Mirror Image

by K. L. Denman

  “Come on,” Lacey says, “we’ve got to get some ice.”

  The kitchen is even more bizarre. White again, but to an impossible extreme. The cupboards, the table and chairs, even the canisters and utensils on the counter are white. The place is so stark and bright, it hurts my eyes. When Lacey opens the freezer, I get my first glimpse of color, a bag of frozen peas. At least their food isn’t white.

  Lacey is holding a tray of ice cubes and frowning. “Okay, like, now what?”

  “Um. Maybe put the ice into a glass, and then stick your hair in there for a while.”

  Lacey does this, and then she stands awkwardly at the sink, her head tilted to one side. After about ten seconds she says, “This is hurting my neck.”

  “I don’t think you have to stand up,” I say. “You could sit down at the table.”

  Lacey’s lower lip juts out in a little pout, but she does what I suggest. She sets the glass down, and then she sits with her head bowed, staring at the gummy clump of hair. “This sucks,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “No, I mean it really sucks. Like, what happens if my mom catches me?”

  “Your mom?” I glance around but don’t see anyone.

  “She’s not here right now. With any luck she won’t show up. But if she finds one speck of gum on her table she’ll rant for a week.”

  I don’t think Lacey is kidding. I erupt in a high-pitched giggle.

  “It’s not funny!” Lacey says.

  “Sorry. I guess I’m nervous.”

  “You’re nervous? You’re not the one who’ll have to listen to her. Your mom seems really nice.”

  “She only seems that way,” I say defensively. “Believe me, she has tons of weirdness.”

  “Hah,” says Lacey. “Nobody’s as weird as my mother. You haven’t seen our living room yet.”

  Now I want to go into the living room. But Lacey is still absorbed with her hair, and I sit down beside her. “Maybe I can help. Let’s see if the gum is frozen.”

  Lacey shoots me a suspicious glance, and then she shrugs. “Okay. But be careful.”

  I poke a finger into the glass and touch the gum. “It feels cold,” I report.

  “Good. Now what?”

  “Now you can probably pull the gum off your hair.”

  Lacey lifts her hair out of the glass, grabs the gum wad and yanks. “Ow!” she squeals.

  “Not like that,” I say. “Let me try.” I take hold of the gum and dig in a fingernail. I manage to pick off a fairsized chunk. I flick my finger, and the chip of gum lands on the floor.

  “Quick,” Lacey says, “pick it up.”

  I scramble for the offending blob of pink, and I’m down on the floor when a pair of white stiletto heels clatters in. Lacey’s mom doesn’t take her shoes off, and the heels look dangerous at eye level.

  She stares down at me like I’m a big nasty bug and says, “Lacey, what the hell is going on?”

  “Nothing,” Lacey says.

  “Nothing,” her mom mimics. “Come off it.” She points a long finger at me. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Sable. My art partner.”

  Again, Lacey’s mom glares at me like I’m something repulsive. I’m on my feet now, but for half a second, I wonder if I should have stayed on the floor.

  Lacey’s mom looks like she just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. She’s glossy, from the crown of her blond hair, to the shine of her lipgloss, to the sheen of her blue satin suit and those polished white heels. She’s so shiny I wonder if she’s coated in a layer of varnish. She also has the coldest hardest pair of blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Her face has no expression at all; it’s frozen, like a painting.

  I glance at Lacey and am shocked to see her wearing the exact same face. No emotion, her eyes blank.

  “Your art partner?” The cold gaze hits me once more; then it turns to the glass on the table. “Is this your project? What are you doing?”

  Lacey tries to hide the glass with her hand. “Nothing.”

  Shiny Mom grabs the glass, and Lacey’s gummy hair swings into view. “Ugh!” says Shiny Mom. And she shudders. “How incredibly disgusting.”

  “Yeah,” says Lacey.

  Shiny Mom reaches into a drawer, whips out a pair of scissors, grabs a hunk of Lacey’s hair and snips. It all happens so fast that Lacey reacts in slow motion. Her mouth opens wide. Her eyes open wide. Her hand reaches for her hair. And then she screams. “Ahhhhhhh! My hair! How could you?”

  Shiny Mom shudders again as she carries the gummy hair blob to the garbage. “You’ve got to be kidding, Lacey. This is revolting. Now maybe you ought to take your little friend away. I’ve had a bad day, you know?”

  chapter eight

  I take Lacey to my house. I don’t think Lacey especially wants to come, but I don’t think she knows what else to do. She just walks beside me and we don’t talk. She doesn’t cry either. I keep glancing at her, expecting to see sniffles, but there’s nothing. In fact, it’s scary, because she looks exactly like her mother.

  When we get to my place, my mom is there, like always, cooking something. “Sable! Hello! How was your day? Oh, and you have friend too. Great! Shall I make snack?”

  She embarrasses me. She does. Doesn’t she know that I’m not a little kid anymore? And right now, even though I should appreciate this when I compare it to what Lacey has, I’m even more embarrassed. I don’t understand it, not really, but it’s like I have too much mother.

  I say, “We’re just going to my room, Mom.”

  I notice Lacey’s gaze lingering on a plate of cookies and I say, “But a snack would be good. Can we take some cookies?”

  “Yes! Of course! Take them.” Mom hands me the whole plate and I turn to go.

  Lacey mutters, “Thanks, Mrs....uh, Sable’s mom.”

  Mom does her arm thing and says, “Phht! It’s nothing. But please, call me Sofija. We are not so fussy here.” Then she spots Lacey’s hair. It does look bad. Long everywhere except for the big chunk missing on one side. “Oh my goodness! What has happened to you?”

  Nice one, Mom. I mean, couldn’t she show a little tact? Nope, not her. Whatever thought pops into her head just has to come flying out of her mouth. And then it gets worse. Now Lacey starts to cry.

  “Ach!” Mom says, and she hugs Lacey. She pats Lacey’s back and says, “There, there. Is not so bad. We can fix.”

  This last bit scares me. Mom used to cut my hair all the time until I told her she didn’t know what she was doing and I needed to go to a real hairdresser. Not that the real hairdresser does any better, but still.

  “Mom,” I say, “you’re not cutting her hair.”

  Lacey starts crying even harder.

  “No! No! Of course not. We will go to salon. Right away.”

  “We will?” I ask.

  “But of course!” Mom waves an arm wildly. “Is disaster!” And she springs into action. She orders Lacey to eat cookies and pours her a glass of milk. She scribbles a note for Dad and the boys: Must fix emergency problem. Eat casserole in oven. Explain later.

  Then she finds a scarf, a bright red one, and she actually ties it on Lacey’s head. Lacey’s eyes are bugging out as Mom says, “Put scarf. No one will notice.” When Mom whips out of the room to, “Put lipstick,” I can’t look at Lacey. I can’t.

  “Does she think,” Lacey whispers, “that no one will notice the scarf?”

  Carefully, I explain. “No, she talks like people do when they’re online. You know, lots of short cuts. She means that no one will notice your hair because it’s hidden by the scarf.”

  “But,” says Lacey, “they will notice the scarf, right? I mean, I don’t want to upset your mom, but the scarf is, like, bizarre.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  Lacey starts to giggle. She waves an arm dramatically. “Is disaster!”

  I sigh. “I know. Always.”

  Lacey’s giggles stop as suddenly as they started. “She’s
funny, your mom. But nice. Really nice.”

  And then Mom’s back in the room, hustling us out the door and into the car. She’s like a woman on a mission. She even speeds on the way to the salon as if this is an actual emergency. “We will go to Estelle. She will know what to do.”

  “Um,” says Lacey, “who’s Estelle?”

  “She is wonderful hairdresser. You will see. She can fix.”

  I want to groan but I suppress it. Estelle is one of Mom’s Bosnian buddies and she might be wonderful for Mom’s idea of style, but for Lacey? I open my mouth to say we ought to go to the mall, but Lacey cuts me off. “Cool. I didn’t really want to go to the mall.”

  Of course she doesn’t want to go to the mall. Be seen wearing a red head scarf? Worse yet, be seen with Mom and me? I start wondering how I got into this. I mean, just a few short days ago, this whole scene could only have existed in my nightmares. I would have wakened and laughed at the strange imagination of the dreaming brain. Maybe this is a nightmare?

  No, here we are at Estelle’s place. Her salon is in the basement of her house. And there’s Mom, already knocking at the door, and there’s Estelle answering and they’re jabbering in Bosnian, waving their arms. I sneak a peek at Lacey, and she looks scared. Not that I blame her. I’m nervous and I’m not even the one getting a haircut.

  By the time Lacey is shampooed and sitting in the chair, I think she’s on the verge of a major panic attack. Her eyes are darting around, her face is pink and the knuckles on her hands are white from the death grip she has on the purple cape she’s wearing. Estelle and Mom are discussing the situation in Bosnian. Estelle is clicking a pair of scissors open and shut and brandishing a comb like a sword. Lacey looks like she’s going to bolt when Estelle suddenly switches to English.

  “How this happen to you?”

  “Um, I got gum stuck in my hair.”

  “And you cut”—Estelle gestures wildly with the scissors—”like this?”

  I wait for Lacey to tell how it was her psycho mom who cut like that, but she doesn’t. She just nods her head.

  “Okay,” says Estelle. “I can fix. Make layers. But maybe we part hair on side instead of middle. Like so.” Deftly, she parts Lacey’s hair with her comb.

  Lacey’s eyes widen. Already, there’s an improvement.

  “And then...,” says Estelle. And then she’s snipping, combing, fluffing, completely absorbed in her task.

  The rest of us stare into the mirror, watching the flash of those scissors, the slide of the comb. Nobody speaks. I glance at Mom and she’s smiling. There’s something else on her face too. Pride? Is she proud of Estelle? Of pretty Lacey? I can’t tell, but I do know this. I’m suddenly jealous, fiercely jealous. There’s Lacey, once again the center of attention. She even has my mom’s attention! I was right. Really bad stuff doesn’t happen to girls like Lacey. An image of her cold mother flashes into my mind, but I ignore it.

  I ignore it again when Mom drops Lacey off at home. Lacey’s hair looks fabulous, and she thanks Mom about ten times. But when she gets out of the car and turns toward her house, she takes a deep shaky breath. And another. Mom’s busy watching for her chance to pull out in traffic, so only I see the look Lacey sends after us. It’s the look of a puppy that’s just been abandoned.

  chapter nine

  I spend the evening wondering if I should go back over to Lacey’s and rescue her. What if Shiny Mom hits her? What if she takes the scissors to Lacey again? What if she didn’t even let her in the house?

  In the end, I do nothing. Not quite nothing. I look for quotes to describe Lacey, only that doesn’t go anywhere either. I find one on a website for artists that might work, but I still don’t feel like I know her well enough to be sure it’s right.

  Then I wonder what quote Lacey might give to me. If she sees what I want her to see, it’ll be a quote about being independent. It’ll describe someone who doesn’t care what anyone else thinks. Someone who is their own person. She’ll never find the real quote, if there even is one, about the girl who lives in dread. The girl who hasn’t had a real friend for years because no one understands her dark fears and her nervous anger. The girl who doesn’t know how to fix this.

  The first thing I feel when I see Lacey at school is relief. She looks fine, no black eyes, no shaved head. In fact she looks great. The usual pack of girls has gathered around to admire her hair.

  Lacey smoothes it carefully, bats her eyelashes and says, “Oh, I went to this great European place. Very exclusive.” Then her boyfriend Chad shows up, and I swear I see drool forming at the side of his mouth.

  “Chad,” Lacey coos, “do you like the new me?”

  “Cool,” he says. And that’s it. Now that I think about it, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard Chad really talk. He does make sounds, and he does manage these one word sentences, but that’s about it. He drapes an arm over Lacey and they stand there grinning. I glance around, half expecting a photographer to pop out of a locker and start taking pictures. I mean, they look like they’re posing. Sick.

  Lacey finally notices my existence in art class. She drops a note on my table that says, I’ve got a surprise for you.

  I scribble, I don’t like surprises, and drop my reply on her table.

  She decides to be seen speaking to me in public. She sidles up to my table, looks the other way and whispers out the side of her mouth. “You don’t like surprises?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Oh, that’s too bad. Should I just tell you then?”

  I do an eye roll. “Sure, just tell me.”

  But before she can, the distinct sound of breaking glass crackles from the table behind us. Everyone cranes their head to see what happened, and there’s Rav staring stonily at his broken mirror.

  The guy beside him says, “Cool! Can I have it?”

  Rav blinks. “Why?”

  Mr. Ripley is there now too. “Yes, Eddy, why?”

  Eddy grins. “Because it’ll be perfect for my frame.” He points at the work in progress on his table and says, “See?”

  Sure enough, it’s obvious that his frame has been made to look like a network of cracks. Sort of like a dried out mud puddle, cracks running every which way.

  “Hmmm,” says Mr. Ripley. “I see you’re working on a theme.”

  “Yeah,” someone says, “he’s saying he’s cracked.”

  “Either that or he’s a crack head,” someone sniggers.

  “Well,” says Mr. Ripley, “I’m reminded of a Leonard Cohen quote: There’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”

  Nice. Talk about putting a positive spin on things.

  Lacey whispers, “I love that.”

  Matt, the guy across from me, breaks the spell. “There’s a crack in my bum too. That’s why the light shines outta my...”

  “That’ll do, Matt!” Mr. Ripley roars. “Everyone get back to work.”

  “Right,” Lacey whispers to me. “So I’ll bring the surprise to your place after school. I’ll be there by three-thirty.”

  And she’s gone, leaving me no chance to argue. So I go home after school and wait for her to show up.

  She arrives carrying a big bag. “Here it is!” she bubbles. “Your surprise!”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “What is it?”

  “Let’s go up to your room and I’ll show you.”

  “Why do we have to go to my room?” I ask.

  “Sable, relax. You’ll like it, I promise. Come on!” And Lacey heads for the stairs. I can either stand there with my arms folded or follow her. I feel I have no choice but to follow; somehow this blond bimbo has started running my life. I’m going to have to find a way to put a stop to it.

  I will reject her surprise.

  But when I get to my room, the surprise is spilling out all over my bed. “See!” Lacey crows. “Makeup! I’m going to give you a makeover.”

  “No, you’re not,” I say.

  “What? Oh, come on, don’t be shy! You’re
going to love it, I promise.”

  “No, I won’t,” I say.

  “But you will!” Lacey’s lower lip goes into the pout. “Please, Sable. It’s the least I can do after what your mom did for me.” She puts her hands on her hips. “And besides, I have the most awesome plan for us.”

  “A plan? What plan?”

  “It’s like this. You sit down there on your chair, right?” She waits for me to do as she suggested, but I don’t, so she sighs and goes on. “Then, while you’re sitting there and I’m doing your makeup, we’ll have this trust for each other, right? I mean, doing makeup is soooo personal, right? And then we can play Truth or Dare! Isn’t that perfect?” “

  No,” I say, “that’s retarded.”

  A bright pink spot of color appears in both of Lacey’s cheeks. “Okay then, Ms. Party-pooper, what’s your idea?”

  Ms. Party-pooper? I can’t think of a single response for that one. I’ll have to let it pass. I refuse to stoop to her level. I lift my chin and very snottily ask, “Just exactly what do I need an idea for?”

  She actually stamps her foot. “I cannot believe you are this dumb! We only have a few days left to hand in our quotes, and I bet you don’t have a clue, do you?”

  I stand there with my mouth opening and closing like a fish. I know I do this because after about the third time, I catch myself. She thinks I’m dumb? I sit in the chair. I only do this so that I can figure out how that’s possible, but she takes it as a sign.

  “Oh good! I’m so glad you’ve changed your mind.” She grabs one of those wide stretchy hair bands, scrunches it over my head, pulls my hair through and carefully positions the band so that all my hair is skinned back from my face.

  “You know,” she says, “you have very pretty eyes. I can’t wait to do them. But first”—and now she’s coming at me with a tube—”we’ll do the foundation.”

  chapter ten

  By the time I recover the power of speech, Lacey is plucking my eyebrows. Okay, so maybe that’s why I start talking again. I yell, “Ow! Stop it!”