Why I Let My Hair Grow Out

by Maryrose Wood

  Mrs. Boob took out a clipboard. What would an orientation be without sticky name tags and a clipboard, I ask you?

  “Now, for the adventurers! Allow me to introduce the Billingsley family. Just raise a hand when I call your names. Edward—that’s Mr. Billingsley, I see.” There was a family of four on folding chairs directly behind the sofa. Apparently they were the Billingsleys. “Winifred?”

  “How do you do,” said Winifred Billingsley to the room. She sounded very proper and British, like Julie Andrews. She looked a bit like Julie Andrews too. I tried to picture her elegant blond hairdo after eight hours in a bike helmet, all flattened out and sweaty. Maybe she’d let me shave it off for her, heh heh.

  “And we’ve got the two wee Billingsleys along—Derek, ah, you’re not so wee. There’s a strapping lad!” Derek slumped down in his chair looking ready to die. I guessed he was about twelve. “And the lovely Sophie. Do you enjoy a nice bike ride, then, Sophie, dear?”

  Sophie made a pouty face. “I like my scooter,” she whined. She was Tammy’s age. Winifred shushed her promptly.

  Brilliant. A week’s vacation from robot girl and I get stuck with a British brat instead.

  “I sympathize completely, Sophie,” said Mrs. Boob, with one of those fake you-and-me-against-the-world smiles grown-ups like to give crabby children. “On my days off from work I ride a sweet little Harley-Davidson. The hog is a welcome change, to be sure.”

  Mrs. Boob? Biker chick? What kind of country was this? But Mrs. Boob was already on to her next victim.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Faraday. Wait then, I see a cancellation marked here. It’s just Mrs. Faraday, correct?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “Mrs. Faraday? Lucy Faraday? Are you with us?”

  It took a while, but finally Mrs. Faraday raised her hand. She was in an armchair that was half-turned toward the fire. It was one of those kinds of chairs that has little wings on the side, so her face was partly hidden. “Yes. I’m here,” she said.

  “And where’s Mr. Faraday then?” asked Mrs. Boob, in her jolly way. “Though I know how the menfolk can be! Some of ’em won’t leave the office for a holiday unless it’s a national emergency. He’s not sick I hope?”

  “Not anymore,” said Mrs. Faraday, softly. “He died.”

  That shut Mrs. Boob up for sure. But only for a second.

  “I’m terribly sorry, dear,” she said, her pale face turning red behind her freckles. “I apologize for not knowing beforehand. We’re so glad you’re here with us during this difficult time.”

  I was trying not to look his way, but I couldn’t help noticing that Colin lowered his head and clasped his hands in front of him as Mrs. Boob said this. Then Mrs. Boob did the same. I was afraid they were going to expect us all to pray or cry or something, but then they both snapped out of it, and Mrs. Boob was just as merry as before.

  “Home stretch, now! A warm willkommen to Heidi and Johannes Schein.”

  The two spandexed blonds practically bounced up and down in their eagerness to raise their hands in the air. I clutched the sofa cushions so I wouldn’t get knocked off. Mrs. Boob smiled at them. “You look far too young to be married. Are you brother and sister, then?”

  “Tvins!” said Johannes and Heidi, at the same time. Gag.

  “Double trouble, eh? Well I’m sure we’ll all take a ‘shine’ to both of you, ha hah! And there ought to be another young lad here—Morgan Rawlinson?” She scanned the room looking for the lad she thought was me, but of course I was the only person left she hadn’t called.

  About this lad business—it is a fact that my parents gave me a boy’s name. Fact, and yet they deny it. Whenever I complain they start chanting, “Morgan Fairchild! Morgan Fairchild!” like anybody my age has a clue who that is or gives a crap. Morgan Freeman, people; he’s a dude.

  So Mrs. Boob’s mistake didn’t surprise me. However, this was the first time someone assumed I was a boy while I had a buzz cut. Boy name, boy hair—there were definitely some chain-yanking possibilities here. But spoilsport Colin was already giggling in the back of the room.

  “The bonnie Morgan is a lass, Patty! That’s her with the bald head up front, see?”

  Mrs. Patty Boob looked at me. “Ah, I was wonderin’ who you might be! Morgan it is.” She looked at me kindly, like I was retarded. “Do you like Sinéad O’Connor, then?”

  All bald people like each other, it’s well known.

  “I prefer Curly,” I said. “From the Three Stooges.” I have an awesome deadpan expression when I want to use it, and I let it rip. I could see on Mrs. Boob’s face she was trying to guess whether I was messing with her or not. She must’ve decided she didn’t care, because she just went on with the orientation. Score points for Mrs. B.; it was the only dignified response.

  “That’s it then,” she said, flipping her clipboard over. “We’ve two more but they won’t be arriving till morning. On their honeymoon, you know! I expect they wanted some privacy tonight.”

  I did not need a mental image of someone else’s night of passion, thank you very much.

  I used to imagine what it would be like to spend the whole night with Raph, waking up together and everything. We fooled around plenty but never went all the way. Sometimes when I hadn’t seen him for a few days and I’d be thinking about how great he was and all that, and I’d decide that I wanted to. But then we’d get together and I’d start to feel unsure. So we didn’t. He didn’t complain about it that much. I thought that meant he was a gentleman or cared about my feelings or some happy crap like that. Only after he dumped me did I realize, he probably just didn’t find me that attractive.

  “. . . always wear your helmets . . . stay with your buddy . . . cell phones . . . maps . . . breakfast at 8 a.m. sharp . . .” Mrs. B. was orienting everyone into a frenzy, but I gave up listening. The image of Raph boffing a brainiac girl from brainiac leaders-of-tomorrow camp was now lodged firmly in my mind, and no amount of reminders to stop frequently, drink water and stretch my hamstrings was going to make it go away.

  Why was I here again? To forget about Raph? No. I was here so my family could forget about me. This was their vacation from Miserable Morgan.

  Maybe they’d enjoy my absence so much they wouldn’t let me come home. My dad would cancel the return ticket without telling me and I’d be standing in the airport, stranded. I’d change my name, hitchhike across Europe, survive by eating foreign food out of foreign trash bins. . . .

  “Nice to meet you Morgan!” Heidi and Johannes were standing in front of me, grinning. Apparently Mrs. Boob was done talking and we were in the “now go annoy each other” portion of orientation.

  “We are called Heidi!” said Heidi.

  “And we are called Johannes,” said Johannes.

  “I see that,” I said, nodding at their name tags.

  “We are taking the trip to practice English and meet youth from other countries. We are nice to meet you!” Heidi was at least five foot ten. If I stood up I’d be talking to her spandexed chest, but sitting left me in a worse position. It was hard to decide what to do.

  “Happy!” said Johannes. “Happy to meet you!”

  “Awesome,” I said. I decided to stand. And leave. “I’m gonna go crash. Have fun.”

  “Crash?” asked Heidi.

  I made a little sleeping pose by folding my hands and putting them next to my face.

  “Ah!” said Johannes. “Have a nice crash!”

  “Right,” I said. I looked around the room. Mrs. Boob was speaking quietly with Lucy Faraday, and there was some hankie action going on. Mrs. Billingsley was nagging Derek to put away his Nintendo DS, and Mr. Billingsley was trying to hoist little Sophie onto his shoulder; she’d fallen fast asleep.

  I thought it might be fun to say something sassy to Colin before heading back to my room, but he must have left already. I didn’t see him anywhere.

  five

  ireland is on greenwich mean time, which is five hours later than Greenwich, Conn
ecticut, time.

  Greenwich Mean Time. I liked the sound of it. There was no Greenwich Nice Time, and that was fine with me.

  After the meeting I’d been so cotton-mouthed with jetlag and stupefied by all the dis-orientation that I’d gone back to my room and passed out in my stinky travel clothes on top of the bedcovers.

  Almost immediately I’d started dreaming of a human-sized cuckoo clock. Heidi and Johannes were popping in and out of the little wooden doors, flapping their spandexed arms like wings. “Tvins!” they’d chirp, and disappear. “Tvins!” But then the phone rang and woke me up.

  “What?” I said, groggy and cross.

  “Honey!” It was my mom’s voice. “How are you? Is Ireland beautiful? Are you having fun?”

  “Sleeping,” I mumbled. “Long day.”

  “How was the flight? Did you have something to eat? Did you meet the other people yet? Is everybody nice?”

  “’S fine,” I said. I was trying not to wake up all the way, but it was getting difficult. “’S late here. Greenwich Mean Time, remember?”

  “We just wanted to make sure you’d arrived safely. Your dad’s not home from work yet but he sends his love. I’ll put your sister on. Be careful! Wear a helmet, okay? Love you, bye!”

  “Hi!” said Tammy. “Bye!”

  “Say something nice to your sister,” I heard Mom say in the background.

  “Something nice to your sister,” said Tammy, giggling. “It’s great here without you! Bye!”

  Then it took me an hour to get back to sleep.

  seven a.m., greenwich mean time. time to rise and bloody shine, as Colin might say.

  There was no shower in my bathroom, only a tub. I had to stare at the plumbing a bit for this information to sink in. Screw it then, I’ll have a bath, I thought. I never took baths at home. Tammy still did because she was such a baby, and my mom loved to marinate in her smelly herbal bath beads from Lucky Lou’s. Even my dad took an occasional hot soak when he overdid it on the golf course. In my opinion baths were too quiet. I liked the sound of shower water rushing past my ears, drowning out the things I didn’t want to think about. Baths were a waste of time and hot water, a little kid thing to be outgrown.

  But this bathtub was cute, I had to admit. It stood on four splayed lion feet and was much deeper than the tub at home. The water was plenty hot, and Ye Olde Quaint soap smelled like wildflowers. If I had hair I would’ve had to figure out how to rinse it, but that was not an obstacle at the moment.

  Naturally my mom had run out and bought two of everything on the “what to bring” list in the brochure, so I had several pairs of padded bike shorts to choose from. Which pair would make my ass look less than huge? Answer: None of them, so I grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie and made it to the dining room for breakfast by, oh, 8:20 or something like that. Close enough, right?

  Okay, so i Was late. the rest Of the gang Was pretty much done eating by the time I walked in, and Colin had just distributed the official Emerald Cycle Bike Tour cell phones.

  “How do I call my teacher, Miss Abbott?” demanded Sophie, randomly pressing buttons on the phone. “How do I call my best friend, Penelope? How do I call my other best friend, Ivy? How do I call Mum and Daddy? How do I call—”

  “How do I call Sophie and tell her to shut up?” said Derek. “Hey, this phone is bollocks; there aren’t any games on here at all.”

  “Children!” said Mrs. Billingsley, wincing. Mr. Billingsley snatched the two phones away from his children, causing Sophie to fume and Derek to flip open his Nintendo.

  “The left button rings Patty, the right button rings me,” Colin explained with infinite patience, as I slunk over to the coffee station. “Hallo there, Mor! You’ll be well rested for the day, then. Quick fix yourself a plate; we’ll be on the road in a few minutes.”

  “Not hungry,” I said. I was, but being contrary had become a reflex by now. The coffee smelled awfully good. I poured myself a cup.

  “Can’t ride twenty miles on an empty stomach, lass. Go get yerself some bacon and eggs.” Colin sounded friendly but stern. My tourmates were sitting on benches at an enormous, rustic-looking wooden table. There was one empty spot between Johannes and Derek, who was now busy “accidentally” kicking his sister. I knew that trick too.

  Johannes smiled bravely at the Billingsleys, who were looking very stressed. “Brothers and sisters! Me and Heidi, we were the same,” he said. “Always fighting, with the—what is this in English?” He ground his knuckle into Derek’s skull.

  “Ouch! A noogie!” Derek yelled.

  “Ya! Remember, Heidi?” He laughed. “Always with the noogies!” Heidi laughed too. The thought of these two and their Teutonic über-noogies seemed to quiet Derek down.

  I had to go past the long, tempting breakfast buffet to get from the coffee urn to the table. I picked up a plate, ignored the bacon and eggs (which looked delicious) and chose the crust end of a loaf of brown bread out of the bread basket. With my hard nub of bread and a cup of black coffee, I slid into place next to Derek.

  Colin clucked disapprovingly at my meal but went on talking. “All righty, I think that covers everything. If you’re done eating then head out to the front of the inn. Patty will fit you with a helmet—”

  “Will we get our new bikes now?” squealed Sophie. She had tapioca smeared all over her chin, but she kept batting away her mother’s attempts to clean it with a napkin.

  “It’s not to keep, Sophie,” Mr. Billingsley said sharply. “You’ve your own bike at home.”

  “But mine is pink!” whined Sophie. “I loathe pink! Pink is for babies!”

  I could clearly imagine myself strangling this kid, but it seemed possible her father might beat me to the punch.

  “Aye, pink is for babies, and you’re a full-grown young woman, aren’t you Sophie?” Colin regarded the little monster like he was totally serious. “We haven’t any pink bikes at all, never fear. And guess what?”

  “What?” The girl scowled like one of those big-eyed demon-spawn kids in a horror movie.

  Colin leaned in close to her. “Patty’s got a skull-and-crossbones sticker on her helmet, all dripping with blood and marrow and maggots, and it glows in the dark to boot. If you fancy it, perhaps she’ll get you one too.” Sophie looked stunned. “That’s it everyone, off you go then! The bonny Morgan and I will be out straight away.”

  The Billingsleys, the tvins, and the sad and subdued Lucy Faraday obediently got up from the table. I watched their padded asses waddle out of the dining room. When they were gone Colin turned to me.

  “If you’ve got some sort of bug up your arse, tell me now, Mor, so we can get rid of it, eh?”

  I slurped my coffee and looked up at him with my best wide-eyed expression. “I’m fine,” I said. “Why do you say that?”

  “Just a feeling. I’m good with people, in case you haven’t noticed. Didn’t you bring any proper bike shorts?” he asked, looking at my baggy sweatpants.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “So how come you’re not wearin’ them? Your bum’ll be aching six ways from Sunday in those.” Without missing a beat, Colin got down on his knees in front of me. I suppose you didn’t want your backside lookin’ like the map of Ireland.” He pulled the tops of my socks up high over my sweatpants. “But fek it, I say, because it’s your arse, after all. Nobody’s business but your own what it looks like. There,” he said, looking at his handiwork. “Now your trousers won’t get tangled up in the bike chain. That’s one way to go flying over the handlebars, for sure.”

  Still kneeling, he looked up at me with his broad, handsome face. “How old are ya, Mor?”

  “Eighteen,” I lied.

  “Are ya, now,” he said. “I woulda guessed younger. I’m twenty meself, but only just.”

  “I would’ve guessed older,” I said. “Happy birthday.” He stood up, and all at once he was looming over me.

  “Ta very much,” he said. “Here’s your phone. Right button rings me
, don’t forget.”

  after some chaos getting everyone fitted With a helmet and a bike, filling all the water bottles and going over the maps one more time, the group was ready to go. Almost.

  “But Mother,” whined Sophie. “What if I have to use the toilet?”

  “That’s why there’s a diaper in your shorts, you big baby!” Derek teased, with impressive meanness.

  “You can just knock on any door and ask to use the loo. People are friendly here,” said Colin.

  “By the side of the road’s fine too,” said Patty, slinging her leg over her bike. “What do you think keeps the grass in Ireland so green? Off we go, now!”

  colin Was left behind to finish loading Our luggage into the van. Then he’d drive along the route, doing regular sweeps for stragglers, the lost, the tired, the hopelessly sore-bottomed. I didn’t expect to fall into any of these categories, so I figured I wouldn’t see him again till lunchtime.

  Patty had explained that she’d be riding along with us today to get things underway, but for the rest of the tour we’d only see her in the evenings when we arrived at our next inn. In her state-of-the-art bike gear, Patty lost every trace of last night’s Mrs. Boob frumpy look. She was full-bodied, but it was solid muscle, and those boobs in a stretch metallic athletic top made her look like fekkin’ Wonder Woman.

  She sailed off on her bike, gesturing at us to follow. It made me think of when I was a little kid at the zoo watching the penguins jump into the water. They look so clumsy on land, but turn sleek and graceful as soon as they dive into their native element.

  I used to love watching the penguins just to see this transformation happen, over and over. I can still remember throwing a real mother of a tantrum at the zoo one time when everybody was ready to leave the penguin exhibit but me. My dad bought me a stuffed penguin from the gift shop to shut me up. It worked, but the effect was only temporary, heh heh.