by Kayt Miller
“It surprising how much long hair has changed your appearance, Virginia.”
“I know, right?” I hardly recognize myself. I didn’t change the color; I just had her add about eight inches to the front and ten to the back of my length. “It’s surprisingly soft. I can run my fingers through it.”
“She said you could curl or straighten it like real hair too.”
“It is real hair, dork. I can color it too.”
“What’s it look like pulled up into a ponytail.” Peach reaches out and pulls it back. “Wow, you can’t tell.”
“I know. It’s called Hair Fusion. They literally fuse my hair with the extensions.” I flip my hair back over my shoulder and smile, “I feel like sort of glamorous,” I giggle.
“You look glam. Now, all you need to do is ditch all of the baggy clothes and you’re set.”
“Baggy? They’re not baggy.”
“Hell yes, they’re baggy. You need clothes about two sizes smaller than those.”
“I guess that means you’re going to help me find clothes that will attract a Free spirited guy. Whatever that looks like.” Fashion is not my thing. But, Peach knows clothes and makeup like the back of her hand.
“Ooh, yeah. I’m thinking tight torn jeans and flowery, sexy Bohemian tops.”
Not too tight. My ass and thighs aren’t used to being constricted. “Let’s hit the thrift store. They’ve always got some good stuff.”
“Fine,” Peach grumbles. She loves the mall.
We’re able to find the jeans Peach thought would work along with some cut off jean shorts and some uber short frayed skirts. “These are too short, Peach,” I whine.
“Your legs are your best feature. You need to accentuate those.”
“My brain is my best feature,” I grumble.
“You can wow them with your brain after you’ve attracted their attention. It’s how it works, V.”
Grumbling, I toss in the mini skirts into my basket. We find a few old concert tees that Peach says she can ‘make cute’. She’s an artist; I’m sure she’ll be able to do something. Next, we head to the mall to an extremely expensive store called Bohomoho. “It’s an oxymoron that this…” I said holding up a sheer top, “…top is one hundred dollars.”
“What do you mean?” she asks as she searches through the racks.
“Because, back in the day, it meant artist or writer who was unconventional. Think starving artists and writers, Peach. They never would have spent this kind of money on clothes. It’s too pretentious.”
Ignore my rant she shouts, “Here!” as she pulls an adorable eyelet top from the rack. “This is perfect. Go try it on.”
“Ooh, it is perfect.” I coo.
One hour and three hundred and sixty dollars later, I’ve got the wardrobe to catch me a free spirited skater-boy. Now all I need is a few tips on makeup and hair, and we’re good.
“How do you know where to find this guy?” asks Peach as we sip a coffee drink from Starbucks. I know. I’m a traitor, but The Coffee Bean is all the way across town.
Peach knows Skater-boy is my first victim. “I know where he works. I also know where most of his classes are located.”
“Are you a stalker now?”
“No. They were questions on the interview questionnaire. He works at that funky record store called Spinners right down the street from the salon.”
“So, you’re just going to stroll into the record store and do what?”
“Flirt.”
Peach spits out her coffee. “Flirt? You can’t flirt. You’re the worst flirter in the world.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“So, along with the clothes, makeup and hair tutorials, you need one on flirting too. Well, lucky for you, your best friend is a master flirt.”
Oh, I know that. “I’ve watched you in action. How hard can it be?”
“It’s an art form. I’ll teach you my little Grasshopper.”
I snort her offer and drink my coffee. The truth is, I could use her help.
“So, you spent a lot of money today. How much money did your dad loan you? If you don't mind me asking.”
“A lot.”
“A lot?”
“A lot, a lot.”
“What? I thought he was a deadbeat dad.”
“Turns out my mom is the deadbeat.”
“Huh? I don’t understand.”
So, I tell her about the letters and my mom. I’m in tears by the time I finish. Saying it all out loud has made it real. The notion that my mom could be that vindictive and hate my dad so much she’d keep him from me all these years is utterly heartbreaking.
“Why would she do that?”
“She hates him.”
“But, you could have had a relationship with him. That shouldn’t have been about her.”
“I know,” I say wiping the wetness from my face. “I know, but she loved being the hero. She used to say shit like, ‘At least you have me,’ whenever my dad disappointed me. You know, by not sending me anything for my birthday or showing up for important events like my graduation.”
“She was behind all of that?”
“Apparently.”
“What a bitch.”
“Yeah.” What a bitch. “She’s called me several times. Left me a few weepy voice messages asking me to let her explain.”
“Have you called her back?”
“No. I’ve sent two texts both asking for her to send me the letters.”
“Do you think she’s got them?”
I shrug. “Who knows?”
“I’m sorry, V.”
“Me too. I guess the good part that came out of all of this is my dad is coming to visit. He’s now going to be part of my life. I’ve missed him. We used to be so close."
Peach reaches out squeezing my hand, “That is good. Plus, he gave you a bunch of money. That’s nice too.”
“It’s not about the money.” Although, it helps a lot. I don’t plan on it changing my life. I’m still going to work to help pay my expenses. I want to save it for my future. And hopefully, that includes graduate school.
Chapter 13
Virginia
Peach told me that my new hair would take extra time to style in the morning and she wasn’t lying. Since it’s Thursday, I have to work at six thirty at the Bean so I wake up at five thirty thinking that’s enough time to wrangle the new hair. I was wrong. By the time I’m finished blow-drying it and attempting to flat iron the rat’s nest, I give up and put it in a ponytail. It doesn't look terrible. Until I get used to it, I’m going to have to give myself an extra hour in the morning to make it look good.
When I walk in, Jackson is already refilling coffee beans and cups. The satellite music station is playing something mellow––perfect for this early in the morning. “Hey, Jackson.”
“Hey, girl. Clock in, I need help. This place is a disaster.”
“Sure thing.” I walk quickly to the back and toss my book bag and other stuff in the corner. I grab an apron from the stack of clean ones and punch in.
Tying my apron on as I walk, I hear Jackson yell, “Get vanilla and mocha flavoring while you’re back there.”
I grab two large bottles of the flavoring and head out. “Didn’t they restock anything last night?”
“No. The little assholes.”
“Wasn’t Kip the closer last night?”
“Yes. He’s worthless,” grumbles Jackson.
“That he is. What else can I do?”
“Refill everything at the sugar station.” That’s what we call the area that has the extra sugar packets, stirrers, cream, and those things that you put around your to-go cup, so you don’t get burned. When I walk over, I see a literal disaster. “What were they doing last night? It looks like a murder scene over here.”
“Back here too,” mutters Jackson. “This is bullshit.”
My friend Jackson isn’t usually so grumpy. “You okay back there?”
“Men suck.”
“T
hey do, but I can’t believe you’re saying that. Guys fall all over themselves when they see Jackson.”
“Except the one I want.”
“Oh, wow. Is a boy playing hard to get? That’s gotta sting.”
“Shut up, bitch,” he says laughing. “I’ll get it figured out.”
“I know you will. Maybe he’s just trying to get your attention.”
“He’s got it.”
I wipe down the sugar station and run to the back to grab refills for everything. I also pull fresh cream and milk jugs down from the shelf and start over there. It’s hard telling what’s inside the other ones. I’ll have to scrub those out when there’s time.
The minute everything is restocked and wiped down, the front door opens to our first customer and the stream of customers doesn’t seem to stop for hours. I’m manning the machines again while Jackson has the register. I’m the only one he trusts to do this job when he works, so I like to give him a break from making the drinks. As I’m concocting an iced caramel Macchiato with extra pumps of vanilla and caramel nonfat with extra caramel drizzle, I hear a grunt above me.
“Hey.”
It’s Baker, the kissing bandit. “Hey,” I say as I continue making this ridiculous drink. Note to the person who ordered this? Leave out the nonfat. You’re wasting your breath.
“What’d you do to your hair?”
“Nothing.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“You did!” says Jackson way too loud. “I didn’t notice it before. What’d you do to it? Extensions?”
I squirt an extra ten pumps of vanilla and ten of caramel into the cup muttering, “So! What’s the big deal?”
Jackson is the first to speak, “Nothing. It’s just…”
“Not you,” mumbles Baker.
I slam the cup down on the counter and end up with half of it on my apron when it splashes out. “How would you know what’s me and what isn’t?” I’ve met this guy once. Geesh.
He shrugs. “It just isn’t.”
Ignoring him, I snap, “If you want coffee, you need to order it from him,” I say using my head to point him in Jackson’s direction. “I have to start over with this drink,” I snap.
Baker walks to Jackson but continues to look at me. “Chicks, man,” mutters Jackson.
“No shit, dude.”
I watch them fist pump and nearly gag. Men are idiots.
“Large black coffee, please.” Why does he come in here and just order plain coffee? He can get that anywhere. When I finally get the Macchiato done, I reach for the next order. “See you later, Virginia.”
I don’t answer, but I mutter under my breath, “No you won’t.”
“Yeah, I will,” says Baker as he pushes the door open to leave.
How the hell did he hear that?
“Someone has a crush.”
“I do not!” I retort.
“Not you, obviously. Him,” he says pointing to the doorway. “He’s got it bad for you.”
“No way. He was just one of my participants for my survey. He’s a hockey player.”
“Well, sweet cheeks, he’s hot for you, you lucky bitch. I’d give my left nut for a chance with that hot as fuck man.”
“He’s nothing special.” I lie. His kiss says otherwise, but I’m not admitting that to anyone.
“Oh, my dear, sweet Virginia. Someday you’ll realize that a guy like that…” he points out the door again, “…is all you’ll ever need.”
That’s not true. I need a man like Mr. Political Science. He’s got goals. He’s ambitious. He’s sweet and thoughtful. But, I’m saving him for last––the best for last––as they say. “Whatever, Jackson. He’s very, uh, bossy.”
“Oh fuck, you had to go and tell me that. I love domineering guys in the sack.”
“Shutty, Jackson. I’m not going there this morning.” Or ever. I look up at the clock and see it’s only ten o’clock. Two more hours here and then I’m off to class. What a day!
Chapter 14
Virginia
It’s time to snag myself a free-spirited man. The plan has been set. My outfit has been purchased. My hair has been braided and coifed into a cute hippy-chick air doo and my makeup looks natural and fresh. Peach’s words, not mine. Now all I have to do is walk into Spinners and talk to the guy. “I’m so nervous,” I whine to Peach.
“No reason to be nervous. You look adorable so hold your head up high and do exactly as I told you to do.”
“Do I really have to twist my hair around my finger while I ask him for help.”
“Yes. Definitely. It makes you look coy and a little dumb.”
I start to laugh. “Not all guys like dumb girls.”
“They say they don’t like dumb girls. Let’s just test that hypothesis.”
“Fine.”
Since Peach has a car, she drives me down to Main Street. She’s going to park a block away and wait for me. “I feel like I’m robbing a bank and you’re my getaway driver.”
“It’s sort of like that, but you’re not stealing money, you’re trying to…wait for it…steal his heart.”
“Oh, God. That was lame.” I mumble and then laugh. It was pretty funny.
Peach laughs for a good five minutes over that one. “I’m hilarious.”
Yeah. Hilarious. I’m so nervous on the drive over I pull and twist the frayed ends of my jean shorts. My short jean shorts. I swear my ass is hanging out, but Peach assures me it’s not. Yeah, like I believe her. Pulling into a spot on Main, I turn to my friend and smile. “I can do this.”
“Yes, you can! He’s just a guy. No need to get all worked up over him. You’re sure he’s working?”
I nod as step out of her car, “I called the store, and he answered. I told him I had the wrong number.” I step out onto the pavement and suck in a lungful of air. "Courage." I’ve got one block to get a grip. “He’s just a guy,” I mutter to myself as I walk. “He’s just a guy.”
“Good luck!”
At the entrance to Spinners, I plaster a smile on my face and open the door. I’m almost knocked on my butt by the smell of incense all around me. What are they hiding? I smell patchouli. I spot Free Spirit right away in the center of the store. His real name is Levi, but I’m not going to say it. Not yet, anyway. If he recognizes me, then I’ll say it.
I make my way to the long aisle that holds bins of vinyl records. I pretend to look at the list of artists next to each bin, but really I’m watching him. He’s talking to a girl. A cute girl. Ugh. I knew this wouldn’t work. The urge to leave hits me, but I refuse to give up. So, I start sifting through a bin just to have something to do.
“Can I help you?” says a voice to my left.
I turn to see Levi smiling at me. “Oh, um, yes,” I giggle. That wasn’t fake. I’m nervous as hell. I twist a strand of hair around my finger as I speak, “I’m looking for a Tom Petty album.”
“Oh, man. That sucks, doesn’t it? That guy was amazing.”
“I know. I cried.”
“That’s cool. So, which album?”
“Any of them.”
“You don’t have any of his music?”
“No. Is that terrible?” I say in a way too high-pitched voice.
“Nah. It’s cool you want some now. Here, I’ll show you where his stuff is. We moved it up front. There’s not a lot left.”
“Oh, I know! Do you have ‘Damn the Torpedos’? My friend told to get that one.”
“That one is awesome, but we’re sold out. We’re supposed to get more in next week.”
Stopping in my tracks, “Oh, that’s too bad.”
“If you want, I could get your name and number and call you when the record comes in.”
“You’d do that? That’s so sweet of you,” I say touching his arm. Peach told me to try to touch his hand or arm during this whole flirting deal. It must work because he looks down at my hand and then up at me with a huge smile on his face.
“It’s no problem. Plus, if you give me your n
umber, I can call you. We could hang out or something.”
“Really?” I squeak but quickly rebound. “That’d be cool. I’d like that.” I look down at his nametag. “Bill.”
“It’s Levi. We all use fake nametags. The boss thinks it’s hilarious,” he says rolling his eyes.
I giggle, “It is kind of funny.” I step up to the counter and give him my name and digits. I decided to change it from Virginia to a variation of it so he won’t make the connection between the survey and me. “It’s Ginny, and my number is 515-202-4407.”
“Ginny. That’s a pretty name.”
It seems to be working. I twist my hair again, “Thanks.”
As I turn to leave I hear him say, “I’ll call you later, Ginny.”
“Okay. Bye Levi.”
I pull open the door and step out into the sunshine. It’s early October, and it’s been unseasonably warm. My way back to the car takes much less time than the walk to the shop. I yank up the door and plop my butt into the car. “I did it!”
“You got that album?”
“No,” I laugh. “I snagged Free Spirit. He’s going to call me.”
“Yay! Congrats! I knew you could do it. So, about that album.”
“Sold out. It’ll be in next week.”
“Cool. So, tell me everything.”
I do. I tell her everything from the uncontrollable giggling to the hair twisting. “He says he wants to ‘hang out.'”
“See! Guys never ask us out on dates anymore. ‘Hang out’ means just that. Ugh, it’s so frustrating.”
“Hanging out sounds fine to me. Baby steps.”
“At least get him to take you out for food even if it’s at Torpedo Joe’s Subs.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll do that.”
“Good. Now, let’s go shopping for a ‘hanging out’ outfit.”
Ugh. “Not more shopping,” I whine.
“Come on Ginny, we’ll just go to one store.” As she steps away from me I hear her whispers, “or twenty.”
Great!
Chapter 15
Virginia
True to his word, Levi texted me that very night. He also sent a text the next morning, then the afternoon, and the evening––every day until today. He seems sweet and funny, but that’s through text messaging. I hope he’s the same tonight. He’s picking me up in a few minutes to hang out. I think the plan is eating and then ‘seeing where things go.' His words, not mine. Honestly, I’m more of a planner. I’d like to know his ideas for tonight. Since I’m supposed to be a free-spirited hippy chick, I need to go with the flow.
