Sarah Dessen Page 5

  Now, the phone rang as Mrs. Michaels emerged from the waxing room. At first I’d been startled by how bad people looked right afterward: like war victims, or casualties of a fire. She was walking stiffly—bikini waxes were especially brutal—as she came up to my desk.

  “Joie Salon,” I said into the phone. “Remy speaking.”

  “Remy, hello, this is Lauren Baker,” the woman on the other end said in a rushed voice. Mrs. Baker was always all wispy sounding and out of breath. “Oh, you just have to fit me in for a manicure today. Carl’s got some big client and we’re going to La Corolla and this week I restripped the coffee table and my hands are just—”

  “One second please,” I said, in my clipped, oh-so-professional voice, and hit the hold button. Above me, Mrs. Michaels grimaced as she pulled out her wallet, sliding a gold credit card across to me. “That’s seventy-eight, ma’am.”

  She nodded, and I swiped the card, handing it back to her. Her face was so red, the area around her eyebrows practically raw. Ouch. She signed the slip, then glanced at herself in the mirror behind me, making a face.

  “Oh, goodness,” she said. “I guess I can’t go to the post office looking like this.”

  “Nonsense!” Talinga, the waxer, said as she breezed in, ostensibly for some good reason but actually to make sure Mrs. Michaels’s tip was big enough and made it into her envelope. “No one will even notice. I’ll see you next month, okay?”

  Mrs. Michaels waggled her fingers, then walked out the door, still moving stiffly. Once she hit the curb Talinga grabbed her envelope, leafed through the bills there, and made a hmmph kind of noise before flopping down in a chair and crossing her legs to await her next appointment.

  “Moving on,” I said, hitting the button for line one. I could hear Mrs. Baker panting before I even started talking. “Let’s see, I could squeeze you in at three-thirty, but you have to be here right on the dot, because Amanda’s got a firm four o’clock.”

  “Three-thirty?” Mrs. Baker said. “Well, you see, earlier would be better, actually, because I have this—”

  “Three-thirty,” I repeated, clipping my vowels. “Take it or leave it.”

  There was a pause, some anxious breathing, and then she said, “I’ll be there.”

  “Okay. We’ll see you then.”

  As I hung up the phone, penciling her in, Talinga looked at me and said, “Remygirl, you are such a hard-ass.”

  I shrugged. The truth was, I could deal with these women because most of them had that used-to-having-everything, me-me-me mentality, in which I was well versed because of my mother. They wanted to bend the rules, to get things for free, to run into other people’s appointments and still have everyone love them just so much. So I was good at this job, if only because I had a lifetime of previous experience.

  In the next hour I got the two women waiting to their manicures, ordered lunch for Lola, did the receipts from the day before, and between two eyebrow waxings and an underarm job I heard every gory detail about Talinga’s most recent disastrous blind date. But by two o’clock, things had slowed down a bit, and I was just sitting there at the desk, drinking a Diet Coke and staring out at the parking lot.

  Joie was located in a glorified strip mall called Mayor’s Village. It was all concrete, right on the highway, but there were some nice landscaped trees and a fountain to make it look more upscale. To our right was Mayor’s Market, which sold expensive organic food. There was also Jump Java, the coffee place, as well as a video store, a bank, and a one-hour photo.

  As I was staring out, I saw a beat-up white van pull into the parking lot, taking a space by Gone to the Birds, the specialty bird feeder store. The front and side doors of the van opened and three guys got out, all about my age, all in dress shirts and ties and jeans. They huddled for a second, discussing something, then split up, each heading into a different store. A short guy with red curly hair came toward us, tucking in his shirt as he got closer.

  “Oh boy,” I said. “Here come the Mormons.” Although we had a very nice sign in the window that read PLEASE—NO SOLICITING, I was always having to chase away people selling candy bars or Bibles. I took a sip of my Diet Coke, readying myself as the door chime clanged and he came in.

  “Hello,” he said, walking right up. He was mighty freckled, which I guess a lot of red-headed guys are, but his eyes were a nice deep green and he had a decent smile. His dress shirt, upon closer inspection, had a stain on the pocket, however, and looked decidedly thrift store-esque. Plus, the tie was a clip-on. I mean, it was obvious.

  “Hello,” I said. “Can I help you?”

  “I was wondering if perhaps you were hiring?”

  I looked at him. No men worked at Joie: it wasn’t a conscious thing on Lola’s part, just that frankly the work didn’t appeal to most men. We’d had one male stylist, Eric, but he’d jumped to Sunset Salon, our biggest competition, earlier in the year, taking one of our best manicurists with him. Since then it was all estrogen, all the time.

  “Nope,” I said. “We’re not.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  He didn’t seem convinced, but he was still smiling. “I wonder,” he said, all charming, “if perhaps I could fill out an application in case an opening became available?”

  “Sure,” I said, pulling open the bottom drawer of the desk, where we kept the pad of applications. I ripped one off, handed it to him, along with one of my pens.

  “Thanks so much,” he said, taking a seat in the corner by the window. I watched from where I was as he wrote his name across the top in neat block letters, then wrinkled his brow, contemplating the questions.

  “Remy,” Lola called out, walking into the waiting area, “did we ever get that shipment from Redken?”

  “Not yet,” I told her. Lola was a big woman who wore tight, bright clothes. She had a huge laugh to match her huge frame and inspired such respect and fear in her clients that no one even came in with a picture or anything when they had a hair appointment: they just let her decide. Now, she glanced over at the guy in the corner.

  “Why are you here?” she asked him.

  He looked up, hardly startled. I had to admire that. “Applying for a job,” he told her.

  She looked him up and down. “Is that a clip-on tie?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, nodding at her. “It sure is.”

  Lola looked at me, then back at him, then burst into laughter. “Oh, Lord, look at this boy. And you want to work for me?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I sure do.” He was so polite I could see him gaining points, quickly. Lola was big on respect.

  “Can you give a manicure?”

  He considered this. “No. But I’m a fast learner.”

  “Can you bikini wax?”

  “Nope.”

  “Cut hair?”

  “No, I sure can’t.”

  She cocked her head to the side, smiling at him. “Honey,” she said finally, “you’re useless.”

  He nodded. “My mother always said that,” he told her. “But I’m in this band and we all have to get jobs today, so I’m trying anything.”

  Lola laughed again. It sounded like it came all the way from her stomach, bubbling up. “You’re in a band?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We just came down from Virginia, for the summer. And we all have to get day jobs, so we came here and split up.”

  So they’re not Mormons, I thought. They’re musicians. Even worse.

  “What do you play?” Lola asked.

  “Drums,” he said.

  “Like Ringo?”

  “Exactly.” He grinned, then added, in a lower voice, “You know they always put the redheaded guy in the back. Otherwise all the ladies would be on me.”

  Lola exploded in laughter, so loudly that Talinga and one of the manicurists, Amanda, poked their heads around the corner.

  “What in the world?” Amanda asked.

  “Good God, is that a clip-on tie?” Talinga said.

 
; “Look,” Lola said, catching her breath, “we’ve got nothing for you here. But you come down to the coffee place with me and I’ll get you a job. That girl owes me a favor.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “But come on. I don’t have all day.”

  He leapt up, the pen he was holding clattering to the floor. He bent down to get it, then brought the application back to me. “Thanks anyway,” he said.

  “No problem.”

  “Let’s go, Ringo!” Lola yelled from the door.

  He jumped, grinning, then leaned a little closer and said to me, “You know, he’s still talking about you.”

  “Who is?”

  “Dexter.”

  Of course. Just my luck. He’s not just in a band, he’s in that band. “Why?” I said. “He doesn’t even know me.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said, shrugging. “You’re officially a challenge. He’ll never give up now.”

  I just sat there, shaking my head. Ridiculous.

  He didn’t seem to notice, instead just patted his hand on the desk, as if we’d made a deal or something, before walking over to Lola.

  Once they’d left, Talinga looked at me and said, “You know him?”

  “No,” I said, grabbing the phone as it rang again. Small world, small town. It was just a coincidence. “I don’t.”

  In the week since Jonathan and I had split, I’d hardly thought about him or Dexter the musician or anything else other than my mother’s wedding. It was a distraction I needed, not that I’d ever have admitted it aloud.

  Jonathan had called a bunch, at first, but after a while he just stopped, knowing I’d never get back to him. Chloe pointed out that I’d gotten what I wanted, really: my freedom. Just not exactly the way I wanted it. But it still burned at me that I’d been cheated on. It was the kind of thing that woke me up at night, pissed, unable to remember anything I’d been dreaming.

  Luckily, I had Lissa to deal with too. She’d spent the last week completely in denial, sure Adam would change his mind. It was all we could do to thwart her calling/driving by/going to his work impulse, which we all knew never led to any good in a dumping situation. If he wanted to see her, he’d find her. If he wanted to get back together, she should make him work for it. And so on.

  And now, the wedding was here. I got off work early, at five, and drove home to get ready for the rehearsal dinner. As I walked up to the front door, I realized the house was just as I’d left it. In chaos.

  “But there’s just no way they’ll get here in time!” my mother was shrieking as I walked in and dropped my keys on the table. “They’re supposed to be here in an hour or we won’t be able to make the dinner!”

  “Mom,” I called out, instantly recognizing her close-to-meltdown voice. “Calm down.”

  “I understand that,” she said, her voice still shrill. “But this is my wedding!”

  I glanced into the living room, which was empty except for Jennifer Anne, already dressed for the dinner, sitting on the couch reading a book entitled Making Plans, Making Dreams, which had a picture of a woman looking pensive on its cover. She glanced up at me, turning a page.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “The limo service is having some problems.” She fluffed her hair. “It seems one of their cars was in an accident and the other is stuck in traffic.”

  “That’s just not acceptable!” my mother yelled.

  “Where’s Chris?”

  She looked up at the ceiling. “In his room,” she said. “Apparently, there’s been some sort of hatching.” Then she made a face and went back to her book.

  My brother bred lizards. Upstairs, next to his room in what had once been a walk-in closet, he kept a row of aquariums in which he raised monitor lizards. They were hard to describe: smaller than iguanas, bigger than geckos. They had snakelike tongues and ate tiny crickets that were forever getting loose in the house, bouncing down the stairs and chirping from where they hid in shoes in the closets. He even had an incubator, which he kept on the floor of his room. When he had eggs in it, it ran in cycles all day, softly clicking to maintain the temperature needed to bring the babies to maturity.

  Jennifer Anne hated the lizards. They were, in fact, the one sticking point of her transformation of Chris, the one thing he would not give up for her. As a result, she refused to go anywhere near his room, instead spending her time at our house on the couch, or at the kitchen table, usually reading some motiva tional self-help book and sighing loud enough for everyone—except Chris, who was usually upstairs, tending to his animals—to hear her.

  But now, I had bigger problems.

  “I understand that,” my mother said, her voice now wavering close to tears, “but what you’re not hearing is that I have a hundred people that are going to be waiting for me at the Hilton and I will not be there!”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said, coming up behind her and gently closing my hand over the phone. “Mom. Let me talk to them.”

  “It’s just ludicrous!” she sputtered, but she let me take it. “It’s—”

  “Mom,” I said quietly, “go finish getting dressed. I’ll handle this. Okay?”

  She just stood there for a second, blinking. She already had on her dress and was carrying her pantyhose in her hand. No makeup, no jewelry. Which meant another good twenty-five minutes if we were lucky.

  “Well, okay,” she said, as if she were doing me a favor. “I’ll be upstairs.”

  “Right.” I watched as she walked out of the room, brushing her fingers through her hair. When she was gone, I put the phone to my ear. “Is this Albert?”

  “No,” the voice said, warily. “This is Thomas.”

  “Is Albert there?”

  “Hold on.” There was a muffled noise, someone’s hand covering the receiver. Then, “Hello, Albert speaking.”

  “Albert, this is Remy Starr.”

  “Hey, Remy! Look, this thing with the cars is just messed up, okay?”

  “My mother is approaching meltdown, Albert.”

  “I know, I know. But look, this is what Thomas was trying to tell her. What we’ll do is. . . .”

  Five minutes later, I went up the stairs and knocked on my mother’s door. When I came in, she was sitting in front of her vanity. She looked no different except that she had changed her dress and now sat dabbing at her face with a makeup brush. Ah, progress.

  “All fixed,” I told her. “A car will be here at six. It’s a Town Car, not a limo, but we’re set for tomorrow and that’s what really matters. Okay?”

  She sighed, placing one hand over her chest, as if this, finally, calmed her racing heart. “Wonderful. Thank you.”

  I sat down on her bed, kicking off my shoes, and glanced at the clock. It was five-fifteen. I could be ready in eighteen minutes flat, including drying my hair, so I lay back and closed my eyes. I could hear my mother making her getting-ready noises: perfume bottles clinking, brushes dabbing, small containers of face cream and eye gel being moved around on the mirrored tabletop in front of her. My mother was glamorous long before she had reason to be. She’d always been small and wiry, full of energy and prone to dramatic outbursts: she liked to wear lots of bangle bracelets that clanked as she waved her arms around, sweeping the air as she talked. Even when she taught at the community college and most of her students were half asleep after working full days, she dressed for class, with full makeup and perfume and her trademark swishy outfits in bright colors. She kept her hair dyed jet black now that it was graying, and wore it in a short, blunt cut with thick bangs cut straight across. With her long, flowing skirts and the hair she almost could have been a geisha, except that she was way too noisy.

  “Remy, honey,” she said suddenly, and I jerked up, realizing I’d almost fallen asleep. “Can you come do my clasp?”

  I stood up and walked over to where she was sitting, taking the necklace she handed to me. “You look beautiful,” I told her. It was true. Tonight, she was wearing a long red dress with a drop
neckline, amethyst earrings, and the big diamond ring Don had given her. She smelled like L’Air du Temps, which, when I was little, I thought was the most wonderful scent in the world. The whole house reeked of it: it clung to the drapes and rugs the way cigarette smoke does, stubbornly and forever.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said as I did the clasp. Looking at us reflected in the mirror I was struck again by how little we resembled each other: me blond and thin, her darker and more voluptuous. I didn’t look like my father, either. I didn’t have many early pictures of him, but in the ones I had seen he always looked grizzled, in that 1960s rock kind of way, with a beard and long hair. He also looked permanently stoned, which my mother never disputed when I pointed it out. Oh, but he had such a beautiful voice, she’d say, now that he was gone. One song, and I was a goner.

  Now, she turned around and took my hands in hers. “Oh, Remy,” she said, smiling, “can you believe this? We’re going to be so happy.”

  I nodded.

  “I mean,” she said, turning around, “it’s not like this is my first time going down the aisle.”

  “Nope,” I agreed, smoothing her hair down where it was poking up slightly in the back.

  “But it just feels real this time. Permanent. Don’t you think?”

  I knew what she wanted me to say, but still I hesitated. It seemed like a bad movie, this ritual we’d gone through twice already that I could remember. At this point, the other bridesmaids and myself considered the ceremonies more like class reunions, where we stood off to the side and discussed who had gotten fat or gone bald since my mother’s last wedding. I had no illusions about love anymore. It came, it went, it left casualties or it didn’t. People weren’t meant to be together forever, regardless of what the songs say. I would have been doing her a favor dragging forth the other wedding albums she kept stacked under her bed and pointing at the pictures, forcing her to take in the same things, the same people, the same cake/champagne toast/first dance poses we’d be seeing again in the next forty-eight hours. Maybe she could forget, push those husbands and memories out of sight and out of mind. But I couldn’t.