“Whatsamattah, honey?” he asks. “This is a great day! Youlook spooked.”
“I…” I glance up at him and meet his eyes for the firsttime. They are round and blue, and actually seem to be emitting warmth of somekind, maybe even sympathy. In that moment, I decide to trust him. “I just don’twant to go back to work, is all,” I exhale.
But now that I’ve said that much, the rest pours out ofme. “I got passed over for a promotion I really wanted—head of the English Department,which I’ve been working toward for years—and someone from the outsidegot the job. Apparently, she’s the superintendent’s niece or cousin orsomething illegal like that, and she hasn’t even finished her master’s degreeyet! Now I can’t face my colleagues. I’m completely humiliated. I’m kind oflost. And so, I pretty much hate my job. Every time I step foot in that school,I want to puke.”
I’m feeling better now, as if someone opened a window andlet in some air. I keep going. “The principal flat out lied to me, saidI’d get the position, that I was the natural next choice. I jumped through allthese hoops, took extra grad school classes to get the right certifications.Got all dressed up and sat in the hot seat, was interviewed by parents,community members, friends of mine, for God’s sake, with classrooms downthe hall. She even made me teach a demo lesson in my own class, eventhough I’ve been tenured forever! And then, the committee didn’t choose me.” Ishudder at the memory of myself in heels and a tailored pantsuit, squirming asMartha called me into her office to break the news—delivered cold, of course,without emotion. I had to picture her in flesh-colored granny panties to keepmyself from crying. “I can’t go back. Not right now, anyway.”
“Talk about your verbal diarrhea!” he jokes. Great. Of allthe people in the world to confess to, I pick this asshole.
My husband doesn’t even know the truth. I keep puttingDoug off, telling him that Martha hasn’t made the decision yet. He kept talkingabout how my new salary would help take some of the financial burden off ofhim. The plan was to sit down and tell him over dinner, except that in the pastsix weeks we haven’t had one of those dinners. And the more time slips away,the harder it becomes to remember what the truth is anyway.
Sweetheart’s eyes suddenly look confused. “Wait asecond…did you say, go back to work?” He laughs. “Who said anything about goingback to work? My boss thinks I’m on trial for the whole week!” He leans towardme and I smell the tobacco clinging to his clothing. “And what he don’t know…”The rest of the sentence lingers in the air between us. He winks. Sweetheartgrabs his walking papers, waves them theatrically over his head, and startswalking.
I grab mine and do the same.
Chapter 7
Clearly, I am not going back to work today. Thatmuch I know. It’s ten o’clock in the morning on a beautiful Tuesday and I amfree to do as I please. Leaving my car in the juror’s lot, I walk arounddowntown Alden. When I pass the new hair salon in the Ritz Carlton hotel, Idecide to go in.
Jodi texts me while I am sitting with streaks of whitehair color under the hot lamps.
Free 4 lunch?
Yes, I text back, looking at the time. NM at1:15. She always forgets that I work, and usually texts me like this once aweek.
Good. I need to find something to wear Sat nite!
C U there, I write, finishing our conversation fornow.
I put the phone down and try to rip a page out of amagazine without anyone noticing, but my hairstylist, Brandon, catches me inthe act. I tear the page out just as he tears it from my hands.
“What have we here?” he lisps, even though that sentencedoesn’t have any S sounds in it. Unlike Lenny, Brandon is definitely g-a-y.“Botox! Juvederm! Fabulous!”
I turn bright red and shush him. “I’m just, you know, thinkingis all.”
“I see that, honey,” he says, touching the protruding frownlines gathered like Mount Kilimanjaro between my eyebrows, waiting for someoneto climb them. “Looks like you think too much, I’d say. Botox will takecare of your forehead in less time than it takes to count the candles on yourbirthday cake.”
“Yeah, but…my husband would kill me. He likes me natural,you know, no plastic surgery, very little makeup…” I trail off.
“Sounds like a real scumbag.” When my eyes widen, he adds,“Hard to debate that one, huh? Truth is—and I’m sure he’s very nice, in thatvacant way straight men have, don’t get me wrong—but he won’t even noticeif you do a little maintenance. Do you know how many of my clients have hadminor work done? Injections, mini lifts, whatnots to their hoo-has? Thesedimwitted husbands just think their wives have had pedicures and facials. Thatall the exercise really does lift foreheads and shape butts. They arenone the wiser, and you are all the better. Olé!” He strikes a final pose,clippers in hand.
“Dear God, Brandon, put out the fire. She’s new here andyou’re scaring her!” another male stylist sings, coming to my rescue.
“Hush, Priscilla,” Brandon sings back. “This woman is inneed. I can sense it. I’m channeling my inner diva to help her find her owndiva, lost deep down inside, hidden under years of mediocrity.” He looks at me.“How’d I do?”
“Not bad. Pretty fair assessment, actually.”
“You and I are one and the same,” Brandon sighs, leaningover the back of my chair to look at us side by side in the mirror. “We’restereotypes. I’m the flaming gay male, and you’re boring suburban mom.” Hepumps some mousse into his hands and re-fluffs his spiky hair. “It happens.”
“That’s kind of harsh!” I balk. “Suburban and mom, yes. Iwouldn’t call me boring, necessarily.”
“But you’d call me flaming, right? Just what you’d expectfrom your hairdresser?”
Of course, he’s right. But being honest seems mean,especially to someone I’ve just met. It’s like the Jewish American Princessprincipal: I can call myself that,
