“Why does it matter what I get on it if you’re about to clean it?”
“Because I don’t want to come near your sweat even through a rag and sterilized cleaning products.”
“But you just touched me!”
“Just get out from behind here,” I said, pushing his arm with my fingertips. “This space is for employees only.”
“Well, excuse me,” he said. “I didn’t realize I was messing with . . . with . . .”
“With what?” I looked at Jonah. “Spit it out.”
A girl about my age and her mom came into the salon and Megan greeted them right away. I didn’t recognize her, and she looked like someone you’d remember if you saw her just once: She was super pale, super skinny, and had super light hair—almost white like Violet’s, except this girl’s was long and stick-straight.
“Hello, ladies!” Megan greeted them. As she checked the schedule, I noticed her side ponytail was tied with a band of clear wire with tiny red rosebuds. “You must be Mrs. Benton,” Megan said to the mother, and to the daughter she said, “I’ll bet you’re Eve.” Then Megan asked them if it was their first time at the salon and the mom explained that they’d just moved to town.
“Wow, great then,” Megan cheered. “Violet and Giancarlo are just finishing up, so if you want to wait in the lounge, we’ll get you when they’re ready.”
They sat down on the couch, each picking up a magazine, and that’s when I noticed Jonah was still looking at them, transfixed. When the girl looked up from her magazine, Jonah snapped around to me again, his eyes wide and his cheeks all flushed. “What’s the matter with you?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Oh, brother,” I said. I was not going to play this game with him, especially not while I was at work.
I wondered if Megan was going to ask Eve what school she was going to. I’d been totally embarrassed when she brought up school with Lizbeth and Kristen, but in this case I might not have minded it so much. Meanwhile, Jonah stood there like he was catatonic, Megan went back to her computer, and I didn’t say another peep. So much for introductions.
I nudged Jonah’s arm. “Seriously, are you okay?”
Just then Giancarlo made his way over to the reception area. “Who’s my next pretty?” He turned to Jonah. “Is it your turn?” he asked. Then he scruffed up Jonah’s hair and Jonah pulled his head away.
Eve dropped the magazine to the side and stood up. “I’m next,” she said. She looked at Jonah. “Get in line, pretty boy,” she said.
It was like, whoa, because we didn’t even know who this girl was. And was she being serious or joking with Jonah? Kind of didn’t matter, because she left him totally speechless.
“Goodness,” Giancarlo said. “A girl with a little fire. I like it! Come on, sugar. I’ll give you a style to match that personality.”
Eve flashed us—or maybe just Jonah—a bright smile as she followed Giancarlo to his chair.
Jonah just stood there frozen for a moment before he said good-bye to me and left.
I watched as he walked out the door, dropped his skateboard to the sidewalk, and headed up Camden Way. Then he turned and skated back down on the slight slope toward home. He looked in our window as he passed, and I wondered what about that Eve girl had gotten him so tongue-tied.
CHAPTER 9
“What was your deal this afternoon?” I asked Jonah after dinner that night. We were sitting in his living room playing Warpath.
“What deal? I didn’t have any deal,” Jonah said.
“You just got very quiet when that girl Eve showed up. And you were kind of staring.” Jonah blew up my entire fleet of choppers. “No big deal. So forget it.”
“Fine, whatever.”
Jonah finished off my last sniper and won the game. We tossed the controllers to the carpet.
“You know the new version of Warpath of Doom comes out this Thursday, right?” he asked. “Dad’s taking me to get it after school. Do you wanna come with us and then come back home with me so we can play?”
“Sure, but be prepared for me to kick some booty,” I told him. Then we played two more games before turning it off to watch an episode of World’s Dumbest.
The next afternoon, most of the chairs were filled with women in various states of re-glamorization. The sounds of salon talk, hair dryers humming, and water running filled the air. Mom, who only took select clients since she had to run the whole place, was working on the mayor, who came in every six weeks for a trim and coloring. Word around the salon was that Mayor Gorman lost her first election because of her dated helmet hair and hint of a mustache. Everything changed, though, when she came into Hello, Gorgeous! She killed the next election.
I swept, cleaned, and fetched for the stylists and generally tried to stay out of trouble. I also did my best to avoid two people at the salon: Devon, who continued to ask me if I wanted her to cut my poor hair, and now Karen, who was still irked that her polishes had gone missing. I was beginning to regret ever taking those stupid bottles.
That morning had been pretty uneventful, but at about two o’clock in the afternoon, I heard two women squealing like a couple of sixth-graders who just found out they made the cheerleading squad. One was Giancarlo’s client and one was Violet’s.
“I haven’t seen you since we filmed that cooking segment for the morning show!” Giancarlo’s client said as she pulled in Violet’s client for a hug.
“That must have been at least six months ago!” said Violet’s client, hugging back. They each took their seats.
Piper had just finished up a cut, and, as she took her client to the front to pay, I swooped in to sweep her station, which was behind Giancarlo’s. Today I would be a stealth sweeper, zapping away the mess before anyone could even spot me.
“I’ll be back in two secs, Allyson,” Violet said to her client.
“How’s that girl of yours?” Beverly asked Allyson as Giancarlo began trimming the back of her hair.
“Oh, please,” Allyson said, “she’s a mess.”
“Isn’t every thirteen-year-old?” said Beverly.
My head popped up like a gopher from its hole when I heard them mention someone my age. I scooped up the pile of hair I’d been working on and quickly dumped it in Piper’s wastebasket. I was supposed to take it to the trash in the back, but obviously I had more important things to do. Some people might have called it eavesdropping; I preferred creative listening.
I swept the floor so clean, you could have eaten pasta off of it. Neither of the women had a clue that I was paying any attention to them at all.
“You know girls. They want everything,” Allyson said.
“You can’t give in,” Beverly said.
I pushed my broom across the center of the salon near Giancarlo’s station. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be sweeping while a client was in the chair, so I tried to stay outside the imaginary border of his station while staying within listening range.
Giancarlo shot me a sideways look, which I tried to ignore. “You’re an eager little girl today,” he said, finally.
The women stopped talking long enough to stare at me like I was trying to steal their purses.
“I thought I saw a, um, gum wrapper,” I said.
“Mmmhmm,” was all Giancarlo said. Then he went back to trimming Beverly’s hair and she went back to talking. I stepped around to the other side of Violet’s station, still within listening range.
“It just seems like a huge waste of money,” Allyson said, getting up from her chair and inspecting her eyebrows in the mirror. “And not even practical. What’s she even going to do with it?”
“Kids.” Beverly said the word like it was a lemon on her tongue.
I leaned in toward Allyson, directing my broom strokes behind me, somewhere in the direction of mom’s station. Suddenly, a metal crash sounded. I jumped, then realized I had knocked down several bottles from Mom’s shelf, sending them clattering to the floor.
The entire salon turned to stare at me.
My mother headed my way, looking like she was about to blow a fuse. “Just what are you doing?” she asked from between clenched teeth. If you’ve ever had a parent do that low, controlled angry voice, you know how terrifying it is. “Have I not yet explained that you’re to refrain from sweeping around the stations while we’re working on a client?”
I knew better than to answer her. Never make the mistake of answering a rhetorical question asked by an angry mother. She’ll think you’re being a smart aleck and ground you for sure. I say this from personal experience.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered as I placed the products I’d knocked over back on her counter.
This was at least the third time I’d royally messed up at work, not including the petty theft incident. My stomach did a drop, and I wondered if I’d finally come to the end of my trial period at the salon.
“I mean, I didn’t have a cell phone when I was in school, and I think I turned out just fine,” Allyson was saying. “Besides, if Cara’s head wasn’t attached to her neck she’d lose that, too. I guarantee she’d lose that phone in a week.”
Cara! Yes! A name!
“What does she need a phone for, anyway?” Beverly said, as if it were a ridiculous thought, a kid wanting her own phone.
There was only one Cara in my grade—Cara Fredericks. She and her friends were really into drama and chorus. Honestly, it was kind of dumb logic for Allyson—now known as Mrs. Fredericks—not to get her daughter a cell phone just because she got along fine without one as a kid. Times have changed!
“What about you?” Mrs. Fredericks said. It took me a moment to realize she was speaking to me. “You look about my daughter’s age.”
“Allyson, have you not met Chloe’s daughter?” Giancarlo asked. Violet had come back and began mixing color for Mrs. Frederick’s hair. “This is Mickey. Ask her anything about hair, she’ll give you a straight answer.”
“Hello, Mickey,” she said. “Nice to meet you. Do you know my daughter, Cara Fredericks?”
“Um, hi. Yes, I know Cara.” I wasn’t entirely sure she knew me, but that wasn’t the question now, was it?
“Let me ask you: Do you have a cell phone?”
“Yes,” I said. I had a phone, but I rarely used it. Mom and Dad were the only people I’d ever called or texted which, I realized right then, was kind of sad.
“Lots of kids have them,” I added, trying to calm my shaking voice as Mrs. Fredericks, Beverly, and Giancarlo all listened carefully. “I guess because, um, you know, maybe if we have to stay late at school for a project, or if we need to call our parents if something happens walking home from school or, like . . .” I kept going, remembering in my rambles that Cara had a little brother, “maybe if you needed Cara to pick up her brother at daycare. Or something.”
“You know, you can find some pretty inexpensive phones,” Beverly said. “For her first one, since she tends to lose things.”
“Huh . . . I guess maybe I should think about it . . . ,” Mrs. Fredericks said.
They didn’t say anything more, but Giancarlo winked at me in the mirror as he went back to cutting Beverly’s hair.
Wow, I thought. Mrs. Fredericks is actually considering it. I had helped change her mind. It felt pretty amazing, I had to admit. I vowed to try sharing my opinion more often.
That night after I showered, I sat at my vanity and brushed out my wet hair. Mom came into my room and all my excitement over convincing Mrs. Fredericks to reconsider the cell phone issue vanished. “Hi, honey,” she said, sitting on my bed next to my vanity. “Can I talk to you about the salon?”
When she said salon I was sure she was talking about the nail polishes. Her tone of voice was trying to lull me into a false sense of security, I just knew it. I wanted to pull out some excuse, like I had to go to bed immediately because of a new school policy that required every student to get ten hours of sleep. “Yeah, sure.”
“First, I want you to know that I’m so happy you’re taking an interest in what I do. It makes me very proud . . .”
That was nice and all, but I could hear a big but coming.
“But . . . (What’d I tell ya?) You’ve had a few slipups, haven’t you?”
I felt like the turkey burgers and salt-and-vinegar chips from dinner were about to make a comeback all over my floor. I swallowed hard when I said, “I guess. I’m trying, though.”
“I know you are. That means everything. And I know you love the salon—that’s why I agreed to let you work there. But all the spills and mishaps have been disappointing. I can’t have unnecessary distractions at my business. Do you understand?”
In case you haven’t picked up on it yourselves, allow me to translate for you: Mickey. You’re doing a terrible job. Any other slipups, spilling, or spewing of sodas and you’re toast. Still, I was thankful she hadn’t said anything about the polishes—yet.
“Yes,” I told Mom. “I understand. I’m sorry. I really am trying.”
“I know you are,” she said. “Just pay a little more attention, okay?”
I hated that Mom had to call me out a second time, and so soon after the first. But I knew that if I were to survive, I’d have to shake it off. It wasn’t too late to redeem myself, but the worst thing to do would be to let my confidence flag.
“Oh,” Mom said before she left my room. “Karen said something about a couple of polishes that have gone missing. A light blue and a mint-green with pink sparkles? They’re from the spring collection. Let me know if you see them around the salon.”
“Okay,” I said, my stomach clenching. So much for shaking anything off. I wondered how long until I was busted. Could someone please explain to me what I’d been thinking?
Well, thinking of nail polishes, when Mom left I pulled out a new slate-gray polish from my own stash. I painted my nails, but I was feeling so awful about her talk and the missing (stolen) nail polish that even though my nails were still wet, I suddenly wanted to go to bed. I put away the polish and turned off the lights. Then I carefully lay on my back and placed my nails outside the blanket, where they could dry while I slept.
CHAPTER 10
I woke up late the next morning to two surprises. Number one: I must have moved around in my sleep because my nails were covered in tiny little dents and marks from brushing against my blanket . . .
And number two: my hair, which also hadn’t dried before I went to bed, was mushed up in a bird’s nest in the back. I spritzed some water on it to try to get it to lay down properly, but then Dad yelled from downstairs to hurry up for breakfast. I grabbed a bottle of clear polish, thinking I could use it to smooth out the marks. When I left for school my hair was still a little wet and crazy and my nails were totally jacked. This didn’t bode well for the rest of the day.
In homeroom I started putting on the clear polish, but Ms. Carter sniffed it out and made me put it away after I’d only gotten to one hand. At least my thumbnail looked slightly better.
At lunch, Jonah and Kyle were experimenting with making soda come out of their noses. I left early, thinking things couldn’t get any worse.
Just before the bell rang in Ms. Carlisle’s English class, a pale, ghostly girl walked through our doors and handed Ms. Carlisle a slip of paper. It was Eve, the girl from the salon! So she was going to Rockford after all! Ms. Carlisle pointed to a seat a row over from me, and as Eve crossed the room her wispy white hair fluttered behind her like a sheer curtain in the breeze. Giancarlo had left the length and had given her some long layers, and it had that healthy, just-cut bounce and shine to it.
Eve totally busted me staring at her as she sat down. “Hey! I know you,” she said.
“Your hair looks really good,” I responded. I couldn’t believe how great it looked two days after the cut. And it wasn’t the least bit oily, which meant she had to have washed it. Which meant that she had to have styled it by herself. I know life’s not fair, but why was her hair so easy to style while mine was so
impossible?
Eve sat down, putting her perfectly white backpack on the floor by her desk. “Thanks. I wanted to make a good first impression and everything.”
“Cool,” I said, trying to think of something else to say. Mind . . . blank.
“I’m Eve, by the way,” she said, and I thought, Right. That’s one way to start a convo.
“Oh, yeah, I actually overheard Megan, the receptionist, calling you Eve. I’m Mickey,” I started. And then, I had a brilliant idea. “So you just moved here?”
Like, duh.
“How’d you know?” She smiled, showing me she was joking. “Yeah, from Connecticut. My mom wanted to be closer to her mom—she just had a stroke—so, here we are.”
I told her I was sorry to hear it, and I started to work on the writing prompt Ms. Carlisle had just written on the board. She was having us write a story that used pet mouse and hockey stick in it. She does this sometimes because she says it’s supposed to make us creative or something, but I think she uses it as an excuse to catch up on grading.
“Do you work at Hello, Gorgeous!?” Eve asked as if making conversation was so easy. Maybe it was, and I just spent too much time overthinking it.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s my mom’s salon.”
“Awesome,” she said. “You get free cuts and products and stuff?”
Great, I thought. This is the part where she asks me for a free flat iron and three-color process.
“I get some stuff,” I said. “My mom cuts my hair, but she won’t do anything cool with it.” I held up the ends of my hair to demonstrate the boringness of it.
We worked on our prompts some more. A little while later, Eve asked, “That guy you were talking to at the salon . . . the one with the skateboard?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Is he your brother?”
“My brother? No way. No, he’s—”
And then I had a horrible thought that made me forget the pet mouse competing at the Olympic hockey match. “You don’t think we look alike, do you?”
Blowout Page 5
