She took a bel y breath and closed her eyes as she blew it out. She did it again, as girls walking toward us cut their eyes and raised their eyebrows.
“Are you having a seizure?”
Final y she opened her eyes, coughing out a whisper. “Is it a wig?”
I took a little step back and touched my nose with the tips of my fingers. My face burned and although I wasn’t light-bright like Uncle Raleigh, I knew the silver girl could see it. Tilting my shoulders, I hid my face in case my eyes started to cry or something like that.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” she said.
“You can tel , can’t you? It looks fake.”
“Not real y,” she said. “It looks real y natural.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better. It was the first thing out of your mouth.”
“Wel ,” she said, “the first thing you did was to tel me that my hair smel s like smoke.”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t mean it like that. My hair probably smel s smoky, too. My dad smokes two packs a day.”
“Mine, too,” she said.
On the backside of Greenbriar were painted concrete structures that looked like giant corn muffins. I could never figure what they were for.
Despite the little tags that said “Keep off,” young people sat on top of them while they waited on their rides and ate frozen yogurt.
“Let’s sit down,” the silver girl said, walking to one of the muffins. With her strong arms, she hoisted herself up. I knew how to get up there, too, but I had never mastered the smooth silvery motion, so I just stood beside her. My eyes were about on the same level as her bustline. This close, I could see that her polo shirt wasn’t a real Izod, after al .
It was hot out, but that was to be expected in July. Her baby hair curled at her hairline, and I could feel the water gathering under my arms. We were both wearing stretchy jeans, which were al but fused with our skin by now.
“You have a job this summer?” she wanted to know.
I shook my head. “I was supposed to work at Six Flags, but just four days in my supervisor started getting funny with me, so I had to quit.”
“What happened?”
“It didn’t get out of hand, but he was making reasons to touch me al the time.”
“You tel anybody?”
“Told my uncle, who told my mama, who told my dad.” I tried to laugh. “Living in my house is like playing telephone.”
“So what did he do?”
“Who?”
“Your father.”
“He was so mad he couldn’t get the words out. He has a stammer and it gets real y bad when he’s riled up. I thought he was going to kil somebody. He jumps in the limo . . .” I paused, waiting for her to say,
She said, “Then what happened?”
“I wasn’t there, but my mother told me that he raised so much cane that they had to cal security.” I smiled a little bit, because I liked that part of the story.
She pul ed her fingers through her hair. I did the same, but augmented hair is for looking at, not for touching. The strands were unbending against my fingers.
“Be real with me,” I said. “Does it look bad?”
“No,” she said. “It looks nice.” There was a little bit of a downward slant in her voice, like she was talking to a little kid.
“Okay,” I said. “Be real with me again.”
“Okay.”
“Is that your real hair?”
“Yes.” She said it like I had asked her whether or not she believed in God.
“You sure?” I said. “I thought we were being honest with each other.”
“It’s my real hair,” she said, bending double from her perch on the concrete muffin. The crown of her head was in line with my face, the add-a-beads swung to her nose. The cigarette odor was as insistent as love.
Human hair gives when you push it. I pressed a few strands between my fingers. “It’s real al right.”
“I told you,” she said, unfolding herself. She extended her hand toward my head. “Can I?”
My hand made its way to my face again. It smel ed like her hair, sweet with oil sheen. I looked up at her hand, which hovered right above my head like I was a dog she wasn’t sure she should pet.
