in
front of his teammates. So she waited, cowering in a nearby
hallway, watching the wrestling room door, waiting for practice to
dismiss.

One by one, the boys trickled out in
different states of dress or undress, wrestling shoes slung over
their shoulders, shirts off even though it was ten below outside.
They didn't really notice Fern. And for once she was glad to suffer
from invisibility. Then Ambrose walked out, obviously freshly
showered because his long hair was wet, though he'd combed it back
from his face. Thankfully, he walked alongside Paul Kimball and
Grant Nielson. Paulie was sweet and had always been nice to Fern,
and Grant was in several of her classes and was a little nerdier
than his friends. He wouldn't make a big deal about her wanting to
talk to Ambrose.

Ambrose froze when he saw her standing there,
and the smile that had been playing around his lips dissolved into
a stiff line. His friends halted when he did, looking around in
confusion, obviously not believing, even for a second, that it was
Fern he had stopped for.

“Ambrose? Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Fern asked, her voice faint, even to her own ears. She hoped she
wouldn't have to repeat herself.

All it took was a brief jut of his chin and
Ambrose's friends got the message, walking on without him, eyeing
Fern curiously.

“I'll get a ride with Grant then, Brosey,”
Paulie called. “See you tomorrow.”

Ambrose waved his friends off, but his eyes
skimmed just above Fern's head as if he was eager to be away from
her. Fern found herself wishing this confrontation had come even a
week later. She was getting her braces off on Monday. She'd worn
them for three long years. If she'd known this was going to happen,
she might have tried to tame her hair. And she would have put her
contacts in. As it was, she stood with her curly hair springing out
in every direction, her glasses perched on her nose, wearing a
sweater she'd worn for years, not because it was flattering but
because it was cozy. It was thick wool in a pale shade of blue that
did nothing for Fern's complexion or her slight frame. All this
flashed through her mind as she took a deep breath and held the big
envelope out in front of her.

“Here. All the notes you sent Rita. Here they
are.”

Ambrose reached out and took them, anger
flashing across his face. And his eyes found hers then, pinning her
back against the wall.

“So you had a good laugh, huh?”

“No.” Fern winced at the child-like sound of
her voice. It matched her childish figure and her bowed head.

“Why did you do it?”

“I made a suggestion. That was all. I thought
I was helping Rita. She liked you. Then it got out of hand, I
guess. I'm . . . sorry.” And she was. Desperately sorry. Sorry that
it was over. Sorry that she would never see his handwriting on
paper again, read his thoughts, know him better with each line.

“Yeah. Whatever,” he said. She and Rita had
hurt and embarrassed him. And Fern's heart ached. She hadn't meant
to hurt him. She hadn’t meant to embarrass him. Ambrose walked
toward the exit without another word.

“Did you like them?” she blurted.

Ambrose turned back, his face
incredulous.

“I mean, until you found out I wrote them.
Did you like them? The notes?” He despised her already. She might
as well go for broke. And she needed to know.

Ambrose shook his head, dumbfounded, as if he
couldn't believe she had the gall to ask. He ran one hand through
his wet hair and shifted his weight in discomfort.

“I loved your notes,” Fern rushed on, the
words tumbling out like a dam had burst. “I know they weren't meant
for me. But I loved them. You're funny. And smart. And you made me
laugh. You even made me cry once. I wish they had been for me. So I
was just wondering if you liked the things I wrote.”

There was a softening around his eyes, the
tight, embarrassed look he'd worn since he'd seen her standing in
the hallway easing slightly.

“Why does it matter?” he asked softly.

Fern struggled to find the words. It did
matter. Whether or not he knew it was her, if he liked her letters
it meant he liked her. On some level. Didn't it?

“Because . . . I wrote them. And I meant
them.” And there it was. Her words filled the empty hallway,
bouncing off the empty lockers and linoleum floors like a hundred
bouncy balls, impossible to ignore or avoid. Fern felt naked and
faint, completely exposed in front of the boy she had fallen in
love with.

His expression was as stunned as her own must
be.

“Ambrose! Brosey! Man, you still here?” Beans
sidled around the corner as if he'd just happened upon them. But
Fern knew instantly that he'd heard every word. She could see it in
his smirk. He must think he was saving his friend from being
assaulted, or worse, asked to a girl's choice dance by an ugly
girl.

“Hey, Fern.” Beans acted surprised to see her
there. She was surprised he knew her name. “I need a jump, Brose.
My truck won't start.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Ambrose nodded, and Beans
grasped him by his sleeve ushering him out the door. Fern's face
flamed in embarrassment. She might be homely. But she wasn't
stupid.

Ambrose let himself be pulled away, but then
paused. Suddenly, he walked back to her and handed her the envelope
that she'd given him only minutes before. Beans waited, curiosity
flitting across his face.

“Here. They're yours. Just . . . don't share
them. Okay?” Ambrose smiled briefly, just a sheepish twist of his
well-formed lips. And then he turned and pushed out of the
building, Beans on his heels. And Fern held the envelope close and
wondered what it all meant.

“Get a net over that hair, son,” Elliott
Young reminded patiently as Ambrose dropped his gear by the back
door of the bakery and headed to the sink to wash up.

Ambrose pulled his hair back with two hands
and wrapped an elastic band around it so that it was out of his
face and less likely to fall into a vat of cake batter or cookie
dough. His hair was still damp from his shower after practice. He
pulled a net over the dark ponytail and pulled on an apron,
wrapping it around his torso the way Elliott had taught him long
ago.

“Where do you want me, Dad?”

“Get started on the rolls. The dough is ready
to go. I've got to finish decorating this cake. I told Daphne
Nielson I'd have it ready at six-thirty, and it's six now.”

“Grant said something about cake at practice.
He said he thought he was close enough to weight he would be able
to steal a slice.”

The cake was for Grant's little brother,
Charlie, a birthday cake with characters from the animated
Hercules
on the top of three chocolate layers. It was cute
and fanciful, with just enough color and chaos to appeal to a
six-year-old boy. Elliott Young was good with details. His cakes
always looked better than the pictures people could look at in the
big cake book positioned in front of the bakery on a pedestal. Even
the kids liked to peruse the laminated pages, pointing at the cake
they wanted for their next big day.

Ambrose had tried his hand at decorating a
few times, but his hands were big and the tools were small, and
though Elliott was a patient teacher, Ambrose just didn't have the
touch. He could do very basic decorating, but he was much better at
baking, his strength and size more suited to labor than
finesse.

He attacked the rising dough with competence,
kneading and rolling and tucking each mound into a perfect roll
without thought and with considerable speed. In the bigger bakeries
there were machines that did what he was doing, but he didn't mind
the rhythm of the operation, filling the huge sheets with hand-made
rolls. The smell of the first batch of rolls in the oven was
killing him though. Working in the bakery during wrestling season
sucked.

“Done.” Elliott stepped back from the cake
and checked the clock.

“Looks good,” Ambrose said, his eyes on the
bulging muscles of the mythical hero standing atop the cake with
his arms raised. “The real Hercules wore a lion skin, though.”

“Oh, yeah?” Elliott laughed. “How'd you know
that?”

Ambrose shrugged. “Bailey Sheen told me once.
He used to have a thing for Hercules.”

Bailey had a book propped on his lap. When
Ambrose peered over his shoulder to see what it was, he saw various
pictures of a naked warrior fighting what looked to be mythical
monsters. A few of those pictures could have been framed and put in
the wrestling room. The warrior looked like he was wrestling a lion
in one and a boar in another. That was probably why Sheen was
reading it; Ambrose didn't know anyone who knew more about
wrestling than Bailey Sheen.

Ambrose sat down on the mats beside Bailey's
chair and started lacing up his wrestling shoes.

“
Whatcha reading, Sheen?”

Bailey looked up, startled. He was so
absorbed in his book that he hadn't even noticed Ambrose. He stared
at Ambrose for a minute, his eyes lingering on his long hair and
the T-shirt that was inside out. Fourteen-year-old boys were
notorious for not caring about clothes and hair, but Bailey's mom
wouldn't have let him leave the house like that. Then Bailey
remembered that Lily Young didn't live with Ambrose anymore, and
Bailey realized it was the first time he'd seen Ambrose all summer.
But Ambrose had still shown up for Coach Sheen's wrestling camp,
just like he did every summer.

“
I'm reading a book about Hercules,”
Bailey said belatedly.

“
I've heard of him.” Ambrose finished
tying his shoes and stood as Bailey turned the page.

“
Hercules was the son of the Greek God,
Zeus,” Bailey said. “But his mother was a human. He was known for
his incredible strength. He was sent on a bunch of quests to kill
all these different monsters. He defeated the bull of Crete. He
killed a golden lion whose fur was impervious to mortal weapons. He
slayed a nine-headed hydra, captured flesh-eating horses, and
destroyed man-eating birds with bronze beaks, metallic feathers,
and toxic poop.” Ambrose chortled and Bailey beamed.

“
That's what the story says! Hercules was
awesome, man! Half God, half mortal, all hero. His favorite weapon
was a club, and he always wore the skin from the lion, the golden
lion that he killed on his very first quest.” Bailey narrowed his
eyes, studying Ambrose. “You kinda look like him, now that your
hair is growing out. You should keep it like that, grow it even
longer. Maybe it will make you even stronger, like Hercules. Plus,
it makes you look meaner. The guys you wrestle will pee their pants
when they see you coming.”

Ambrose tugged on the hair that he'd
neglected since last spring. With his mom gone now and two
bachelors in the house, he had gone without a lot of things he used
to take for granted. His hair was the least of his concerns.

“
You know a lot, don't you,
Sheen?”

“
Yeah. I do. When you can't do much but
read and study, you learn a few things, and I like reading about
guys who knew a thing or two about wrestling. See this one?” Bailey
pointed at the page. “Hercules on his first quest. Looks like he's
working his tilt on that lion, doesn't it?”

Ambrose nodded, but his eyes were drawn to
another image. It was a picture of another statue, but this one
showed just the face and chest of the hero. Hercules looked
serious, sad even, and his hand touched his heart, almost as if it
hurt him.

“
What's that picture about?”

Bailey screwed up his face and contemplated
the image as if he wasn't sure.

“
It's called 'Face of a Hero,'“ Bailey
read the caption. He looked up at Ambrose. “Guess it wasn't all fun
and games being a champion.”

Ambrose read aloud over Bailey's shoulder.
“Hercules was the most famous of all the ancient heroes, and the
most beloved, but many forget that his twelve labors were performed
as penance. The goddess Hera caused him to lose his mind, and in
his crazed state, he killed his wife and children. Grief-stricken
and filled with guilt, Hercules sought out ways to balance the
scales and ease his tormented soul.”

Bailey groaned, “That's stupid. If I made a
sculpture called 'Face of a Hero' I wouldn't make him sad. I'd give
him a face like this.” Bailey bared his teeth and gave Ambrose the
crazy eye. With his tufty, light brown curls, blue eyes, and ruddy
cheeks, Bailey didn't pull off the mean face very well. Ambrose
snorted and with a quick wave to Bailey, hurried to join the other
wrestlers already stretching out on the mats. But he couldn't get
the bronzed face of the mourning Hercules out of his head.