Down and Out in Bugtussle

by Stephanie McAfee

  31

  I wake up Saturday morning to find it’s one of those perfect spring days that makes you want to spend every second of it outdoors. I brew a pot of coffee, pour myself a cup, and take it out to the back porch where I relax in one of my loungers. I make myself stop thinking about Tate Jackson.

  “This is the day I’ve been waiting for,” I tell Buster Loo when he hops out the doggie door. He makes a show of yawning and stretching, then takes off into the backyard. When I go back inside for a second cup of coffee, I decide to get Gramma Jones’s garden book and study the actual contents instead of analyzing things I find. I go back outside and flip it open to the bloom chart.

  “Interesting,” I say. I want more than anything to get out and get to work in the yard, but I have to go to Freddie’s for the much-anticipated makeover of Stacey Dewberry. I sigh, disappointed that I have to spend the best part of this day inside. I flip to the back of the book and look at the Post-it notes. Don’t do this! But I do it anyway. I stare at the picture of the weeping willow. Was that for that pervert M. Emerson? I know I should just let it go and let whoever that tree was planted for rest in peace, but my curiosity keeps getting the best of me. Maybe this afternoon, I might drive by a few of those addresses from the phone book. Just to see what the places look like. Then a horrible thought comes to mind. What if M. Emerson was married. Maybe that’s why he didn’t spell out his first name. Because he didn’t want to be caught by his own little paper trail. No! Gramma Jones would never do that…. Would she?

  My phone buzzes and it’s Freddie Dublin asking if I’ll be at his house today. I text back a “Yes,” save his number to my contacts list, then go inside and get ready.

  When I pull into Freddie Dublin’s neighborhood, it becomes obvious that he has another source of income, comes from a wealthy family, or spends every last dime of his paycheck on rent. I park on the curb and, as soon as I get out of my car, I hear the loud rumbling of a sports car. I turn around to see Stacey Dewberry pull up behind me. T-tops out and music blaring, she starts waving like a lunatic when she sees me. She’s still singing “Girl Don’t Go Away Mad” when she gets out of the car. I can’t stop staring because, instead of standing at attention on top of her head, her hair is pulled up in a loose ponytail. A few strands have flown out here and there, no doubt thanks to the T-tops. She’s not wearing any makeup at all. And she’s beautiful.

  “You look so pretty right now,” I say.

  “What are you talking about?” she squawks. “I’m a wreck. Freddie told me to come over all natural, so here I am.” She looks around. “I’m just glad I haven’t seen anyone I know this morning. Well, except that carhop who works the breakfast shift at Red Rooster, but she never pays me no never-mind anyway.” She stops chattering, tilts her head to the side, and says, “Hey, what are you doing here?”

  I don’t really know what to say and I’m a little confused as to why Freddie needs to keep everyone in the dark about what’s going on all the time. “Freddie invited me,” I say. “Remember, the deal we made about the makeovers.” She looks slightly disappointed.

  “So that’s why he told me to come all natural.”

  “I guess,” I say. “But this is going to be tons-o-fun fun. I loved it when you guys did my hair and makeup for me.” She looks at me and I swear she’s thinking, Yeah, but you needed that. Clearly, she doesn’t feel that she needs any type of beauty intervention. “I need to get your clothes back to you sometime.”

  “You should keep those,” she says. “You looked great in them.”

  While we’re standing there, a little red jelly-bean-looking car pulls up and Cameron Becker gets out. At that exact moment, Freddie Dublin appears on his front porch. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and cutoff jogging pants. Unlike my cutoff jogging pants, his appear to have been purchased in the short-legged form. Despite the casual outfit, his hair is styled as usual. I glance at Stacey.

  “Did you know Cameron Becker was coming?” I whisper.

  “I didn’t even know you were,” she says. I can only assume that Cameron knew that both Stacey and I would be here, because she doesn’t seem the least bit surprised to see us.

  “Aren’t we an on-time bunch?” Freddie says. “Come on in.” The three of us follow him into his lovely little home, which looks like it was decorated by a professional. He has cracked-wheat crackers and some kind of weird-looking dip sitting out on the bar.

  “Snacks?” he says in his usual unenthusiastic way. I’m not sure what kind of dip it is and I don’t want to ask, so I try a little and find that it’s very tasty. I pick up a pink Vitaminwater, one of the six different colors available to choose from.

  “Let’s sit and chat about what we want to do before we get started,” Freddie says. I find myself standing face-to-face with Cameron, and we dance back and forth as we try to figure out who steps where so we can get out of each other’s way.

  “Yes, let’s talk first, because I’m kind of nervous about this,” Stacey says.

  “There’s nothing to be nervous about, right, Ace?” Freddie says. “Makeovers are fun.”

  “So much fun,” I tell her. “Remember how good I looked after mine?”

  “You did look great,” Cameron says. I stop eating wheat crackers and look at her.

  “I had to show her the pictures,” Freddie says, and I feel so betrayed. For the next few minutes, things feel awkward and forced. Then we start talking about school and, much to my surprise, the conversation flows along smoothly. No one mentions the elephant in the room, and then Cameron and I start talking about what classes we had in college. Turns out we had some of the same teachers at Mississippi State, so we bond over that. Sort of.

  Finally, Freddie tells Stacey that it’s time to get started, so she goes and sits at the round glass table in the dining room, which is just behind the living room. Cameron doesn’t get up, so I don’t, either. I watch as Freddie takes the ponytail holder out of Stacey’s hair and starts brushing. Then he turns on a hair dryer. It occurs to me that Freddie orchestrated this get-together so he could work on Stacey’s hair while I spend some quality time with Cameron and see that she’s not so bad after all, because he certainly hasn’t invited either of us to join him in the dining room. I think about the remark Logan made about him, and then Lilly’s warning rings in my head like a church bell. Am I being had? I wonder. I think about that for a minute and since I don’t know if I am or not, I just sit there and keep talking. Cameron Becker is slightly annoying, but a tad bit funny. I almost kind of like her.

  As it turns out, she went through the same process to get her teaching license that I did—got a degree and then took a test—which explains why she’s having such a difficult year. I know from personal experience how tough the transition can be from carefree college student to gainfully employed high school teacher responsible for daily lesson plans and all that business. I remember my first year all too well. Freddie is taking his sweet time working a conditioning treatment into Stacey’s hair, so I resort to telling Cameron some of the worst experiences from my first year of teaching. She laughs until she starts tearing up.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says, wiping her eyes. “I’ve had such a horrible time, and it’s just so good to know that I’m not the only one who’s felt this way.” I resist the urge to get up and hug her. Instead, I tell her everything I learned and every horrible mistake that I made in the five years I had the job that she has now. All of my secrets and all of my tricks—I tell her everything. Who cares if I’m being had? This poor girl needs some help.

  “See,” she says after I tell her about the art of assigning great projects, which is to be lenient with the guidelines so the students can show off their own personal style and creativity. “I’ve never even thought about that. That’s brilliant!” She tells me that nine hours of education classes didn’t prepare her for seven hours a day in the classroom. I tell her that ninety hours probably wouldn’t have prepared me for it.

  “Some things you
can only learn by experience,” I say, smiling at her like she’s my favorite little pal in the whole wide world.

  “Or having someone like you,” she says, smiling that big radiant smile of hers.

  Someone like me, I think. Fancy that.

  Freddie finally comes into the living room, followed by Stacey whose hair is tucked into a polka-dot shower cap.

  “What are we talking about?” Freddie asks, like he doesn’t know.

  “School.” Cameron beams. “She’s been telling me horror stories and making me feel better!”

  “Well, tell me some, too,” Freddie says. And so I do. The more I talk, the more I remember and within minutes, I have them all in stitches.

  “Okay, so who else wants a conditioning treatment?” Freddie asks when I finally can’t think of anything else to share.

  “Oh, I do! I haven’t had one in weeks and I’m overdue,” Cameron says.

  “How about it, Ace Jones?” He looks at me.

  “It will make your hair so silky smooth,” Cameron says. “And Freddie gives an amazing head massage.” I look at Freddie and he smiles.

  “Sure, why not,” I say. “What can it hurt? After you, Cameron.”

  “That’s my girl!” he says. Cameron goes to what Freddie is now calling the Conditioning Chair, and I follow Stacey into the kitchen.

  “Check this thing out,” she says. “His sink has this cool nozzle that looks like the spout, but it comes off.” She pulls it off and starts spraying the sink. “How about that?”

  “That’s, uh, really cool,” I say.

  Stacey helps herself to another spoonful of dip. “What is this stuff?” she whispers after Freddie turns the dryer on and starts heating up Cameron’s hair.

  “I don’t know. Maybe hummus dip?”

  “What’s in it?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Hummus?”

  “Well, alrighty then.” She looks at me and giggles. “I’m having the best time ever.”

  “You know what?” I tell her. “So am I.”

  We return to the living room where Stacey proceeds to inform me that one of the men she met at the concert is calling every day, wanting to go out. She tries to explain which guy it was and, despite her vivid description of him and his mullet, I simply can’t recollect.

  “Honestly, though,” she says. “I like that Skeeter fellow better than any I’ve met in a while. We had so much fun dancing that night.”

  “I don’t think he’s a nice person,” I say.

  “That’s always the kind I fall for the hardest,” she says with a sigh.

  “And what kind is that?” Freddie asks, inserting himself into our conversation.

  “The not-nice kind,” Stacey says.

  “Now, Stacey, nobody needs that in their life,” he tells her.

  “He’s right, you know,” I say. Since Stacey is an adamant disciple of the Gospel of Freddie, maybe she’ll take that to heart and steer clear of the Skeeters and Joe Reds of the world.

  “Are you ready?” he asks me. I tell him that I am. “Please,” he says, motioning. “To the Conditioning Chair.” I take a seat on the cushioned chair and Freddie brushes my hair, then turns on the blow-dryer.

  “Where did you get this stuff?” I ask as he massages conditioner into my hair. “It smells wonderful.”

  “My sister is a hairdresser to the rich and not-so-famous in Ocean Springs,” he says. “She’s always going to some kind of show or convention or something. Anyway, as a result, I have tons of great hair products.” He picks up a shower cap with a tiny yellow rubber ducky sewn onto the top. “Yours to keep. I have a whole box.”

  “Thank you, I love it.”

  He tucks my hair into the cap and then tells Stacey it’s time for a rinse. I sit and talk to Cameron, who’s sporting a shower cap with a picture of a tiara, and we start talking about pets. She has a cat that she rescued as a kitten when she was in high school, and my heart melts when she tells me that story. And if Freddie’s plan was for me to see that she’s a likable person, well, it’s safe to say it’s working, because any friend of homeless animals is a friend of mine. I tell her about Buster Loo, and when she tells me she’d like to meet him sometime, I believe her.

  After we’re all rinsed and have our shower caps tucked into the bags of free samples Freddie put together for us, Stacey gets a professional blow out while I’m left to air dry. I feel majorly left out as Cameron flat irons Stacey’s hair while Freddie does her makeup. Unbeknownst to her, he skips the purple, blue, and greens in her makeup bag and sticks with the browns, peaches, and pinks. The finished product is a stark contrast to what we see at school on a daily basis. Stacey’s hair is straight and sleek and, without all of that crazy-colored liner and shadow, her sea green eyes seem to glow. Despite our genuine compliments, however, when Stacey inspects her appearance in the mirror on the wall of the living room, she doesn’t like what she sees. Moving her head from side to side, she mumbles and grumbles about the lack of color.

  “All of that bold color takes away from your natural features, which are quite lovely,” Freddie explains. Cameron and I continue to tell her how glamorous she looks, but she’s not convinced.

  “I guess it looks okay if I was going to buy groceries or something,” she says, “but I couldn’t go out looking like this.” Cameron smiles, Freddie turns around and rolls his eyes, and I stand there and try not to laugh. “My head feels weird,” she says.

  I can relate. This whole afternoon has felt weird to me, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. We all say good-bye and go our separate ways. On my way home, I call Lilly to see if maybe she wants to go to the movies or out to eat. She’s not interested.

  “Do you want to go out honky-tonkin’ with the Dewberry tonight? I’ll go if you go, and I’ll even start another fight if it’ll make you feel better,” I tell her.

  “Nah,” she says. “I have to wait for my phone call.”

  “Are you sure? That phone is mobile, you know. You can take it with you. And I’ll go out and tear the roof off every redneck hillbilly place in the five surrounding counties if it’ll make you feel better.”

  That gets a laugh out of her. “Not necessary,” she says. She asks if Stacey will have to go out by herself if I don’t go with her.

  “Oh no,” I say. “My new friends, Cameron Becker and Freddie Dublin, are going out with her tonight, so I kind of hate to miss it, but I really want to just hang out on the couch.” I tell her all about the makeover and how pretty Stacey looked with straight hair and toned-down makeup.

  “God bless her,” Lilly says. “I can’t believe you hung out with freakin’ Becker and Dublin today.”

  “Hey, what if I came to your house tonight with a bag of China Kitchen and a stack of hopelessly romantic comedies? Would you let me in?”

  “I’d actually love that. But if Dax calls, I’ll have to drop everything and talk to him.”

  “Of course, Lilly. But I can’t be responsible for my behavior if you leave your cream cheese wontons unsupervised.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she says. Then she wants to bet me ten bucks Stacey’s hair will look just like it always does when she gets to school on Monday.

  “Only a fool would take that bet,” I tell her. “I’ll see you around seven.”

  “Sounds good. Thank you.”

  When I get home, Buster Loo goes straight to the front door and stares at his leash.

  “Let’s go, little buddy,” I tell him. The afternoon is breezy and warm, and I very much enjoy our walk around the park. So does Buster Loo. As I’m walking, I remember that I forgot to drive by and check out those Emersons from the phone book. Oh well, maybe tomorrow. I spend the afternoon in the backyard, pulling weeds and piddling around. At first, Buster Loo stays right beside me and sniffs each individual weed that I pluck, but he eventually loses interest and goes to take a nap in the middle of the yard. Even though I don’t accomplish anything other than uprooting a shitload of weeds, I very much enjoy the time
I spend out there on my knees. This is good, I think, when I go inside to take a shower. Nothing fancy. Nothing complicated. Just plain old happy. Amazing. But I would be a lot happier if Tate Jackson would give me a call.

  After I get dressed, I dig through my DVD collection and pull out the silliest, sappiest movies I can find. Then I call China Kitchen and order Lilly’s and my favorite dishes. Buster Loo hops in the car with me and, after I pick up dinner, we head over to Lilly’s. It’s a nice and very relaxing evening and Lilly doesn’t even break down squalling after she gets to speak with Dax for only five minutes.

  32

  Sunday I get up early, take Buster Loo for a walk at the park, and then get ready and go to church. When I leave there, I pick up some fried chicken and take it home where I eat by myself at the picnic table in the backyard. Well, not really by myself. Buster Loo sits beside me on the bench and stares at my chicken like it might fly off.

  “Today is the day,” I tell Buster Loo when I give him a small piece of meat. “Mama’s going to get her garden on today.” He sits up on his hind legs and waves his paws. He wants more chicken.

  I go inside and change clothes, then go out to the garage and dig around to see what I can find. I know there’s a wheelbarrow in there somewhere; I just have to find it. When I do, it’s under a pile of junk that takes me thirty minutes to rearrange. Finally, the wheelbarrow is free. And just above the spot I cleaned out, I see the tools—Gramma Jones’s tools. They’re hanging in nice neat rows on a piece of Peg-Board on the back wall of the shed. It’s the same place they’ve always been; I just forgot they were there. Under the Peg-Board is a set of old cabinets, also in the same spot since I was a kid. I open the cabinet doors and find several pairs of dust-covered gardening gloves. Each pair still has a price tag, and on the price tag, a faded orange sticker.