Only Twenty-Five

by Jennifer McCoy Blaske

  “It’s not the way I taught you to do it. You’re supposed to have your full name, date, and name of the assignment . . . in that order . . . on the right side of your paper.” I looked up at her and sort of glared. “How many times have we gone over that? The next time it happens I’m going to take points off and make you re-do the whole thing.”

  “Okay,” Dawn said in a small voice as she bit her lip and went back to her seat.

  The kids starting packing up and the bell rang. As I was watching them leave I noticed Dawn shuffling out the door, looking at her feet.

  Aw, crap. Did I just yell at little Dawn Patterson? Over something as stupid as a lousy heading? I had to get my act together.

  ***

  On Saturday morning Darren was standing in the kitchen in his boxer shorts, drinking milk straight from the carton. I was surprised, and strangely happy, to see him.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought you worked on Saturdays.”

  Darren finished the milk and shamelessly let out a loud burp without any attempt to mask it or excuse himself. “I do, but I switched shifts with someone. I don’t go in till this afternoon.”

  “Great.” I was surprised at how relieved I was not to be home alone. “So . . . you want to go outside and shoot baskets or something?”

  Darren looked at me suspiciously. “Since when do you play any sports?”

  That was a good question. I’d never been a sports kinda guy. But since I’d felt like punching my fist through a wall for the past few days I figured that hurling a basketball toward a hoop repeatedly was a better way to get rid of some of that.

  “I dunno,” I said. “It just sounds . . . fun.”

  Darren shrugged, apparently satisfied with my non-answer. “Okay. You mean right now?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said eagerly. . . .

  “So, Meg broke up with me,” I said, rushing past Darren and leaping in the air. If there was a ref a foul would’ve been called, but I missed the shot anyway.

  Darren caught the rebound, dribbled a few times, and made a perfect layup. “Which one’s Meg?”

  “You know . . .” I said impatiently as I ran over and grabbed the ball. “The music teacher from my school.” I tried to make a three-pointer but Darren blocked my shot.

  He grabbed the ball, did a fake-out, and then passed it to me. “You mean the girl who likes the same depressing books you do?”

  “Well . . . yeah, I guess.” I took another shot and made it.

  “Huh?” Darren stopped dribbling and looked at me. “So what’d you do this time?”

  “Nothing!” I shot back at him as I grabbed the ball. “That’s the problem. I don’t understand it. Everything was going so well.” I started dribbling the ball slowly in place, getting a strange comfort from the rhythm of it.

  “Well, what’d she say?”

  I bounce-passed the ball to him. “Nothing that made any sense. Just some nonsense about it not working out and the students finding out. There’s something she’s not telling me.”

  Darren circled around me, made a shot that bounced off the rim, and ran up to catch it. “You think there’s somebody else?”

  That thought had occurred to me, although it seemed hard to believe. Not only did she seem perfectly happy being with me, but Meg was hardly a wildly social girl. The idea of her juggling two guys and keeping them a secret from each other was hard to even imagine. Although, who knows? Maybe I was just flattering myself. The idea of Meg being with another guy—maybe even right this moment—made me feel sick.

  Darren was about to take another shot. He looked at me and stopped. “Hey, wait. You really like this girl, don’t you?”

  I stared at him, feeling kind of dazed. “Yeah. I really do.”

  NINETEEN

  Meg

  It was odd. I’d never minded eating lunch alone in my classroom before. The faculty rooms were always noisy and crowded, and I enjoyed the brief period of silence after dealing with gobs of kids all morning. Today was different. It felt lonely. But more than that . . . it felt kind of pathetic.

  I set my ham and cheese sandwich down on the napkin on my desk and leaned back in my chair. I was only twenty-five for heaven’s sake. Was any hope of having a social life, a boyfriend, a husband, over for me already? Was I doomed this early in life? Would I ever have normal human social interactions—beyond chatting to the local librarians and a bunch of eleven year olds—again? Was I going to end up sixty years old with no husband or kids or grandkids, and only a ton of cats and the imaginary characters from books to keep me company?

  “No,” I told myself firmly. “This is ridiculous.” I drummed my fingers on the desk, thinking, thinking. . . . And then it became clear to me what I had to do.

  The bell rang and students started filing into the room. I threw away the remains of my sandwich and went to the whiteboard.

  ***

  After school I put on eye makeup and lipstick and some dangly purple earrings that matched my outfit. I was going for a perky hipster kind of look. I grabbed a bag of books from the closet and locked my classroom. “And now comes the real test,” I said as I pulled out of the parking lot.

  I knew, somehow, that it was important for me to go out in public, however briefly, without a wig or hat or anything else to hide my bald head. I wanted to know how it felt, just once, to be seen by people exactly as I was now—with no hair at all. If I could have one normal conversation with someone who saw me bald, and see that it wasn’t the end of the world, then it would no longer be this horrible fear. I wouldn’t have to be scared of people finding out because I would’ve already experienced it . . . and survived. Or at least that was the idea.

  Of course, I didn’t want to chance running into anyone I knew. But there was more to it than that. In order for this to have any hope of working, I had to be away from my normal life. I needed to do this in a new environment, somewhere that Meg with Hair had never ventured before. I had to be on neutral territory.

  I drove to a town forty-five minutes away from Madison, singing along to the album Scarlett’s Walk by Tori Amos. I arrived at my destination and parked my car. I slid my wig off and looked at my new self in the rearview mirror. I had to check that I didn’t look like a man, which was of course the last thing I wanted. I felt too nervous to smile, but forced myself to anyway. Hey! I discovered that it helped me look prettier and overall more feminine. Maybe smiling, or at least trying to look pleasant, was the secret. It struck me that that was probably a good way to live life anyway, whether you happened to have hair on your head or not.

  I strode across the parking lot and entered Rickert and Basset Books, smiling. There was a woman in her fifties sitting on a stool behind the register. She was wearing glasses and reading a paperback.

  My heart was pounding and my stomach tightened as I braced myself. Would she wince involuntarily? Would she assume I had cancer and give me a look of pity? Would she think I was an angry feminist who’d shaved my head as some sort of protest? Would she be scared of me? There was only one way to find out. . . .

  “I have a few books for trading,” I said, smiling as I put them down.

  The woman set her book down and smiled at me without even blinking. “Great. Let me just check that we can take these right now.” She lined the books on the counter, spine-up. She picked one up and looked at me. “Ooh, The Woman in Cabin 10! What did you think of this one? I haven’t read it yet.”

  I was amazed. My bald head wasn’t registering with her in the least. No visible surprise. No staring. No uncomfortable looking away. No questions about cancer treatments. She was treating me like a completely normal person! And we were having a normal conversation!

  “It was pretty good,” I said. “I didn’t like it as much as In a Dark, Dark Wood though.”

  She nodded in agreement. “I loved In a Dark, Dark Wood. Do you need help finding anything while I look through these?”

  “Yes, please. Where would I find the JD Salinger bo
oks?”

  She pointed me to the right section. When I went back to the counter she told me she’d take all the books I brought to trade. So I only owed a few dollars for the one I bought.

  I was still smiling as I got in my car. It was amazing being able to go out in public and function normally—and have a conversation with a stranger—without hiding my bald head. I needed to do it to show myself that I could.

  As I was driving home I felt sort of silly about the whole thing. Was I so self-important that I thought everybody’s universe would be drastically affected by what I, a total stranger, looked like? Did I think that people going about their business—with all their own lives and problems—were going to expend energy noticing my hair, never mind caring about it?

  “Now, Meg Caldwell, most people have better and more important things to think about than you and your bald head.”

  I laughed at myself the rest of the way home.

  TWENTY

  Meg

  Two nights later I wrapped Josh’s present in blue-and-silver striped paper and put a silver bow on top of it. Then I headed over to his apartment. I held the present in one hand and knocked on the door with the other.

  The door flew open. A guy with a buzz cut wearing sweatpants and a blue tank top was standing there.

  “Hi,” I said. “You must be Darren.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Meg . . . Josh’s friend.”

  “Huh. So . . . you’re Meg.” Darren leaned against the door looking me up and down and nodding.

  He wasn’t ogling me, or anything unseemly like that. It was more like a “Meg” was some mysterious species he’d only ever heard about and he was curious to finally see one in person.

  “Uh . . . yes I am. Is Josh home?”

  “Yeah, come on in.”

  I stepped inside and shut the door behind me.

  “Hey Josh!” Darren bellowed. He plopped down on the couch, put his feet up, and stared at the TV. “Meg’s here!”

  Josh walked into the living room. He stopped abruptly. “Meg, what’s up?”

  He didn’t look pleased to see me. In fact, it was as if he was afraid to get too close. This was going to be even harder than I thought. I held up the present.

  “I have a gift for you.” I sounded more confident than I felt. “And I need to talk to you. Um . . . alone.” I glanced in Darren’s direction.

  “Yeah . . . okay. Come on.”

  I followed Josh to his room. We sat down on his bed, about a foot apart. It was strange to think that this was the same bed we’d rolled around and kissed on just a couple weeks earlier. I held out the present.

  Josh took it. “I don’t understand. What’s this for?”

  “Open it.”

  As Josh tore off the wrapping paper it occurred to me that if it was a few weeks ago he would’ve pressed the bow on the top of my head and we would’ve laughed. Today, however, he simply crumpled the bow up in the paper and set the shiny ball next to me. Josh examined the book. It was a copy of Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye.

  “Thank you,” he said, obviously still confused.

  “Read the inscription. . . . It’s on the title page.”

  He gave me a curious glance before flipping open the book.

  Josh –

  I read once that the word “phony” is in this book 47 times. And Holden Caulfield says, “I’m the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life.”

  Well Josh, I don’t want to be a liar and a phony anymore. Not with you.

  Meg

  Josh looked up at me. “What is this supposed to mean?”

  I tugged at a strand of my wig. “This . . . this isn’t my real hair.” There. I’d said it. I took a breath. “You’ve never seen me without hair extensions or a wig. But these days . . . uh . . . I just wear a wig all the time.” I focused on the black reading lamp on his nightstand, avoiding his eyes. “I began losing my hair this school year. I’m not sick or anything. It’s just . . . well, sometimes women lose their hair just like men. And apparently I’m one of the lucky ones.” I chuckled humorlessly. “I was afraid to tell you . . . afraid of what you’d think if you knew. That’s why . . . that’s why I left the other night. I was scared.”

  Josh didn’t look at me. It felt like an eternity before he finally responded.

  “Oh.”

  Oh? What did that mean? What did he think now that he knew? I certainly wasn’t going to come right out and ask him.

  Finally, he turned toward me and took a good long look at my wig. “Wow. I had no idea. It doesn’t look like a wig.”

  Well that was good, at least.

  “So . . . do you . . . do you have any hair at all?”

  “No. Not anymore. The whole situation got so stressful . . . and my hair got so scraggly . . . that I decided to shave my head. It’s just easier all around this way.”

  Josh sort of made a face. It was so slight that he probably didn’t even realize he’d done it, but I didn’t imagine it.

  “Will it grow back?”

  “No,” I said quietly. “It grows, but the hair is continuing to thin. I’ll never grow a full head of hair again.”

  Josh nodded slowly as he stared at me. I knew he was trying to imagine what I looked like with a completely bald head. I got the impression he didn’t like what he was picturing.

  What was I supposed to do now? Just sit there as he stared at me with that awful look on his face? Wait to see if he eventually said something like, It’s no big deal, even though it was obvious to both of us that it really was? No. I had to get out of there.

  I jumped to my feet. “Well, I’ll be going now. It’s getting late and I have to . . . I have to . . . well, just, I should be going. I just wanted to give you the book and tell you what I told you and well . . . now I have. So I’ll just be leaving now.”

  “You don’t have to go.”

  Josh didn’t look or sound terribly convincing.

  “I’ll just see myself out. It’s no problem.” I gestured toward the door. “I hope you enjoy the book. And, and . . . well, thank you.”

  I rushed into the hall before he had a chance to say anything. Darren didn’t even notice as I scurried past him and out the door.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Josh

  I’m such a jerk. I tried to hide what I was thinking. I honestly did. But I didn’t do a very good job. Meg could tell I was weirded out. Then she bolted. Damn I’m stupid.

  What’s even worse is that I just can’t bring myself to run after her and say: Hey, you know what, it doesn’t make any difference to me whether you have hair or not. It’s fine that you’re bald. I couldn’t care less! Because the fact is, I do care. I know that sounds horrible. What do I do?

  I jumped up and headed down the hall to the living room. “Hey Darren.”

  “Hang on. They’re about to announce who won the pressure test.”

  “Masterchef? Seriously?”

  “Shh!” he said, as he leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “Yes! Ha ha!” He clapped his hands and waved his arms above his head. “I knew David would win! That Tanorria doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

  “Yeah, and we all know that you’re a gourmet. Hey, can you turn that off for a minute? I want to ask you something. It’s important.”

  “Yes, I guess.” He turned the volume all the way down and looked at me.

  It occurred to me that I must be desperate if I was asking Darren for advice about women. But I wanted to get another guy’s opinion, or help, or something. I sat down on the end of the couch.

  “Look, I know this is a weird question, but . . . What would you do if you really liked a girl and then you found out that she was bald?”

  Darren frowned. “What do you mean, bald?”

  “What do you mean what do I mean? She’s bald. She doesn’t have any hair on her head. Well, she wears a wig. But she doesn’t have any of her own hair.”

  Darren’s eyes got big. “
Does she have cancer or something?”

  “No, she’s just . . . bald. She went bald the same way some guys go bald. It happens, apparently.”

  Darren’s eyes got even bigger. “Girls can go bald? Dude. That sucks for them.”

  “Yeah it does. Which makes the way I reacted even more crummy.”

  Darren looked confused. “So who’s the bald . . . Oh!” He sat up straight. “Wait a minute. That Meg girl’s bald?”

  I took a breath and exhaled loudly. I didn’t want to tell him Meg’s personal business. At the same time, I really needed to talk to someone. “Yes,” I said reluctantly. “But please don’t tell anyone.”

  “Who am I gonna tell? Do you think I’m gonna get on Snapchat and tell everybody your girlfriend’s bald?”

  “Who knows what stupid thing you might do? But listen, I mean it, okay? Don’t tell anyone. Ever. I probably shouldn’t have told you.”

  Darren shook his head. “Don’t worry man. I’m not gonna tell anybody.”

  “Thanks . . . So what do I do?”

  “Meg didn’t look like she was wearing a wig. She looked totally normal. Cute, even.”

  “I know. She looks great. We saw each other for a few months and I had no idea she wears a wig until she told me just now.”

  Darren frowned again. “So then what’s the problem? If she’s cute and you can’t even tell, then what difference does it make?”

  “Well, because . . .” I felt stupid. “Even if I can’t tell, I still know. I mean, wouldn’t that bother you?”

  Darren shrugged. “No, not really.”

  “Aw, come on. Wouldn’t it be weird? You know, knowing that her hair isn’t real?”

  “But Josh, it is real. You can see it, right? And touch it? It’s not like it’s imaginary hair or something.”

  “Well duh.” I was getting frustrated. “You know what I mean. It’s not her real hair. It’s fake.”