“Of course, I want to go. I’m just not sure how to make it work.”
“And you won’t ask your stepdad for help?”
He firmly shakes his head. “Never.”
“That’s the house,” I say suddenly, surprised that we’re already here. “Thanks for the ride.” I’m reaching for the door handle, eager to get out of this rather sticky conversation.
“You seem like a level-headed girl, Hannah. It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”
I don’t know why his words surprise me, but I simply nod and thank him again for the ride. “I hope things work out for you,” I say before I close the door.
As I walk up to the house, I feel sorry for Alex. And then I realize that Alex and I are not so very different, and that makes me angry. I’m not even sure why I feel so angry, but I don’t think I want to be identified with someone like him, a “loser” as Vanessa put it. I do not want to be a loser.
I tiptoe through the foyer and up the stairs. I can hear the sounds of music and voices back toward the great room, but I don’t want them to hear me. I don’t want to interrupt their fun. Instead I go to my room, shut the door, and sit down on the bed and just cry. I think it’s stupid to cry. Not to mention a complete waste of time. But I can’t help myself. I feel so lost and hopeless right now. And confused.
I consider that I have only one year of school left at the mission, and then I’ll be expected to return to the States for uni. In fact, my parents have hinted that I should consider remaining here for my last year of school so that I can have resident status to help with my tuition next year. But I told them I don’t want to do this, that I want to go back to New Guinea and graduate with my mates. And while the idea of going home brings some consolation, especially now, I feel slightly terrified to realize that it’s not long before I will have to come back to the States — where I am a loser and a reffo and a misfit — and I will have to stay here permanently. This thought alone makes me cry even harder.
I throw myself across my bed and cry until my pillow is thoroughly soaked. Then I sit up. I am normally not a crier. I learned early on that criers and complainers don’t get on so well at the group home. We call them sooks or babies and expect them to shape up or suffer the consequences. The truth is, I’ve always considered myself to be made of fairly tough stuff. But not tonight. I vaguely wonder if I might be hormonal, or maybe I’m going loony or possibly suffering from low blood sugar because I didn’t get enough to eat. I felt a bit awkward eating in front of all those strangers tonight. Or else I’m just making excuses.
I’m dying to pop downstairs and sneak into the pool. I can imagine how the cool water would soothe and cool my overheated face and puffy eyes, as well as my sunburned belly, but I don’t want to intrude on the party. I slip down the hallway a bit, just to listen and see if the partygoers are still down there making merry. Unfortunately, they are.
I walk past Vanessa’s room, noticing that the door’s slightly ajar, and so I stop for a moment, just standing there and staring like a boofhead. Then I just walk right in. I don’t even know why I’m doing this, and I actually feel a bit guilty. Her room has never been off-bounds for me, and she’s always made me feel welcome. Even so, I feel like a trespasser. Just the same, I keep going. I walk around and casually look at everything.
I pause when I see some pieces of jewelry scattered on top of her dresser. I’m reminded that I’m wearing Vanessa’s necklace, which actually gives me a good excuse to be in her room. I take it off and set it on her dresser. Then, instead of leaving as I should, I look around a bit more. I feel as if I’m playing detective now, as if I might discover some sort of clue for why Vanessa is the way she is, but everything in here looks pretty much the same as always. For the most part, Vanessa keeps things rather tidy (or maybe that’s the work of Consuela), but I do notice a haphazard pile of clothes on the floor of her closet. I suspect they’re things she tried on for the party before deciding that her expensive Prada shirt was the right choice. And she did get some compliments on that top too. What do I know anyway?
I pick a pale blue blouse from the top of Vanessa’s discard pile and hold it up in front of me. Standing in front of the mirror on her closet door, I imagine that I am wearing this blouse. But it looks odd against the bright orange of my T-shirt beneath it. And so I remove my bargain T-shirt and carefully slip the blouse on and button it up. The sleeves are a bit short, but other than that, it actually fits rather well. I suspect the fabric is silk. It feels cool, almost like water, to my skin, especially against my sunburned belly. But this is what I really find interesting: I look like a completely different person in this blouse. I’m not sure how to define it exactly, but it’s sort of refined and classy and, of course, rich. It’s almost as if this blouse contains some kind of magic. Or maybe I’m delusional after my crying fit. Or perhaps it’s the lighting in here. I examine my reflection from various positions, but the blouse looks absolutely perfect from every angle.
Then I slowly remove this spectacular blouse and almost reverently hang it on a padded hanger. I notice that the tag inside says MIU MIU, not that those strange words mean anything to me — well, other than expensive because I’m sure that it is. But I carefully hang it on the rod and put my orange T-shirt back on, which suddenly looks harsh and somewhat garish and, I must admit, cheap.
As I creep back to my room, I hear the clock chiming downstairs. Eleven o’clock and all is well. All except for me, that is. I feel anything but well as I remove my clothes and climb into bed. It seems my world is being turned upside down, and I have absolutely no control over anything anymore. I feel small and insignificant, and I’m not even sure why.
seven
APPARENTLY NO ONE IN THIS FAMILY GOES TO CHURCH ON SUNDAYS, OR any other day for that matter. And so I decide that I’m not going to make the effort either. In fact, following my cousin’s example, I manage to sleep in this morning — only until nine, but it’s a small accomplishment nonetheless. Or maybe just an escape.
“Are we still on for shopping?” asks Aunt Lori later in the morning.
“Shopping?” I echo as I pour myself a second cup of coffee, then add milk and sugar.
“Yes, you and me and Vanessa are going shopping today — to get you some things, Hannah. Surely you didn’t forget about it.”
I shrug. “It’s not so much that I forgot . . .” I consider how to put this. “But the truth is, I spent most of my money yesterday, and until I get paid for working for Uncle — ”
“No no,” says Aunt Lori. “You must’ve misunderstood me. This is my treat. I want to take my favorite niece shopping — just for fun.”
“I’m your only niece.”
“You’re still my favorite. How about if we leave here around noon? We can shop a little, then get some lunch, and then we’ll shop until we drop.”
So it is that we pile into Aunt Lori’s Audi and head for a shopping center. As she promised, it’s not the same mall that Vanessa took me to on Friday. Anyway, the name is different. But if you ask me, they look quite similar. And the disturbing thing is that there seem to be lots and lots of them.
I feel like I’m about seven years old as I sit in the backseat, listening to Vanessa and Aunt Lori discussing what might or might not look good on me. They are such experts. But before long they’re disagreeing over something to do with pants, and just when it sounds as if they’re going to have a fight over which designer is best, Aunt Lori pulls into an empty parking space, and I thankfully hop out of the car and stretch my arms and legs.
I look down at my outfit and hope that I don’t look too “lame,” as Vanessa puts it. I must’ve changed my clothes about ten times before I finally settled on something that I hoped wouldn’t humiliate my aunt and cousin and, as it turns out, myself as well. It seems that something in me is finally becoming somewhat fashion conscious. Anyway, I am wearing my pink polo shirt and a khaki skirt and my pink thongs. I have my hair pulled back in a ponytail, and I think I look fairly res
pectable, but that’s about it.
“Now, you’ve got to be open,” Aunt Lori tells me as we enter the mall. “You need to be willing to try new things, Hannah.”
I shrug. “I’ll do my best.”
“And don’t worry about the cost of everything,” says Vanessa. “The important thing is to make sure it looks good on you.”
“I’m not a very good judge of that,” I admit.
“That’s why we’re here, dear.” Aunt Lori pats me on the back. “Just trust us, and everything will be fine.”
So it is that I deliver myself into the hands of these two well-meaning shopping divas. As we peruse the sleek chrome racks and glass shelves, I’m fascinated by how Aunt Lori and Vanessa know their way around the various shops. And not only can they pronounce the names of every single designer, they can recognize some of their works simply by the style and cut of a garment. It’s all quite mysterious to me. Like speaking a lost language or knowing a secret handshake.
And so I just let them lead me around by the nose. I try on what they tell me to try on and then emerge from the change room and stand out in the open like a mannequin while they inspect and critique my outfit. After a while I begin to pretend that I’m not really here or that it’s someone else wearing my skin and these strange items of clothing. And it’s almost as if I can’t hear them going back and forth about what looks better than what. I almost feel that I’m in a dream.
“Maybe it’s her hair,” says Vanessa as she circles me with a scrutinizing expression. She reaches up and releases it from its barrette, fluffing it out with her fingers. “Although the texture’s not bad.”
Aunt Lori stands up and moves closer. “I think you’re on to something.” Then she seems to be studying my hair. “The cut’s not doing anything for her.”
“Nope.”
“And it doesn’t have much color, does it?”
Vanessa just grimly shakes her head.
“You know,” says the salesgirl, as if she’s been invited to criticize my hair too, “my sister’s hair is naturally that color too, but she had it tinted this red shade, and I couldn’t believe the difference.”
“Red?” says Aunt Lori with interest.
“No chance,” I tell them, snapping to attention. I’ve got to draw the line somewhere, and this is it. “I might wear some of these clothes you’re picking out for me, but I will not become a bluey.”
The salesgirl laughs. “Her accent is so cute.”
“What’s a bluey?” asks Vanessa as she flops down in one of the waiting chairs and reaches for a thick Vogue magazine.
“Someone with red hair,” I snap. “Someone that’s not me.”
“I’m not suggesting red hair,” says the salesgirl pleasantly. “My sister’s hair is kind of a golden red. I’m not sure what she calls it, but it’s pretty.”
“I can see that on Hannah,” says Aunt Lori. “I think it would go nicely with your green eyes. And wasn’t Grandma Johnson a redhead before she went gray? I’ve heard people in the family saying that you resemble her a lot. I think you should try it.”
“You don’t have to use permanent color,” says the salesgirl.
“I don’t have to use any color,” I shoot back.
“Just consider it, Hannah.” Then Aunt Lori turns to the salesgirl. “I think we’ll take the Armani pants that she’s wearing. And did you set that yellow Fendi top aside for us?”
“Yes, it looked great on her.”
“How about the jeans?” asks Vanessa. “Let’s get her those Diesel jeans too. Maybe I can borrow them and just cuff them up.”
“If you can get them buttoned,” teases Aunt Lori.
“Thanks a lot, Mom.” Vanessa growls as she turns her attention back to the magazine.
Finally we stop for lunch. Vanessa is still pouting over her mom’s comment about buttoning the jeans and consequently orders a salad with light dressing. I’m starved and go for the pasta special.
“Show-off,” says Vanessa after the waiter leaves.
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” She rolls her eyes and looks away.
Aunt Lori is trying to reach someone on her cell phone and seems to be stuck on hold before she suddenly gets through. And I can tell by her conversation that she’s trying to make a hair appointment for me.
“I know, Celia, but she works during the day,” Aunt Lori says in a pleading voice. “I just thought maybe you could do me this huge favor and squeeze her in.” She pauses, listening. “Really? Oh, Celia, that’d be great. Thank you so much! You’re the best!” Then she closes her phone and turns triumphantly to me. “You’ve got an appointment.”
“But I don’t want — ”
“No arguing. Celia is squeezing you in this afternoon at four.”
“Do I have to go too?” asks Vanessa.
“No, we’ll drop you off at home.”
“But I really don’t need to — ”
“Hannah,” says Aunt Lori in a stern voice. “I said no arguing.” Then she smiles. “Just wait, you’re going to thank me for this.”
I try not to imagine myself with flaming red hair as the waiter sets our orders before us. Then I wonder why I even care. I won’t be seeing any of my mates for nearly six months anyway. Maybe I should just give it a go. And if it turns out horribly, it will at least be grown out or faded by the time I’m back in school.
We shop a bit more after lunch. The focus now seems to be shoes and accessories. And I can’t really complain since the shoes they pick are actually quite nice. They’re sandals made by Tod’s (which at least sounds fairly normal), and they are also very nice looking and not as uncomfortable as some of the shoes I’ve tried on. They pick out some accessories to go with the clothes we’ve already gotten. I’ve started to lose track now, but Aunt Lori and Vanessa seem to have it all locked into their pretty little heads. And I’m so weary that I just nod and agree and hope we can end this thing soon. I have no idea how much Aunt Lori has spent on me, and I have decided I don’t even care. If they’re so wealthy that they can waste money like that, well, what’s it to me? Besides, I actually like most of the things they’ve selected. And I must admit that I looked pretty awesome in some of them, despite their opinions of my hair.
I think I’ve been worn down. I think it may be part of Aunt Lori’s plan. But after we drop off Vanessa, I get to ride in the front seat, and I lean back and feel thankful that we’re not trekking around the mall anymore. At least I get to sit for a while.
“I didn’t think hairdressers worked on Sundays,” I say as Aunt Lori pulls into a parking lot that’s behind some businesses.
“Fantasia’s does.”
“Fantasia? Like the old Disney movie?” I imagine myself emerging from my hair appointment looking like some kind of Walt Disney Ariel, flaming red hair and all.
“Trust me,” says Aunt Lori. “Both Vanessa and I come here all the time.”
I glance at Aunt Lori and realize that she’s quite a good advertisement for this place. She looks absolutely perfect with every hair and nail and whatnot in place. Maybe there’s hope for me too.
We wait for about fifteen minutes before a woman in her thirties comes to get me. “I’m Celia,” she says. “You must be Hannah.”
Aunt Lori follows us back to Celia’s station, talking the whole time about what kind of cut and color she thinks will best suit me. And once again, I let the words flow in one ear and out the next.
Finally Aunt Lori seems to have run out of advice and goes back to the waiting area.
“Just relax,” says Celia as she gently shampoos my hair, even though I tell her I washed it this morning. So I try to take her advice and relax, and it’s not long before I’m starting to think that this kind of pampering and attention isn’t so bad. In fact, I’m beginning to feel rather special.
“I’m going to do a razor cut,” she announces as she holds up what looks like a surgical tool.
“What?” I ask, jerking myself back to attention. “I th
ought you were going to cut my hair.”
She laughs. “I am. But I’m going to use a razor so that I can do some shaping, texturizing, and layering. Just relax.”
“Right.” That’s when I decide to shut my eyes. There seems no point in getting all worked up about something I have no control over. Like my life.
I suspect that Celia’s finished “razoring” my hair, and as far as I can tell I’m not bald, although I haven’t peeked yet. I’m actually feeling somewhat relaxed now. I can tell she’s doing something else to my hair, but I don’t care. Then I feel something wet, and I open an eye and look into the mirror to see that my head looks like something from an old sci-fi movie. There are silver pieces of aluminum foil sticking out in every direction. I shut my eyes again and block this scene from my mind, vaguely wondering if hats are in fashion this summer.
“Do you want a magazine?” asks Celia after a bit. “For while you wait?”
“I can fit Hannah in for quick manicure,” calls a petite Asian woman from across the room. “Lori asked if I had time.”
“Great,” says Celia. “Can you keep it to twenty minutes or less?”
The woman nods as she hurries over and takes me by the hand and leads me to another station, where thankfully there is no mirror for me to gape at.
“Lori is good customer,” she tells me as I sit in the chair at a table. “She told me take care of you.” Then she smiles. “I am Lan.”
I nod, remembering the name. “I’ve heard you’re very good.”
She looks down as if she’s embarrassed. “I do my best.”
The next thing I know she is soaking my hands in warm, soapy water, and it actually feels rather nice. “Lori says give you French manicure,” she informs me as she begins working on one hand.
I just shrug. Why should I argue since everything seems settled anyway? Even so, I try to imagine what my mates back home would think if they could see me sitting here. Would they laugh at me? Or would they be impressed and wish that they were being treated so well? Sophie would probably enjoy all this pampering. She tries to act tough, probably for my sake, but I reckon she could get into this. Anyway, I tell myself, it should be good entertainment some evening when we’re bored and wishing we had a telly. I’m good at storytelling, and I reckon I can embellish this one enough to create something quite amusing.
Fool's Gold Page 6
