A Charmed Life

by Jenny B. Jones

  Bella,

  You don’t listen very well, do you? You have no idea what I’m capable of. Nobody does . . . but you’re about to find out.

  I hit reply to see if the address is legit, but it comes back to me rejected. Big surprise.

  “What is that?” Luke hovers over me, and I can smell the clean detergent of his shirt.

  “Um . . .” I shut down the screen.

  “You just can’t get the hang of this sharing stuff, can you?” Luke reaches across and drags the mouse from my hand, pulling up the e-mail. His expression darkens. “A fake e-mail address.” He shakes his head. “Why isn’t this person coming after me too?”

  I pat his arm. “Now’s really not the time to get your feelings hurt. Maybe someone will threaten you next week, okay?”

  Luke’s expression holds me in place. “I don’t like you being in danger. And it makes no sense—why just threaten you?” He shoots off a copy of the e-mail to Officer Mark.

  I force a smile, despite the fact that I’m more than a little creeped out. “This person probably knows I’m the better sleuth.”

  Luke doesn’t laugh. “In the meantime, you need to still make sure someone’s with you at all times. I’m serious, Bella. Go nowhere alone.”

  “All I gotta say is, I better get some sympathy votes out of this.” At lunch Anna’s arm hangs at an angle in a sling. “How’s a girl supposed to eat a burrito with one arm?”

  “Just lean over it and gnaw.”

  Ruthie’s suggestion has me smiling.

  “Hey, Anna.” Felicity Weeks stops at our table. “Sorry to hear about your arm. I hope it heals quickly.”

  “Um. Thanks.” Anna tries cutting into her burrito with a plastic fork. “I hear Callie Drake’s back today. Word is she’s still denying calling the hotel.”

  I watch Felicity’s reaction to the mention of her best friend.

  “Yeah. Oh, speaking of that—Daddy is interviewing two caterers this week.”

  “Make sure they know how to make those cocktail weenies.”

  Ruthie rubs a napkin over her face. “Man, I love those things.”

  Felicity wrinkles her nose. “I hardly think either one of them even know what that is.”

  “We can’t afford a caterer right now,” Lindy says. “Especially a fancy one. Felicity, you can’t go making decisions for the junior class like that.”

  Ruthie jerks her head toward Lindy. “Yeah, she’s the president.”

  Felicity claps her hands. “But that’s the best part—Daddy’s going to pick up the tab!”

  Smiles break out across the table. Except for Lindy. “We don’t need handouts. I was working on getting the catering donated.”

  Felicity pats Lindy’s back. “I’m sure you’re a great class president. But this is my senior prom. I want it to be perfect. I’ve got my dress, my shoes, the photographer, a limo.”

  “Yeah, too bad you won’t have a crown,” Anna teases. “Oh, did I say that out loud? Must be the pain meds talking.”

  As we laugh, Felicity struggles with a smile. “Such the kidder,

  Anna. Well, I must be off. I have to study for a trigonometry test, and I promised my tutor we’d review. I’ll let you know about the caterer.”

  As she saunters away, Anna frowns. “She took the lead for queen after she got us the new prom location. And now a caterer? That is not even fair. I want that crown. Maybe I can get my uncle to deejay the event. He’s Funky Freddie on 105.7 from midnight to four a.m.” She glances around the table. “What? Y’all don’t know him?”

  “Maybe I could ask my third cousin Eugene to deejay.” Ruthie fixes one of her hair spikes. “He just got out of prison, so we could probably get him for cheap.”

  “I’ll arrange the music,” Lindy says. “Maybe Budge could do it. He was the deejay for one of our student council dances last year.”

  “Budge?” My stepbrother?

  Ruthie sighs. “Yeah, as in the boy who was not on my Match-and-Catch results.”

  “Like those mean anything.” Lindy tears into an apple. “Speaking of that, I still have your results, Bella. You and Luke forgot them in the hall the day I handed them out.”

  “I don’t even want them now.” Like I need more confusion in my life. “Ruthie, are those stupid results why you’ve backed off on chasing Budge?”

  “No. I found out some discouraging information. Turns out your stepbrother is not down with JC.”

  Sometimes conversations with Ruthie McGee remind me of the time I went to Italy, and it took me thirty minutes to communicate I needed a bathroom.

  “You know,” she says. “He doesn’t have a membership card to Club Saved. He doesn’t ride the God train. Your stepbrother does not have his passport to the Pearly Gates.”

  “He’s saved.” Who would’ve thought I’d be defending Budge?

  “He’s just struggling right now. But he hasn’t skipped church in a couple of months, so don’t give up on him.”

  “So if he wasn’t saved, you wouldn’t go out with him?” Anna asks.

  “Hey, I am a rule follower.” She sniffs and runs a finger under her dog collar. “Plus my dad would cut off my hair-bleach allowance.”

  “I think it’s good,” Matt chimes in. “We talked about this in FCA just last week.”

  Last Wednesday at the Fellowship of Christian Athletes meeting, our speaker broke out the Bible and showed us God’s big N-O on dating nonbelievers. I can’t help but think of Hunter. I dated him knowing he wasn’t saved. And now what am I doing? Sure, it’s just a friendship. But I think Hunter and I both know there could be more simmering beneath the surface.

  After school I meet Budge at the hearse, and we pick up Robbie at Truman Elementary down the street.

  Robbie steps out of the car rider line and walks toward us, his backpack dragging the ground behind him.

  “School is sucking the life out of my little brother,” Budge says as Robbie hops in the back and buckles himself in.

  I twist around my seat and smile at Robbie. “Good day?”

  “Yeah.” He doesn’t even look at me. “The best. I’d love four more just like it.”

  I nod to a piece of paper in his hand. “Did you have art? That’s a great looking picture of a dog.”

  “It’s Betsy.” Robbie’s pet cow. “And I already know it’s ugly. Billy Simpkins told me so, like, fifty million times.”

  “What did I tell you to say to Billy Simpkins?” Budge’s face is intense as he drives.

  “I can’t tell him his momma’s uglier than anything I could draw. He’s a giant. He’s a mutant of genetics.”

  How Robbie even knows the word genetics is beyond me. At his age, I think I was still trying to figure out why the left shoe couldn’t go on the right foot.

  “What grade’s this kid in?” I ask.

  “Second. For the third time.” Robbie leans on the door like the life has left his bones.

  “Have you told the teacher?”

  “No!” Budge and Robbie yell.

  “Dude, that totally breaks man-code.” Budge turns on the street that takes us to the industrial park. “If you’re a man, you take care of it yourself. Robbie just needs to get some backbone. Outsmart Billy Simpkins.”

  Robbie says nothing.

  I dig into my purse and find my last two dollars. “Stop and get him some ice cream on your way home.”

  “Um . . . thanks.” Budge tosses the money in the console as we pull up to Summer Fresh. “You know when you’ve been a pad packer here for sixty days, they give you free samples.” He grins as I step onto the pavement. “Just something for you to look forward to.”

  I slam the door.

  The ugly building stands before me like my own Billy Simpkins, taunting me and making me feel icky. I do not want to go in there. I mutter a quick little prayer and roll back my shoulders. I can do this. But before I go in, I might as well get one thing over with.

  I turn around and wave to a distant van. “Yes, I’m really
going to work here! Get your shot now!” A long telephoto lens sticks out of the window, and I give them a few complimentary poses before running inside.

  The gray-headed receptionist gives me a badge, then leads me back to the factory and passes me off to another woman. Her badge reads Earlene.

  “I’m the assistant line manager for this machine.” She pats a big metal contraption. “This here thing is old, but recently rebuilt. It’s been a little testy lately, but I think she’s fixed.” Earlene’s hair is so gray it’s nearly purple, and I find it hard to focus on her instructions for studying the lavender hue.

  “Now, Bella, the feminine napkin will come off that conveyor belt, sticky side up. Your job is to place the adhesive sheet on it and pack it in a box.”

  Earlene flips a switch, and the conveyer belt lurches and chugs.

  Within a few seconds pads begin to slowly roll out in a line like little sanitary soldiers. Earlene’s Velcro shoes squeak as she leans over the belt and easily puts the slick paper in the right spot.

  “Easy stuff, little lady.” Her drawn-on brows seem to point to heaven and keep her in a constant expression of surprise. “Now you try.”

  I step up to the conveyor, snap on some gloves, and repeat Earlene’s motions.

  “Good job. You just gotta go with the flow.” She barks with laughter. “Get it?”

  “Yeah.” I need a prom dress. I need a prom dress.

  An hour later I’m listening to my iPod and sticking the thingies on the pads like I was born doing it.

  At a tap on my shoulder, I find Earlene. “Guess what?”

  I force myself to look away from her mustache. “What?”

  “We just got new rush orders, and we need to double our output. I’m going to have to crank up the speed on this baby. Can you handle that?”

  “I think so.” Considering I could do my calculus homework and work the line at this pace, I believe going a little faster would be a welcome change.

  With a knobby hand she turns a dial. “Okay, it will speed up gradually so you can adjust. When it gets to double time, it will stay at that constant speed. If you need to stop the conveyor for any reason, push that big red button over there.” She points to a glowing circle at the opposite end. “And whatever you do, do not let anything touch the floor because it has to be thrown away. And it comes out of your paycheck.” Earlene’s smile reveals overly large dentures. “Are you ready for your break yet?”

  “Maybe later.” I’d hate to tear myself away from all this fun.

  “Okay, but if you get in a sticky situation, just holler!” She chortles all the way to the other side of the factory.

  I plug my earbud back in and get a rhythm going. Swipe, stick, grab. Swipe, stick, grab. This really isn’t that bad. The belt speeds up, and I stand ready with my adhesive papers.

  “Are you Bella?”

  I throw a pad in a box and pause the iPod. “Yes.” Swipe, stick, grab.

  “I’m Newton Phillips’s mom.” She holds out her hand. “Janice.”

  I shake her hand quickly, careful not to miss a beat.

  Small eyes blink behind oversized safety goggles, and I have to wonder what part of the plant she works in. “I just wanted to thank you for arranging his prom date. Newt may be brilliant at designing games, but he’s not the most socially advanced boy.”

  I try to compose a look of surprise.

  “And I know this Lindy Miller is a good girl, so I’m hoping this is the beginning of a new phase in his life.”

  “Ms. Phillips, it’s just two people going to prom together.” I throw some pads in a box. “They’re not really dating.”

  Her smile is slight. “I know. But it’s still a move in the right direction for my Newt. He needs to know there’s more out there than these fantasy worlds he creates. Good luck with this machine.

  It can be a little—”

  “Sticky. Yes, I know.” Doesn’t anyone in this building have some original jokes?

  Ms. Phillips acts like she’s going to hug me, but then seems to think better of it. She leaves me to my work and my music. I mentally take notes for the Tribune article. This will definitely provide some comic relief, I guess.

  Sometime later it occurs to me that I totally need a tinkle break.

  I speed to the red button and push it. The conveyor shudders to a stop. I grab my red Chloé bag and scan for a bathroom.

  Reeeeeeeek!

  I drop my purse at the shrill sound of gears moving. Standing in frozen horror, I watch as the conveyor belt begins to move like a locomotive, gaining in speed and noise. Pads begin to sail out of the chute like bullets from a machine gun.

  It comes out of your paycheck . . .

  “Noooooo!” I dive for the conveyor, grabbing adhesive papers and sticking them on like I’ve got four arms. Swipe, stick, grab. Swipe, stick, grab.

  Swipe, swipe, stick— Stick, stick, grab— No! I can’t lose any. But the pads are building into a mound at the base of the conveyor. I rake them upwards with my arm and sit on the belt. I pull up my legs and rest them on the sides, making a wall with my body. There must be no pad casualties!

  As if a dam breaks, the pads only come faster and faster. I jump all over the machine, slapping papers with my feet, chin, and hands—everything I’ve got.

  It’s too much! It’s a tsunami of supermaxis! I’m running out of strength. Out of hands. Out of sticky-on-thingies. Is this what Noah felt like when the rains came?

  I’ve got to work my way back to the red button! I have to stop this deranged machine. It’s possessed.

  The pads pelt me like an endless hailstorm. Somewhere in my brain the sound of a wailing alarm registers. Maybe it’s the ambulance. Maybe I’ve suffocated in this sea of lady products and I don’t even know it. My hands refuse to stop moving though, and I reach out blindly and just keep grabbing. The pads pile all around me until I’m lost beneath them, like a skier trapped under an avalanche.

  “Bella? Hellewww? Bella?” A familiar voice. Eula . . . Eunice . . .

  Earlene!

  With my remaining strength I cry. “Save me!”

  “Hold on! I’m going to pull the plug!”

  Can’t. Breathe. Must get out. I have a cat to raise.

  I feel the conveyor belt stop beneath me, and the alarm’s cry goes silent. My butt’s on fire like I’ve ridden a treadmill on my tush.

  “Where are you?” Earlene’s hands wade through the pile. “Don’t let me grab anything inappropriate. I can’t afford a sexual harassment suit.”

  “Just get me out of here!”

  Pads go flying until I finally have a hole to breathe in. Then I can move my arms. And now I see Earlene’s face, frozen in shock.

  Or maybe that’s just her brows.

  “My stars, little missy. I thought we’d lost you!”

  I drag in air in gulping gasps as Earlene begins to rip pads off my body right and left. “Ow. Ouch. Hey!”

  “You’re covered in them.” She snickers. “They’re like cockleburs. They’re stuck everywhere!” She tears one from my hair. My face. There is no spot on my body that does not have something glued to it. “You look like a maxi-pad mummy.”

  Earlene can hardly remove the pads for laughing so hard. She lightly touches a few spots on my face and neck. “Little missy, you’re going to have what we call around here sticker burn. It will be a little red. A little whelpy. No big deal.”

  “Makeup will cover it up, right?”

  She looks at her shoes. “Uh. Yeah.”

  “Earlene . . . this was very, um, educational. I think I have enough information for my article. And this really isn’t my thing.” I’m so weak!

  “Are you saying this job doesn’t make your heart extra-absorbent with happiness?”

  I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose.

  “Hon, if this place isn’t a super fit for you, then by all means don’t stick around.”

  As Earlene continues her zippy double entendres, I walk away, the
sound of her guffaws in my ear. This day could not get any worse.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see a guy with a palm-sized video camera trained right on me.

  Well. I stand corrected.

  Knowing your most embarrassing moment in life will soon be on national television is bad. But knowing it’s going to be on YouTube in ten minutes? A hundred times worse.

  chapter twenty-five

  Some girls dream of Jake Gyllenhaal or the boys from Gossip Girls. Me? Every night this week, I’ve had nightmares about drowning in a deluge of feminine protection.

  I shut off my alarm this Thursday morning, and Moxie hops onto the floor—promptly tripping over a pair of boots. After my shower, I mosey to the kitchen. Mom sits at the small table, biting into a bagel and turning the page of a textbook.

  “How’s philosophy?” I kiss her cheek and pour myself a glass of juice.

  She sticks the bagel in her mouth and grabs her pencil. “Interesting. I had hoped to find some insight in here on Robbie’s strange behavior.”

  “Like how he TiVo’s all of Anderson Cooper’s specials on CNN?

  Or how he’s memorized every word of the Superman TV shows, cartoons, and movies?”

  “No.” Mom scribbles some notes. “I meant his strange behavior lately.”

  “Oh. You’ve noticed too?”

  “He was up before I was this morning. He went to his quiet place. Why don’t you go check on him?”

  This means he’s out in the pasture with Betsy the cow. Betsy’s his pet. And she licks me. I don’t want Holstein slobber on me this morning.

  Mom turns tired eyes to me. “Bel, I was up late last night talking to Dolly. Please help me out here.”

  “What’s up with Dolly?”

  Taking a sip of coffee, Mom shakes her blonde head. “She got word yesterday that the baby’s father just found out about him. He’s been stationed in Iraq and had no idea the girl was ever pregnant.”

  “But Dolly is Mason’s mother now. He can’t have him back.”

  “Yes. He can, and he wants his son. Dolly’s got a lawyer on it, but with the dad in the picture, this could nullify the adoption. It will probably go to court.”

  My heart hurts for Dolly. This will make three children she’s lost. “I’ll go check on Robbie.” I go to the back door and grab my coat off a peg. But what I need is a rain slicker or one of those suits like the astronauts wear. Maybe Betsy will keep her tongue to herself today.