Ana of California

by Andi Teran

  “So, you do know him?”

  “I used to, or thought I did. He’s the only person in the world I wish I never met. What is that smell?”

  “How much time has passed?”

  “Barely five minutes. Ew. It smells awful.”

  “I think we should rinse it off,” Ana said, looking in the mirror at her dark matted hair sticking together in clumps at the ends.

  “But the time isn’t up yet. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to smell before it does what it’s supposed to do.”

  “I think we should rinse it off. Now.”

  Ana rushed over to the bathtub, kneeling down and bending over while throwing her hair under the faucet. “Rinse!” she shouted.

  Rye turned the water on and pushed Ana’s hair underneath it. “Ouch!”

  “What?”

  “It stings. It’s making my hands tingle!”

  “Get it off, get it off, get it off!”

  Rye grabbed some shampoo and squirted it all over Ana’s hair, lathering it up under the faucet and rinsing it repeatedly under the water.

  “You have so much hair.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s taking up the entire bathtub, oh—”

  “Oh, what? What?”

  Rye went silent.

  “Let me get a towel . . .”

  Rye turned off the water while Ana waited behind her curtain of hair.

  “Here,” Rye said, handing her the towel.

  Ana threw her head back, surprised at the lightness of it, and began to towel her hair dry. It took her a moment before she realized a good portion of her hair was still in the bathtub. She jumped back and turned to look in the mirror, stunned silent and horrified at the sight of herself.

  “I’m sorry,” Rye said, her hands covering her mouth. “I don’t know what to do, I’m so sorry.”

  Ana continued staring at her reflection, which stared back, even though it didn’t look like her usual self at all, what with half her hair missing, most of the ends burned off entirely on one side as well as pieces missing in the front.

  “No,” she said. “Oh, no, no, no.”

  “You did say you wanted a change . . .”

  Ana turned around abruptly and headed for the door.

  “Wait! Let me comb it through,” Rye said, following her and reaching for her arm. “We can try to salvage what’s left, or I can cut it—”

  “Stay away from my hair,” Ana said with more anger than she’d meant.

  • • •

  Abbie was reading in the kitchen when she heard the front door open and shut. She put on her slippers and padded into the parlor, which she was surprised to find had gone dark.

  “Who’s here?” she asked, wishing she’d brought a knife from the kitchen with her.

  “It’s just me,” Ana said. “I’m in the chair, but please don’t turn on the—”

  Abbie switched on the lights and gasped. “What happened?” she said.

  “I was stupid,” Ana said, putting her head in her hands.

  “Is this why you’re home so early? I thought you were having dinner at the Moons’.”

  “I asked Della to bring me back. And, yes, my losing half of my hair also has something to do with it.”

  Abbie sat down on the couch and shook her head. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I was sick of my curls, so Rye and I decided to try this Brazilian hair treatment and, well, this is what happened.”

  “Did Rye put you up to it?” Abbie asked, concerned.

  “No. We both did it. Rye burned her hands too.”

  “Oh, hon,” Abbie said, noticing tears rolling down Ana’s cheeks. “It’s not that bad. We can fix it tomorrow.”

  “I screwed up, and I think Rye is upset because I yelled at her . . .”

  “I’m sure she’ll understand.”

  “I’m crying because I’m frustrated.”

  “I get it, but I’m telling you, we’re going to fix this tomorrow,” Abbie said.

  “But isn’t everything closed for Labor Day?”

  “Hon, Hadley may go quiet on Sundays, but it’s always open the day before school starts,” Abbie said.

  The tears continued to roll down Ana’s face. “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s just—my abuela loved my long hair, so I’ve never changed it. I’ve always kept it this length. I told Rye I wanted a change, but I didn’t want this.”

  “Sometimes things happen beyond our control, but maybe you’ll like it even better tomorrow after a new haircut.”

  “If you say so.”

  • • •

  Ana was quiet on the ride to Ellery Pearl. In addition to being Hadley’s lone hair salon and vintage store, the Pearl also sold needlepoint pillows and small oil paintings crafted by proprietors Ellery Jonas and Pearl Parnell, both longtime fixtures in Hadley. Ana was wearing the gardening hat down low over her face, what was left of her thick hair hanging above one shoulder and below the other. And even though it was a warm day, she’d insisted on wearing her army jacket over her T-shirt and jeans. Abbie didn’t ask any questions.

  Ana kept her head down when they entered the store, taking in its striped walls, smoky glass countertops, and windows covered in delicate lace. Abbie must have called ahead of time because they crossed right through the boutique in front before going through a door into a small back room that was made to look like an old-fashioned barbershop.

  “Is this our girl?” a woman with the voice of a little girl said, entering behind them. “Have a seat.”

  Abbie gestured for Ana to sit in the lone leather chair in the middle of the room, a wall of mirrors in front of it.

  “I’m Ellery Jonas,” the woman said, reaching her hand into Ana’s view underneath the hat. “You must be Ana.”

  “I am. Hi.”

  “Let’s take a look at what’s going on under this hat.” Ellery removed it, making Ana squint under the bright lights.

  “I’m a disaster,” Ana said. She couldn’t even glance at herself in the mirror, so she took in Abbie’s look of concern as well as the petite face of Ellery Jonas, who was decades older than her voice. Always one to dress herself in the style of a lost era, she was the type of woman who kept her hair pinned into meticulous curls around her face. She wore a round little hat perched on the side of her head, like a lopsided cupcake, Ana thought. A giant brooch in the shape of a cicada was pinned to the front of her 1940s suit dress, which was prim yet a vibrant shade of clementine.

  “You have lustrous curls, despite the ends, which are in an unfortunate state,” Ellery said. “But I’m going to fix that. There’s a lot of damage, so I’m going to have to cut above your shoulders, maybe to your chin, if that’s okay with you.”

  Ana’s heart sank. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not if you want your hair to look better and be in a healthier condition.”

  She took Ana over to another chair at a sink and washed her hair—taking forever, Ana thought—giving her a scented scalp massage, which Ana wondered if she’d have to pay for. When she sat back down in the barber chair, Ellery turned it away from the mirrors so Ana was facing Abbie, who looked up from the magazine she was reading and smiled. “It’ll be fine,” she said.

  “Heard you’re from L.A.,” Ellery said, combing what was left of Ana’s hair. “Welcome to our quaint little town.”

  “Thanks,” Ana said, knowing she was being impolite with her lack of conversation. “My friend—this girl I know—Rye says your shop is the best in town.”

  “She’s sweet, isn’t she? Fantastic taste. She’s one of my best customers. I’m still on the hunt for a 1980s beige jumpsuit for her—very particular about what she wants. Oh, I love your tattoo!”

  Ana froze. Abbie looked up from her magazine.

  “Is it a sy
mbol for something?” Ellery asked.

  Ana remained silent.

  “It’s such a simple design—very unusual on the back of your neck. What does it mean?”

  Ana felt dizzy and out of breath, like she was chained to the chair, the scissors snipping away behind her ear. Abbie knew something was wrong.

  “Ana?”

  “They’re symbols. Not something I wanted, but something I have to live with,” she managed to say.

  “Oh,” Ellery said quietly, continuing to cut. “Even I have one of those. Got it back in the sixties—too many drinks, too much love for a man who never seemed to remember my name, though I will have his forever. And let me tell you, no one, no one wants Willie Burns tattooed on their—where it shouldn’t be.”

  “I have one too,” Abbie said.

  “You do?” Ana said, stunned.

  “I regret them both.”

  “You have more than one?”

  “Like Ellery, I got one back in the day that I’m not proud of, but thankfully it’s in a place I’ll never have to show anyone—don’t ask. The other one is this—” She stood up and showed Ana a tiny black heart tattooed on the inside of her ring finger. “That one I regret the most.”

  “We live with the scars though, don’t we?” Ellery said, running her fingers down the back of Ana’s head in a way that made Ana want to go to sleep. “But they show we lived in the moment and have survived past it.”

  “I always imagine the people covered in tattoos have stories they want to tell,” Ana said. “But maybe the tattoos tell them better, you know? Maybe that’s why they got the tattoos in the first place.”

  “That’s an interesting philosophy,” Ellery said. “My Willie Burns story is five seconds long, and I can assure you the tattoo is mute.”

  Ana thought it curious that Abbie had gone back to reading the magazine, making an active choice not to take part in any more of the conversation.

  “Okay, doll, I’m not going to dry it because your curls don’t need it, but are you ready for the big reveal?”

  Ana nodded her head as the barber chair swiveled around.

  “Voilà! Very rock and roll,” Ellery said.

  Ana didn’t recognize herself. Her hair was cut to her jawline, and her formerly long, wild curls were softer at a shorter length, with bangs that framed her face.

  “Makes your eyes pop,” Ellery said.

  “So pretty,” Abbie chimed in.

  “Pretty’s overrated,” Ana said, still staring at herself. “But I like it.”

  “Splendid,” Ellery said. “Shall we pick out some school clothes?”

  Ellery, along with her partner, Pearl, who was tall and lanky, wearing a linen jacket and crisp white man’s shirt over white jeans and a pair of worn moccasins, at first steered Ana toward the dress section, which was rife with 1960s shifts and pastel pinafores. Deeming them too frothy for her taste and meager farm paycheck, Ana chose a new-old pair of jeans, this time form-fitting and cut higher like Abbie wore hers, as well as a simple navy blue sweater embroidered with diving sparrows. She threw in a paint-splattered shirt that reminded her of Jackson Pollock, a striped long-sleeved T-shirt, and a well-worn black leather jacket that was exactly what she had always wanted.

  Ellery insisted Ana try on a few dresses with her new haircut, particularly one from the 1940s that was covered in dark roses, its shoulders slightly puffed, bodice fitted, and skirt flowing to just below her knees. They’d gasped when Ana walked out of the dressing room, Abbie especially, and had demanded she add it to her purchases at a discount. Much to their chagrin, Ana added a pair of black leather ankle boots instead.

  “Very Patti Smith,” Pearl said.

  Ana paid for her purchases with a little left over, so she asked Abbie if she could run across the street to the record shop while Abbie did her own shopping. Just as she was about to walk out the door, it swung open and in walked Rye Moon.

  “Hey,” Ana said.

  “Holy Shesus, your hair! It looks incredible! Can’t tell you how sorry I am that I ruined it.”

  “I kind of like it this way, so thanks for forcing me to change it up,” Ana said. “Want to come with me to the record shop?”

  “Would love to, but I have a hair appointment. Figured if you had to cut yours, I should cut mine too. It can be part of my new theme anyway.”

  “Can’t wait to see it.”

  “Oh, hey, if you’re going across the street,” Rye said, leaning in and whispering, “don’t forget to check out the heavy metal section.”

  “Why?”

  “Trust me.”

  • • •

  Ana crossed Main Street, avoiding stares from a group of girls sitting in front of the pie shop. She pushed open the door to Bungle Records but wished she hadn’t. Standing in the middle of the store looking more normal than the last time she saw him was Cole Brannan, perusing the new-releases section. He was cleaner this time, in a gray T-shirt and dark jeans, his hair shorter and brushed to the side.

  “Hi,” he said from across the small shop.

  “Hi,” Ana said, remaining still. “Bye.” She turned to walk out, but he yelled at her to wait as the long-haired man behind the counter glared at them through round glasses.

  “Your hair is different?”

  “Perceptive. I cut it.”

  “It suits you.”

  “Almost as much as my curls?”

  “Look, I didn’t mean to freak you out in the bookstore,” he said. “I thought you would have put it all together.”

  “Put what together?”

  “Where we first saw each other,” he said. “It was about a month ago on the road in front of Garber Farm. You were standing by a truck out in the fields with a bunch of men. You were wearing your Hex T-shirt, and I was riding by on a motorcycle with my little sister. It was the Kinetic Sculpture parade. You waved at us.”

  “What?”

  “You waved, in slow motion, as my sister and I rode by . . .”

  “That was you?”

  “Yeah,” Cole said, looking down and not directly at her as he had in the bookstore.

  “How would I have known it was you if you had a helmet on?”

  “Good point. Anyway, you’re the only person who waved at us. My sister wanted us to turn around and talk to you. I probably should have.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”

  “What makes you think I would have wanted a conversation then?”

  He smiled the same lopsided smile.

  “I think you better go,” he said. “Abbie’s out there looking for you. Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble being seen with me.”

  “Why would I—”

  “Guess I’ll see you in school.”

  “I guess,” Ana said.

  “Looking forward to it.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  They were supposed to ring a bell. Instead, there was a waving of hands and frantic yelling from the other side of the fields. Ana knew immediately that she was late—again. Manny assured her the morning of the first day of school would be light on the dirty work and just the usual early morning chores. But they hadn’t foreseen a rain shower the night before, so she’d been sent to the green bean trellises to hurriedly pick the remaining beans, her shoes becoming soaked in the process.

  She and Manny were working on the overgrown plants together, both with small buckets strapped to their waists. He taught her how to hold each stem lightly under the leaves, so as not to break them, and pull each bean one by one.

  “Why can’t I just pull six beans from the same branch if they all need to be picked?”

  “Rushing can damage them, so take your time, little by little,” Manny said.

  Ana couldn’t think about beans at a time like this.
She needed to get ready, double-check her backpack, and help Abbie pack a lunch. Also, there was breakfast, not that she was hungry.

  “Worried about your first day?” Manny asked, clueing in to her mood.

  “Can you tell? Just nerves, I guess.”

  “It’s always tough on the first day. Remember your first day here? From blackberry killer to—”

  “Bean slayer?”

  “I was going to say expert weeder and worm handler in training, but you’ve come so far, mija. It’ll be the same with school.”

  “Taste it first, right?”

  “Exactamente. And don’t forget to speak up, not that you have trouble doing that here.”

  The very moment Ana stopped thinking about school was the moment she shouldn’t have. She heard Abbie’s voice in the distance as well as the sound of a whistle. She had no choice but to drop everything and run.

  “We have to leave,” Abbie said when Ana arrived on the front porch, hat askew and panting. “I thought they’d have sent you in by now.”

  “I have to change—”

  “No time. I packed you a lunch, and we can eat breakfast on the way.”

  “But I can’t go like this . . .”

  “I’ve got your new boots, which you left downstairs. Throw those on in the van and roll up your jeans. It’ll help cover the splatters of mud.”

  “Honestly, I can’t go looking like this. I haven’t even showered.”

  “No choice. We’re going.”

  “I look like a farmhand,” Ana said, catching her reflection in the passenger window.

  “You are a farmhand, hon. Keep the hat. It’s a look.”

  Ana climbed into the front seat while Abbie continued to load the back of the van. Ana changed her shoes and pulled the brown work shirt tied around her waist over the same faded T-shirt and jeans she’d been wearing for months. It was enough to pass for a normal high school outfit, on a sloppy day, she thought. She remembered how her abuela had worn the same handmade dresses for years, and how she’d changed up her look with different purses or a delicate string of faux pearls. It had never bothered her that she didn’t have the money to buy something new. She had always looked dignified simply by the way she carried herself.