Pretty Is as Pretty Does

by Debby Mayne

  “What if something pertains to both?” Mandy asks.

  Since this is a salon business, everything actually does pertain to the salon. “Rosemary has been with me since we opened the Jackson salon, so her word will be final.”

  She folds her arms and frowns. “But—”

  “Hey, you’re in charge of all the paperwork.”

  I hold my breath until Mandy nods her agreement. “I guess that makes sense.”

  “I’ll let Rosemary know what we’re doing. Since you don’t have any actual salon experience, I’d like her to come up for a few minutes each day for anything related to salon work.”

  Mandy doesn’t say anything, but she seems agreeable to my suggestion. My muscles start to relax as I walk into my office and close the door.

  In spite of all the appointments Sheila has booked for me, I’m starting to think about some of the festivities being planned for the reunion. Like the bonfire. There’s something about eating burned weenies and charred marshmallows that brings back delicious childhood memories. Then when the singing starts, I could melt right back into my high school yearbook.

  Mother calls. “So when are you coming?”

  I tell her my arrival date. “I’m not sure yet, but I think I’ll stick around a couple days afterward to help clean up.”

  “Why would you have to clean up? Doesn’t the school have a janitor you can hire?”

  I can tell it’s bugging Mother to no end that I don’t mind pitching in and helping out with menial tasks that could be hired out. But she doesn’t say that. Instead, she talks about how she and Dad have been shifting their schedules to make time for me.

  “Please don’t do that, Mother. I won’t be home all that much. I’ll be in the salon all day most of the time, and at night, I plan to catch up with my classmates and join in the festivities.”

  “Are any of your . . . more successful friends actually planning to come back for this thing, now that they’ve moved on and up in the world?”

  “As far as I know, they are.” I’m offended by her condescension. But she’s right. Although I’m still friendly with the people who stuck around Piney Point, most of my friends from the Honor Society went on to college and now have lives elsewhere. Maybe Didi Holcomb will be able to pull herself away from her ear, nose, and throat practice to grace us with her presence. She and I occasionally hung out by default, but I’ve always known it bugged her that my grades were always slightly better than hers. She was one of those who studied her brains out.

  “Oh, before I forget, while you’re in town, your father is being honored for chairing the Piney Point Community College Literature Award event, and you’re invited . . . but you don’t have to go if you’re too busy.”

  “I’d like that—let me look at my schedule.”

  “I’ll let his assistant know,” Mother says in a low voice that sounds strangely like disappointment. “They’ll need a head count for seating and refreshments.”

  “Can I help? I could make those chocolate-peanut-butter cookies you like so much for the reception,” I say.

  “This is a professional college event,” Mother says flatly. “We’re having it catered.” She snickers. “And trust me, you won’t have to lift a finger afterward. We’re paying the college cleaning staff to handle all that.”

  Okay. “I need to run, Mother. I have a ton of things to do before I leave town.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you do. I’ll call you again before you leave.”

  I know it’s not just me feeling the strain getting tighter between Mother and me. It started when I was a teenager and got my driver’s license. She slammed her foot on the floorboard during one of my practice drives, and she hasn’t quit slamming things since. We’ve had ups and downs through the years, but ever since I dropped out of college, it’s been mostly downs.

  By the end of the day, I have almost everything wrapped up and ready to coast during the time I’ll be gone. I leave the office feeling really good about things, but I’m exhausted.

  I pull into the carport, get out of my car, and drag myself up the sidewalk to the front door. As soon as I unlock the door and step inside, my shoe squishes on not damp but totally drenched carpet. Oh my. There’s standing water covering the downstairs, and there’s a big, gaping hole in the ceiling. Adrenaline takes over, and I slide out of my heels, squish through the carpet to check on my possessions, and finally pick up the phone to call the homeowners’ association president. He tells me he can’t do anything except advise me to contact the management company through the emergency number. “And you better act quickly. If anyone else’s home is damaged, we’ll have to assess you.”

  I hang up and punch in the number he gave me. A switchboard operator answers on the second ring, and I can tell it’s an answering service. I belt out my problems and scare the poor woman out of her mind, but she promises she’ll get right on it.

  As I wait, I carefully climb the stairs to see how bad things are up there. Good. Everything in my bedroom has been spared. The bathroom, on the other hand, is a humongous mess. Looks like the water pipes busted—there’s water everywhere.

  The property management company director calls me a few minutes later. “I’ll send someone right over,” he says. “Do you know how to turn off the water to your unit?”

  “No.” I figure it can’t be hard. “Just tell me how, and I’ll do it.”

  I go downstairs, follow his instructions, and wait. This too shall pass, I tell myself more than once. Well, about a hundred times. I vacillate between hyperventilating and reminding myself that my material possessions can be replaced.

  Less than half an hour later, someone is knocking at my door, looking a little too happy to suit me. “Got water?” he asks before cracking up with laughter.

  He walks through my townhouse, makes a few grunting sounds, then turns around and informs me that I should move out until they fix the pipes, repair and replace the drywall, and wet-vac the carpet. “And that’s if the carpet can be saved.” He kicks his toe into the carpet, sending a spray of water shooting out and getting me even wetter than I already am. He cackles. “We might have to replace this.”

  At first I think it couldn’t have happened at a worse time, but by the time Smiley leaves, I realize it’s God’s way of giving me permission to go to Piney Point—even earlier than I’d planned. Smiley advised me to contact my homeowners’ insurance company, so I do that first.

  The service agent listens and assures me everything will be taken care of. “It might take a while, so I hope you have some place to stay.”

  “I do.” After I get off the phone I take a look around. It’s just stuff, I tell myself. Most of it can be replaced. The few valuables I cherish I can take to Piney Point with me.

  Now all I have to do is let Mother know my plans have changed, and I’m coming home ahead of schedule. This makes me pause. Maybe I should book a room at the hotel in downtown Piney Point. It’s on Main Street, about a block from the salon, so it’s convenient. Should I go ahead and book a room or call Mother first? Even putting myself in her place, I’m not sure, so I take the path that seems least resistant and call home.

  Dad answers. “No, your mother isn’t here. Can’t you talk to me?”

  “Um . . .” I don’t want to hurt Dad’s feelings, but I know he’ll just tell me to come on—that I don’t even need to call. I don’t think he has a clue about Mom’s reluctance. “Sure, I can talk to you.” Then I make up some inane thing about how the educational system in Mississippi is benefiting from community colleges.

  “Yes, we do offer quite a few educational opportunities to the community,” he says in his professorial voice.

  I hear some sounds in the background. Before I have a chance to ask if it’s Mother, he says, “Your mother just walked in. Do you still want to talk to her?”

  “Sure,” I say, wondering when it was I actually stopped having real conversations with my father.

  “Here she is.” I hear muffled voices as Da
d passes the phone to Mother.

  “Hi, Priscilla. What do you need?”

  “The pipes broke in my townhouse, and I have to get out while the repairs are done. I thought I’d come to town early, but I can stay in the hotel if it’s not convenient.” I can’t help it that my little-girl voice takes over. “I don’t want to impose.”

  There’s a long enough pause to know she’s not happy, but she speaks quickly enough to let me know my staying in the hotel isn’t an option. “Of course you’ll stay here. I wouldn’t even think of letting my own daughter stay in a hotel when her room is sitting here empty. When can we expect you?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Oh.” She pauses. “I don’t have time to clean the house, and I haven’t been to the grocery store in a week.”

  I thought she had domestic help, but I don’t mention it. “Don’t worry about all that, Mother. It’s not like I’ll be inspecting the house.”

  “I would certainly hope not. You’ll be getting in late, so we’ll probably be in bed. You do still have the key to the front door, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I say, although I’m not sure which of my old handbags it’s in. I haven’t been to Piney Point in a year, since my shop practically runs itself with Sheila in charge. “I still have to pack, so I probably won’t leave for at least another hour.”

  “Drive safely,” she says. “And don’t forget to watch out for that speed trap around Magee. Your dad . . .” She clears her throat. “Just be careful, okay?”

  “I’ll be fine.” I laugh as I hang up. Mother probably thinks I don’t know about Dad’s speeding ticket last time they came up to visit me in Jackson. I don’t know why it would matter. But I’ve read that some mothers never see their children as adults, and as intelligent as Mother is, she doesn’t seem to be rational about my having grown up.

  After I get off the phone with Mother, I call Rosemary and Mandy to let them know I’m leaving town early. I make sure Rosemary knows of Mandy’s concern about not being respected, and she assures me she’ll make Mandy feel authoritative. Mandy sounds almost gleeful when she finds out I’m leaving early. She says, “Don’t worry about a thing, Priscilla,” and I tell myself everything will be fine.

  8

  Tim

  I’m not a worrier by nature, but I can’t help being all knotted up over the fact that Priscilla doesn’t answer her cell phone or her house phone. Her voice mail doesn’t come on until after the fourth ring, meaning she’s probably not on the phone. I don’t think she’s the type to ignore her phone . . . at least she hasn’t when I’ve been with her. I try her cell phone a few more times, and she still doesn’t answer. I know she doesn’t like to use up all her minutes when she’s home.

  It’s past ten o’clock, so I better quit calling. I’m all the way up in Tupelo, so doing a drive-by to see if her car is in the carport isn’t an option.

  I lie in my comfort-top hotel bed with the scratchy sheet pulled up to my chin. No matter how hard I try to get my mind wrapped around something else, though, I can’t stop thinkin’ about Priscilla. And not just on account of her being pretty because I sure as shootin’ don’t get all worked up over every pretty girl I see.

  There’s something extra with her—a spark that I can’t describe. And when she looks at me, my insides get all weird. The only problem is she doesn’t look at me as often as I think she should, but I think it’s because she’s always so busy with everything else. And I aim to get her all busy with me one of these days. Back when we first started datin’, I saw us as boyfriend and girlfriend. Good thing she set me straight, sayin’ we was good friends, ’cause now I know where I stand, and it lets me know I have work to do. I wouldn’t go to this much trouble for just any girl, but she’s special. And she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met.

  When the alarm clock buzzes, I slap the button and roll out of bed, feeling mighty groggy because I flopped around the bed like a catfish all night. But the instant I think about driving to Jackson and seeing Priscilla, I get a burst of energy.

  The word book stares up at me from the nightstand, so I pick it up and read the next one on the list. After I memorize the definition, I’ll try to use the word at least three times that day. Yeah, it gets awkward sometimes, but if this is what I have to do to get Priscilla likin’ me more, hey, I’m all over it.

  Today’s word is fabricate. I read the definition and example of how to use it. That’s a perfectly fine word, I think. Shouldn’t be too hard to work it in at least three times today.

  All morning as I drive from one account to the next, I imagine me and Priscilla as a couple. Everywhere we go, people will look at us and know we’re meant to be. Of course everyone will know she’s the smart one, but that’s just fine by me since I’m not all hung up on ego.

  I call Priscilla’s office, and Mandy tells me she isn’t in. I figure this is a good time to start using my new word. “You wouldn’t fabricate this, would you?”

  “Do what?”

  Heh heh. Sounds like I might have someone to pass my book off to when I’m done. “Never mind.”

  “So you want me to tell her you called?”

  “Nah, I think I’ll try her cell phone again.”

  I try her cell phone, but still it rings then goes to voice mail. This is gettin’ downright annoying.

  Instead of stopping to eat lunch, I pull into a drive-thru and grab a burger before heading out for the highway on my way home to see my girl. Then reality hits me. Priscilla isn’t my girl except in my dreams. Not yet anyway. Sometimes I think I might go crazy with want.

  As I drive, between attempts to reach Priscilla on her cell phone, I think back on when I first knew I was in love. Yes, I’ll admit it. I’m in love with the girl. I haven’t told her exactly what I feel, but I give her enough hints to get a talkin’ to. She says her faith is more important than anything else, and there is no way she’d get romantically involved with a man who doesn’t believe in the Lord.

  So I started going to church—not hers, because I figured I’d best get some practice in so I wouldn’t make a fool of myself not knowing what to do. I watched everyone in the pews around me and did everything they did. When I felt comfortable in a churchy environment, I invited myself to her church, knowing she’d never say no. I think she was pleasantly surprised, but that still didn’t make her fall all over me like it had in my dreams.

  I’m cruising along with my thoughts, when I spot the twirling blue light in my rearview mirror. A quick glance at my speedometer lets me know I’m in trouble. I pull off onto the shoulder of the road and sit there with both hands on the steering wheel. Last time I got pulled over, the officer barked at me when I reached into my pocket for my wallet. He said he wanted to see my hands at all times.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” I say.

  “I need to see your license and registration,” he says without so much as a polite greeting. Before I have a chance to give him what he wants, he asks, “This your car?”

  “Yes, sir.” I pull my wallet out as swiftly as possible and fumble around to find what he needs. “I mean it’s my company car. I don’t have a car on account of . . .” I glance up and see him glaring down at me with his squinty eyes that let me know he’s all business. I’m sure he can see that my hands are shaking, but he’s probably used to that.

  He studies the cards, jots down some notes, and hands them back to me. “Do you know how fast you were going?”

  This has to be a trick question, and I’m not sure the best way to answer it, so I return the question back to him. “No, sir, but I think you do.”

  The officer narrows his eyes. “Are you being a smart aleck?”

  “Oh no, sir, and I’m not fabricatin’ either. I just thought—” “You’re not what?” He squints his eyes and gives me one of those looks lettin’ me know I better get back to why we’re here.

  “How fast was I going?” I ask.

  “You were doing eighty in a fifty-five zone.”

  Oops. “I�
�m terribly sorry, officer. I’ll slow down.”

  He finishes writing then rips the paper off the pad and hands it to me. “Yes, Mr. Puckett, that’s an excellent idea.”

  After he goes back to his patrol car, I stare at the ticket. This just beats all.

  The rest of the way home, I keep one eye on the speedometer to make sure I obey the law. Not only can I not afford two tickets, I also can’t handle the points. Driving is essential for my job. Essential was one of my easiest vocabulary words, and I still use the heck out of it.

  I go to Prissy’s Cut ’n Curl and see that her car isn’t in the lot. I imagine all kinds of things again, but I don’t want to get all excited yet—at least not until I know what’s going on.

  I climb the stairs and open the door to the corporate offices. Hmm. Mandy’s not at her desk. This is just downright weird. Someone has to be there on account of the door is unlocked.

  “Priscilla?” I say loud enough to be heard throughout the office area.

  I hear some shuffling from behind Priscilla’s closed office door, so I walk up to it and knock.

  “Who is it?” That voice sounds strangely like Mandy’s.

  “Is that you, Mandy?”

  Next thing I know, she’s opened the door and is standing there staring up at me, an odd look on her face. “Oh, hi, Tim. What do you want?”

  I lean around and look behind her. “Where’s Priscilla?”

  “She went to Piney Point for her reunion, and she put me in charge here.”

  “Oh.” This is getting stranger by the minute. Mandy is a nice girl and all, but she’s not the sharpest tack in the box. “She didn’t tell me she was going this soon.”

  Mandy tilted her head. “She couldn’t stay in her townhouse because it flooded, so she decided to go early. Can I help you with something?”

  “No,” I say as I back toward the door. “I’ll do downstairs and see if Rosemary needs anything.”

  “When Rosemary needs something, she sends the order up here, and she hasn’t done that.”