Moonglow (10 page)

“That explains it then,” Arla says. “You did a quick wardrobe check and ran out. You were so focused on your outfit, you didn't notice your extra hair.”

My head is spinning. I hear Arla, I know she's probably right, but my instinct tells me she's completely wrong. “I . . . I don't know,” I stutter. “How could Caleb not have noticed? He didn't say a thing.”

Once again Arla has an explanation. “Even if Caleb did notice, how in the world do you expect him to tell you that you have unsightly hair growth on your upper lip?” she asks. “You slapped him around when he broke a date with you. He was probably afraid you'd go postal and pull a gun on him.”

“Not helping, Arla!” Jess cries.

“How are you going to help me?” I shout. “I can't go to school like this tomorrow. Every classroom has
fluorescent lighting!
”

Sheer terror envelops the three of us. There is no way that I'm going to be able to hide my face from the harsh glare of the high wattage that exists throughout my entire school. There's only one thing I can do; I'll have to quit. My father will have no other choice but to homeschool me, even if that means he has to give up his job; that's the only solution. That is until Jess saves the day.

“There's a woman.”

“What woman?” I ask.

“A woman who works at the salon my mother goes to,” Jess conveys. “She's old, but she's beauty royalty, a magician when it comes to hairy women treatments.”

“I'm a hairy woman?!”

Jess wraps her hands around mine; this is the stuff she lives for. “You got a hairy upper lip, Dom; this is how it starts,” she enlightens me. “But don't worry. My mother will make an appointment with Vernita for first thing in the morning for a mega-wax. You'll be girlie-girl smooth again before the morning bell.”

“And while she's there, make sure they clean up her arms too,” Arla suggests.

“My arms?!”

“Oh, Dominy, tell me you haven't noticed?” Arla asks. “You have more hair on your arms than most boys have on their legs.”

I tear off my jacket and pull up my sleeves. I sense a chill swarm around my exposed flesh, but I'm warm from fear. Arla's right. Have I been ignoring it? Have I been subconsciously pushing the reality out of my mind so I wouldn't have to deal with it?

I look down at my arms, and I see dark auburn hairs all over my skin. An image pops into my head of a fur coat, and I see my arms encased with disgusting red fur, matted down, wet and dirty. I shake my head and choke down a scream. Refill the jar with honey; reclaim what's left of my insides. This is some sort of cosmic joke, some physical ailment that can be easily explained and rectified. Tomorrow I'll go to this Vernita person, and she'll take care of me; she'll make me look like I'm supposed to; she'll make me normal again. Even though I know that's what will happen, I can't stop myself from asking out loud, “What's wrong with me?”

The question stumps Jess and Arla, just like it stumps me. None of us have an answer, so my friends embrace me under the light of the moon. We cling to each other all the way home, and the only thing Jess says to me when they drop me off is that she'll call me in the morning.

Just as I'm about to enter my bedroom, my father comes out of the bathroom, and we look at each other. I'm standing right under the ceiling light in the hallway, the one with the super bright bulb, so I know he can see every detail on my face. He sees the hairs that are growing on my face. He sees how ugly and disgusting and unexplainable I am, and he doesn't say a word.

He clutches the banister and starts to cry.

Chapter 7

My father reminds me of a half-moon. Split in two, part witnessed, the other part invisible. I want to know what he's feeling, but at the same time I'm frightened to find out the truth.

He didn't say a word when he looked at me and cried. The only sound that disturbed our silence was the banister creaking in protest under his weight. His crying was quiet, just tears skimming down his face, no sniffles, no muffled whimpering, nothing extra; it was like he was prepared for this moment and it didn't catch him by surprise.

We stood facing each other without saying a word for far too long, way too long at least for a father and daughter to be alone in each other's presence without speaking. When I could no longer look at him, when I needed a distraction, I zeroed in on one tear that had spilled out of his left eye and watched it travel down his cheek. I lost it for a few seconds when it entered the dark stubble underneath his lips, but then it reappeared like a bubble, holding on to his chin, clinging to my father like I'm trying to cling to my innocence, to my better self, until the tear lost its grip, succumbed to gravity, and fell. It landed on his T-shirt, right over his heart, and turned the light red cloth a darker shade. He looked like he was bleeding.

When he turned away from me, the banister creaked once again, but this time in relief. He walked back into his bedroom and closed his door by pulling it behind him without turning around. Because he was simply unable to look at me anymore.

What is happening? I mean seriously, what the ef is going on? Why is my father acting like this, like he sees, but he's blind? I know he knows everything that's going on with me, and yet there's this concrete wall encircling him, separating us. It's rooted deep into the ground, and it rises so high that there's no way I can scale the cinderblocks, reach the top, and find my way to him. Physically we're living in the same house; emotionally it's like we're on separate continents.

Under the covers I held open my mother's old compact mirror and stared at my ugliness, for how long I can't remember, but the entire time I traced the intricate design on the cover of the case with my fingers. It's a jeweled tapestry, an image of Little Bo Peep alone in a field; only a smidge of her face can be seen in profile, but she looks worried, because everyone knows she's lost her sheep. Night has just begun to fall, so the sky is a shimmering purple with only a smattering of stars, and a halo of light adorns Bo Peep's head like a crown, making her look angelic, even though it's because of her irresponsibility that her flock is in danger. The border of the mirror is silver, the same color as the stars, and smooth in contrast to the raised, embossed cover. It's a beautiful piece, more jewelry than necessity, and it was a gift my grandmother gave my mother when she was a little girl. My mother once said my grandmother and I looked alike, and if I looked hard enough in the mirror I'd see Grand-mère looking back at me. That's the comfort I was searching for, and that's exactly what I couldn't find.

After I fell asleep it was my father's face I saw in a dream. I could only see the left side; the other half was gone, lost to me. It was either snatched by someone, or he was deliberately hiding it from me. His one visible eye was no longer crying; it was dry and smiling at me, reassuring me that everything was going to be okay even if everything at the moment felt wrong. I wanted to believe him; I wanted to trust in his confidence and compassion, but like Bo Peep I knew better. Not all her sheep are going to return home safe and sound, and no matter how optimistic my father appeared I knew he was lying. When the moonlight that spilled into my room invaded my dream and revealed my father's entire face to me, I had proof. On the right side of his face were scratch marks, long and deep and red. Like an animal had taken a swipe at his face because he had gotten too close while trying to capture or tame it. Even with that raw, unhealed scar he was smiling, or trying to. He was trying to hide what he truly believed, but I only had to look into his eyes to see the truth: that my world was about to change irreversibly; that the clock was ticking, the fuse was lit, and the bomb was set to go off. The little sleep that I finally had was restless.

The next morning I hid out in my bedroom feigning illness until the house was empty. I looked at myself in the mirror only once, foolishly hoping that maybe it had all been a nightmare. No such luck. Should I smash my face against the glass? Aren't people more sympathetic if you're scarred instead of just repulsive?

Before I could do anything that would upgrade my appearance from seriously ugly to unfixable, Jess and her mother arrived to drive over to the Hair Hut. Good thing I already know that Jess's tendency to be a drama queen is not self-taught, but inherited, because Mrs. Wyatt stole glances in the rearview mirror to look at me during the entire ride, each time her expression growing more and more concerned, until you would have sworn she was witnessing a massacre. I expected her reaction. Since Jess had had time to absorb the shock of my very shocking appearance, she had ventured into stage two—acceptance—and was relishing her role as my savior. That title, however, belongs to Vernita.

Overweight, with short, spiky hair in seven different shades of white that makes her look younger than she probably is, a long brown cigarette dangling from her mouth, Vernita greeted us at the door, stirring what looked like honey in a coffee cup. I took it as a good sign. Until she gasped.

“Praise be, St. Martin!” she shouted the second I entered the salon.

“Who?” Jess asked.

“St. Martin de Porres,” Vernita replied. “Patron saint of hairstylists everywhere.”

“Oh my God!” I cried. “You're going to need divine intervention to fix me?”

Waving me toward the back of the room, she dripped honey on the floor and shook her head. “Relax, baby-doll. Vernita and her magic potion will have you back to looking female in no time.”

Turns out, what I thought was honey was really her magic potion, a secret concoction of wax, some other hair removal depilatory solutions, and something that smelled like pumpkin pie. When she leaned over me and started to apply the hot, sticky mixture onto my upper lip, I realized the smell was coming from the clove cigarette she wouldn't stop puffing. Obviously, herbal cigarettes don't violate Nebraska's anti-smoking law.

Next she placed a strip of cool linen over the hot wax and told Jess to hold my hand.

“On the count of three, baby-doll,” Vernita said, her cigarette bouncing up and down. “You're gonna become a woman.”

Wrong. On the count of three I was still a girl, only one who was in agonizing pain.

“Ahhhhh!!!!!” I screamed, twisting Jess's hand in mine and making her shout along with me. “That hurt!”

But my pain wasn't over yet.

“Do her arms next, Vern,” Mrs. Wyatt commanded as she flipped through a magazine in the corner of the salon.

“Maybe I should make another appointment,” I suggested, not sure if I could endure the amount of pain two much larger body parts would cause.

Vernita ignored my request and glopped more wax onto my arms. “I'll tell you the same thing I told Sophia Loren when I waxed her from head to toe,” she said. “Baby-doll, beauty hurts.”

“Hurts like hell,” Mrs. Wyatt seconded.

“Who's Sophia Loren?” I asked.

“I don't know who she is either, but she is beyond beautiful!” Jess replied. “Look!”

Shoving her smart phone in my face, Jess showed me the picture she had found online of this Sophia woman, the most incredibly gorgeous woman I have ever seen.

“She doesn't have hair in any of the wrong places,” I observed.

Covering my arms completely in the sticky solution, Vernita replied, “Should've seen her before I performed my magic.”

The magical feeling remained with me for the next few days, and it wasn't just a physical thing; I felt the difference inside. My thoughts felt softer; I didn't feel like this piece of hard glass that had been broken in several places, leaving behind jagged edges. I felt like my real self again, not that imposter who considered lies, insults, and physical violence normal and necessary. I wanted to make up for all the times I had made everybody around me feel less than spectacular.

That's why I made Barnaby breakfast. I didn't even get mad when he asked before he took his first bite if I had added pepper to the pancake mix. I deserved that. My father said they were the best pancakes he'd ever had, which we all knew was a lie, but it was a lie that he believed, so we didn't question him. Sometimes questions are unimportant and irrelevant and don't need to be asked, which I assume is why my father didn't ask me how I got rid of my facial hair. What did it matter how it had disappeared? The unsightly, unwanted mess was gone. The important thing was that I was happy again.

My father only said one thing to me after that breakfast. “Thank you.” I don't know if he was referring to the meal I had cooked or thanking me for not mentioning the fact that he had cried in front of me. I decided it didn't matter which and replied, “You're welcome.”

I carried the goodness I was feeling with me like a brand-new purse. I clutched it close to my body, swung it by my side, and stared at it with pride and admiration. It was mine, and I wanted to show it off. After school I surprised Caleb with his favorite snack—marshmallow Peeps. Immediately I made the connection with the picture of Little Bo Peep on my mother's compact and felt like she was giving me her blessing: She had never met Caleb, but she approved of him.

Caleb's eyes lit up like a little boy's; he was thrilled by the simple gesture and amazed by his luck. He bit into the sugary soft green marshmallow and stretched it until it was about a foot long, then popped the other end into my mouth. I made a mental note to remember that this was the first time in my life that I felt sexy. All the times before when Caleb and I had kissed or fooled around, I had felt nervous or at least self-aware, not completely at ease, probably because I had known what was coming and I had known what Caleb was hoping our kisses would lead to. When we had our moment with the Peeps—or the Peepscapade as I christened it—it was spontaneous and impulsive, and I felt a warm tingling in my stomach and a bit lower that I had never felt before. I wasn't scared of what was happening or what our actions might lead to; I wasn't thinking about anything except how happy I felt.

Later on when I told Jess, Archie, and Arla, they all shrieked appropriately, asked for specifics, and forced me to recount the entire scene, which really just amounted to Caleb's and my eating an entire package of Peeps and kissing the sugar off our lips.

In geometry, Jess leans over to me and whispers, “You do understand that the Peepscapade is a direct result of your recent beauty treatment?”

Yup, she's self-congratulating, but she's kind of right, so I can't dispute her train of thought.

“If one waxing can change your world like this, you have got to sign up for monthly treatments!” she exclaims. “Vernita will give you a discount.”

It's my chance to do something that could truly make up for how crappy I've been acting toward Jess lately. “Let's do a birthday makeover!”

I have to cover my ears when Jess cackles. “Oh my God!! I cannot wait until your birthday tomorrow!!”

Her cackling is infectious, and I add my gigglaughs—which are the heartier version of my regular giggles—to the sound. In between cackles and gigglaughs, I tell her that I can't wait either, but that we have to shut up before Mrs. Gallagher comes into class or else we'll both spend my birthday with the after-school-special delinquents.

“Dominy Robineau,” Jess announces, “your sixteenth birthday will be one you will never forget!”

She has no idea how right she is.

 

“Happy birthday, sis.”

The next morning I find Barnaby sitting at the kitchen table eating cereal, a square box wrapped in bright red and white paper that upon closer inspection is revealed to be a collage of pictures of different-sized candy canes in front of him. Barnaby must have gotten the paper from the attic, since it's the same paper my father used to wrap our Christmas gifts last year. Ah well, it's the thought that counts.

“Thanks, Barn,” I say, the words coming out of my mouth slowly, cautiously. “I can't believe you actually remembered.”

Munching on a huge mouthful of Frosted Flakes, he replies, “Dad reminded me.”

Jerk. Well, semi-jerk. He did get me a gift after all.

“Open it,” he commands, jutting his spoon into the air in the direction of my gift.

A voice inside my head tells me to give in to my emotions, give in to the excitement and joy that my brother went out and bought me a gift with his own money. I tear off the paper, and I want to silence that voice forever. Silence all the voices around me that tell me to do stupid things like be joyful and be nice to people and not to hurt anyone. A putrid smell starts to ooze out of my body, like rotting flesh, a smell of garbage, decaying meat, and I'm heartbroken to discover that the goodness I've felt lately was never meant to be permanent, never meant to be mine. Barnaby's gift is a shaving kit.

“I thought you could use it,” he says, milk dribbling down his chin. “Ape Girl.”

First the cereal bowl crashes to the floor, then the table, then Barnaby with me on top of him. My hand is wrapped around his tiny throat, and I can feel the muscle and veins and bones underneath his skin. He's trying to speak, but his sounds are meaningless, and I ignore them. With wonder I watch his skin change color from pink to red to purple. It's fascinating to me how quickly life can be extinguished; one little concentrated effort, and it's gone. Apply a bit more pressure on the sides of his scrawny neck and the purple will intensify until Barnaby's face turns blue, and then his entire body will stop moving. I press down, harder and harder, not stopping until my father rips me off of my brother, severing our sacred connection, and infuriating me because I'm not going to see Barnaby in his final transformation; I'm not going to see him get what, in this moment, I truly believe he deserves.