“To surprise them. I can’t wait to see the expressions on their faces!”
Dad gave me a wink. “All right, my lips are sealed.”
“Thanks,” I said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.
I ran upstairs. Suddenly I felt great. I finished my homework in no time. I talked to Dawn a little about Carolyn’s time machine, I talked to Logan on the phone about going to the January Jamboree together. And I never once mentioned my haircut.
The Official Countdown had begun. It was T minus three days until the New Mary Anne!
Jessi was the perfect person to sit for the twins. Because of her ballet, she knows some classical music, which helps Marilyn. And Jessi’s also read a lot of science fiction, so she could talk about time travel with Carolyn.
They were in the kitchen, having lunch, when Jessi mentioned Back to the Future. Well, forget it. Carolyn was off and running.
“Did you like the part where his mom calls him Calvin Klein, ’cause she sees that name on his underwear?” Carolyn said, laughing so hard a piece of lettuce shot out of her mouth.
“Say it, don’t spray it,” Marilyn mumbled.
“That was pretty funny,” Jessi said, answering Carolyn. “How about the part where Dr. Brown laughs hysterically when Marty tells him Ronald Reagan will be President one day.”
“It’s my favy-avy-avorite movie of all time!” Carolyn said.
Marilyn yawned. “We know that.”
“Well, you said you liked it, too,” Carolyn insisted. Then she barged ahead, turning to Jessi. “I know a lot about time travel. You know what I started to read? The Time Machine.”
“Dad has to read most of it to her,” Marilyn cut in.
“It’s soooo exciting,” Carolyn said.
“I read that,” Jessi said. “It’s by H. G. Wells.”
“Yeah, that’s him!”
“I’ve been reading this great book called Time and Again, by a guy named Jack Finney,” Jessi said. “It’s about a secret government project, where people go back in time to change history.”
Carolyn’s eyes widened. “Wow! Is there really such a thing?”
Jessi laughed. “I don’t think so …”
“There could be!” Carolyn insisted. “I saw a TV show that said there are, um, like warps in space that have these wormholes —”
Marilyn squealed with laughter. “Wormholes?”
“Yeah!” Carolyn said with a pout.
“So that means worms can travel in space?”
“Not in space. In time, dodo brain!”
“You can’t call me that!”
“And not just worms — anything can! Except maybe you, ’cause you’re too —”
Jessi the Peacemaker took over. “If you really could go back in time, what time would you go to?”
The girls fell silent for a moment. “Back to when my mom and dad were kids,” Carolyn said. “I could baby-sit for them.”
“And make them eat broccoli!” Marilyn added.
The girls giggled. Jessi could tell Marilyn was finally interested in the conversation. “How about you, Marilyn?” Jessi asked.
Marilyn thought deeply. “Oh, the late 1700s.”
“Why?”
“Then I could, like, hide Mozart’s pencils or something, so he wouldn’t write such hard music.”
That wasn’t what Jessi had expected. She laughed.
“How about you, Jessi?” Carolyn said.
“I’d go to Paris in the early 1900s,” Jessi volunteered, “to see this great ballet dancer named Nijinsky. They say he was so exciting to watch that people would faint in the audience.”
“Wow,” Marilyn said.
Carolyn had a mischievous glint in her eye. “Well, maybe you can see him!” She jumped up from her chair. “Follow me!”
Carolyn led Jessi and Marilyn down to the basement. (No password was required.) There, in all its high-tech glory, was the time machine. According to Jessi, it looked exactly the way it had looked when I saw it — the crates, the ropes tied to the boiler, the sign with the bad spelling.
“Bet you don’t know what this is,” Carolyn said.
“It’s a time machine,” Marilyn piped up.
“Marilyn …”
“That’s exactly what I thought it was!” Jessi said. “It looks … great.”
“I still need a few parts,” Carolyn said. She rummaged around on the floor and found a neatly folded piece of paper. “Here’s my list.”
She held out the paper for Jessi to see. It looked like this:
“Some of these might be a little hard to find,” Carolyn said.
Jessi’s baby-sitting instinct took over. A search would be a perfect activity. “I bet we can find these things,” she said. “Let’s go on a scavenger hunt!”
“Yeah!” Carolyn and Marilyn cried.
They ran upstairs. “The dish towels are in the pantry!” Marilyn said, running into the kitchen.
“I’ll get the toilet paper!” Carolyn called out.
Jessi stood in the kitchen, looking at the list. “Where do you keep old blankets?”
Marilyn rushed over, holding a faded old dish towel. “Top shelf of the linen closet,” she said. “I’ll show you.”
She and Jessi ran to a narrow closet in the hallway between the kitchen and the living room. Sure enough, a motheaten woolen blanket sat on the top shelf. Jessi took it down and went back to the kitchen, to put it on the table.
Carolyn was already bunching up a big wad of toilet paper.
“Where do you keep all the stuff you don’t want?” Jessi asked.
“The attic,” Carolyn answered. “But it’s scary up there.”
“I’m not scared!” Marilyn said. “Let’s go.”
Carolyn couldn’t stay downstairs after that. The three of them barged into the attic.
It was a little creepy, but right in the middle of it was a huge box filled with old baby toys. And on the top was a toy telephone on wheels.
“There’s our unplugged telephone!” Jessi said.
“Look,” Carolyn exclaimed, pulling out a radio alarm clock with fake wood paneling. “Remember this? Mom called it a piece of junk and Dad said to save it.”
The cover of the clock face was missing, and the hands were dangling. Carolyn pulled them off. “They won’t even notice,” she said.
“Our old shower curtain!” Marilyn exclaimed from under one of the attic eaves. She held up a metal rod with crinkly plastic curtains.
Jessi checked the list. “Great, that’s the last thing! Let’s go!”
“Back to the basement!” Carolyn said.
They clattered down two flights of stairs, grabbing all their supplies. When they reached the machine, Carolyn lined up everything carefully on the floor. Then she went to work.
“Let’s see,” she said, wrapping the toilet paper around her magnifying glass. “The flux capacitator must have a cushion from warp shock … the curtain rod will conduct the electricity … now, if we set the hands to a specific time …”
It didn’t take Marilyn long to grow bored. “I’m going to go read,” she said, trudging back upstairs.
Jessi stayed in the basement. Carolyn tinkered around, attaching things to the crates, adjusting the wires. All the time she kept mumbling to herself, as if Jessi weren’t even there.
A weird thought crossed Jessi’s mind: What if Carolyn really believed this stuff?
But she just smiled and threw that thought away. Carolyn was old enough to know fantasy from reality.
“Perfect!” Carolyn said. She turned to Jessi, her face aglow. “We’ll be ready for our first trip by next week!”
Then again, maybe not.
Santa rose slowly upward, then disappeared. He was still checking his list. Beside him, a girl with tennis shorts happily sniffed a bunch of daisies. She didn’t take any notice of him.
It was the Changing of the Window Displays at Washington Mall. (Santa and the girl were mannequins.)
While Jessi was
sitting for the Arnold twins, Dad and I were looking at the window of Steven E, one of the mall’s fanciest clothing boutiques. After yanking Santa out of the way, the designers began setting up a spring garden scene around the girl. One of them saw us and started dancing with another mannequin.
Dad and I laughed. “The clothes here are sooo nice,” I said. “But really expensive.”
“Well, let’s get your hair cut first,” Dad said. “Let’s see how much that costs. Then maybe we can go in.”
I didn’t expect him to say that. In fact, I felt a little guilty. Maybe Dad thought I had been hinting for him to take me into that store.
I hadn’t been, but I have to admit I was thrilled he had offered.
We rode the mall elevator to the floor where the salon was. When we went in, I asked for Joyce (Stacey’s favorite hairstylist). I was in luck. She was there, just finishing up a customer.
Unfortunately, that customer was a very old lady with bluish-white hair, all done up in a kind of beehive. I was having second thoughts about Joyce.
As we sat in the waiting area, I could hear Dad making sniffing noises. “What is that smell?” he said.
“Someone’s getting a perm,” I replied.
“Oh,” he said with a slightly sour expression.
I reached into my bag and took out the photo of the haircut I wanted. Dad rummaged through a pile of fashion magazines, before he found a three-month-old issue of Rolling Stone. “I don’t suppose I’d find The Wall Street Journal here,” he muttered.
In a few minutes, a young woman motioned me over to the sinks in the corner of the salon. The warmth of the water calmed me down. As I was being towel-dried, I noticed Joyce’s customer was standing up and admiring her beehive. Joyce smiled at me and said, “Your turn.”
This was It. There was no turning back now.
I stood up and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair cascaded to my shoulders. Suddenly it seemed so beautiful. I thought of all the events of my life, all the ups and downs I had gone through with this hair. It was like an old friend. In a few minutes, most of it was going to be lying in wet clumps on the floor.
Part of me wanted to run away, but I didn’t give in. This was the New Mary Anne. Willing to try new things, to be the best possible person she could be.
“Hi,” I said bravely.
“What can I do for you?” Joyce asked.
I explained that I was a friend of Stacey’s. Then I showed her the photo. “Can you do this style?”
Joyce looked at it, then stared at me through squinty eyes. Finally she nodded confidently. “Sure. This will look fabulous on you.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, settling into the chair. I tried to smile. I swallowed. I closed my eyes.
“Now, honey, this isn’t the dentist’s office,” Joyce said.
My eyes opened and I actually smiled.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Joyce asked.
“Yes!” I said quickly.
Joyce went to work. She tried to make conversation while she snipped away. I kept saying “Uh-huh” and laughing weakly at her jokes. I must have sounded like a real dope, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off the mirror. Each hunk of falling hair was like a little death.
(I can’t help it — that’s how it felt!)
But you know what? When Joyce clipped off the last long strands, I changed. I saw what the hairstyle was going to look like. I said hello to my jaw again (not aloud).
When Joyce finished, I almost jumped out of my seat. I looked … well, let’s put it this way. I did not look like the model, but I did look like a new person. I felt like one, too. I could see my grin growing and growing in the mirror. I didn’t know what to say, so I sort of squealed.
“She’s excited,” Joyce said to my dad.
“Yes,” Dad replied. He wasn’t exactly bursting with praise, but he was smiling.
I could barely feel my feet touch the ground, I was so happy. I must have stared in that mirror for ages. I wanted to see every possible angle. Eventually Dad paid the cashier and gently led me away.
“Thanks!” I said to Joyce.
“My pleasure,” Joyce replied. “Say hi to Stacey for me.”
What a feeling came over me as I walked out of the salon. Who ever knew there were breezes in a mall? Well, there were, and I felt every one of them on my neck.
“Oh, thank you, Dad!” I exclaimed. “Do you like it?”
“The important thing is, do you like it?” he replied.
My stomach went into knots. He hadn’t said yes. “I love it … but …” I felt my lower lip start to tremble. “You don’t like it, do you?”
Dad gave me a concerned look. “No, I think it’s wonderful, sweetheart. It makes you look like a beautiful young woman. It’s just …” He shrugged and tried to smile. “Well, you’re growing up, Mary Anne. That’s never easy for a parent to see, especially an old grump like me.”
So that’s what it was. The look in Dad’s eyes was sad and proud and happy, all at the same time. Oh boy. Now I felt like crying for a different reason.
Fortunately, a chirpy voice interrupted our silence. “Free makeover for our grand opening?”
I turned to see a stunning woman in a clingy dress. She smelled of perfume and was wearing lots of makeup. She was easily six feet tall. The store behind her had been under construction the last time I was here. Now its display window was stuffed with perfumes and cosmetics. The words About Face arched across the window in purple neon lights.
“It’s free!” she said again. “This week only. No purchase necessary. You’ll be glad you tried it.”
It was exactly what I needed — an elegant makeup job to go with an elegant haircut. Of course, I was wearing no makeup at all. “Dad?” I asked.
Dad shrugged. “Why not?”
And that was how I, the New Mary Anne, found myself at the makeup counter of About Face, being fussed over by two women who could have been models themselves.
One of them thought my complexion was a “winter,” another was convinced it was a “late spring.” They kept holding patches of color against my cheek and nodding or shaking their heads. I had no idea what they were doing.
But I felt great.
By the time I was ready to look in a mirror, they were both grinning widely.
When I turned to see myself, I nearly gasped. I looked about seventeen years old. My cheekbones seemed higher, my eyes seemed wider, and my lips were absolutely luscious. The makeup was exactly right with my new hair.
“Darling, you look like you stepped off the cover of Vogue,” one of the women said.
“Thanks,” I replied, watching my face turn bright red.
“It’s true,” said the other. She turned to Dad and said, “What do you think of your daughter?”
This time Dad didn’t hesitate. “Gorgeous!” he said proudly. “Why don’t you write down the … er, recipe you used.”
Recipe? I tried not to giggle. With a straight face, one of the women took a pen and a printed sheet from the countertop. “I’ll circle each of the products we used. If you wish to purchase any of them, show the salesperson this sheet and you’ll get a twenty percent discount.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking the sheet. I gave Dad a hopeful look.
With a chuckle he said, “Oh, we’ve gone this far. Why not go all the way?”
We bought some blush, eyeliner, and lipstick. I could tell Dad was adding the prices up in his head, but he didn’t protest one bit (and, thank goodness, he didn’t take out his calculator).
On our way out we heard some jazz from the center court of the mall. “That’s a Charlie Parker tune,” Dad said.
One thing about Dad. He can be very conservative, but he knows jazz. We took the elevator down and joined a crowd of people watching a five-person group — drummer, bass player, pianist, saxophonist, and a singer.
During a fast tune, I could hear this strange, muffled noise. “Eh eh eh-eh-eh-eh … eh eh …” It was starting to be
come annoying, until I realized it was coming from the drummer. He was playing with his eyes closed and … grunting to the music.
I caught Dad’s eye, and we smiled. “Should we tell him?” he whispered.
“Dad!” I put my hand to my mouth, trying not to giggle. What if he heard us?
“Hey, are you as hungry as I am?” Dad suddenly asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“For Mexican food?”
“Yes!”
We went to the Casa Grande and ordered heaping portions of burritos, enchiladas, and other yummy fattening stuff. Then we found a table near the jazz group, so we sat, ate, told jokes, and listened for “Eh-eh.”
After lunch and jazz we both felt very mellow and slow-moving. We sauntered through the mall, window-shopping and chatting. Dad actually suggested we go into Steven E, but I felt a little guilty because he’d already spent so much money.
“Well, let’s just take a look,” he insisted.
When we reached the store and saw some of the price tags, Dad’s eyebrows arched way up.
A young, well-dressed guy with moussed hair and a flashy smile was walking toward us. “Hi, I’m Steven,” he said. “Don’t forget, this is our post-season sale. Everything is thirty to sixty percent off the marked price. Browse around, take a look, and if you need any help, just ask.”
“Thanks,” Dad said.
As Steven walked away, I whispered to Dad, “It’s okay, the haircut and the makeup are enough.” But I couldn’t take my eyes off this outfit. It was a fiery red, off-the-shoulder crepe dress, with shirred sleeves, a fitted bodice, and a skirt that flared to mid-calf. It was the kind of dress the old me would never have dreamed of wearing.
But the New Mary Anne would look great in it for the January Jamboree!
Dad, as usual, was reading my mind. “What if we strike a deal,” he said. “I’ll charge whatever clothes and accessories you need, but you will be responsible for paying me back half, whenever you can.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay, it’s a deal!”
I felt like a kid who’d gone to sleep in June and awakened on Christmas Day. Since half of it was my money, I didn’t get everything I wanted. But it was “quite a haul,” as my dad said: the dress; some stockings and a pair of shoes to go with it; an oversized, indigo cable-knit sweater; and a pair of floral paisley print Lycra leggings with a French terry top.
Mary Anne's Makeover (9780545767859) Page 3
