Guiltily, I glanced at my treadmill, and I could sense its dark disapproval. I walked across the room and turned it on. The damn thing still worked. I turned it off again and climbed on its slightly tilted slope. I tried to imagine myself running every single day for the rest of my life,
uphill
.
The math was too difficult to do in my head, so I jumped off the treadmill and grabbed a calculator. If I lived to eighty, I’d have approximately 23,725 days of exercise ahead. If I exercised five days a week instead of seven, that would still work out to 16,900 days. If I took the last ten years off and worked out five days instead of seven, that’d still be 14,300 days.
I climbed on the treadmill again. Half expecting confetti to fall from the ceiling, I turned it on. I tried to remember the motion of
r-u-n-n-i-n-g
. Within seconds my heart was pounding. My lead-like legs ached. The stitch in my side was so severe, I felt sure it was appendicitis. Sweat poured off me and I envisioned it as calories. The fantasy sundae and/or cake and Cheerios were magically
gone
(in reality, I’d burned off half a Pounds-Away shake at best). Finally, after fifteen excruciating minutes, I turned the treadmill off again.
The thought of doing this every single day for the rest of my life made me want to die—
soon
, like early tomorrow morning perhaps.
The real reason I got on the treadmill in the first place was because Kay-Kay Reese came bounding in the shop today, and I do mean
bounding
. She moves off the sidelines the same way she moves on them—in a constant state of perpetual cheerleader bounce. She must burn 3,000 calories a day just being Kay-Kay. Anyway, I kept my head down and swept around her chair while Mother trimmed her hair. I listened while the two of them chatted pleasantly about the new spring collection at Landis Lane. Right in the middle of Kay-Kay’s diatribe on synthetic blends, she glanced at me and smiled. “Hey, Rosie,” she said, interrupting herself.
“Oh . . .
hi
, ” I replied, pretending I’d only just noticed her that very second. For some reason, having a girl like Kay-Kay Reese smile at me (even if she is a Bluebird) made me feel like a million bucks.
“Yoo-hoo,” Miss Bertha called to Mother from across the salon. “Rose Warren, it’s Hilda Brunson on the phone. Her highlights have gone green again.”
“I’m sorry, Kay-Kay,” Mother apologized. “I have to take this call,” she said, hurrying across the salon. Mother tired easily, and her skin was dry, additional side effects from the chemo, but as far as I knew, she hadn’t cried once in the last several days,
and
she had a whole collection of new hats and scarves, gifts from her clients, a sure sign of their unwavering patronage.
Kay-Kay shot me a look of fear. “Green?” she asked.
“Oh, don’t worry. Mrs. Brunson has too much copper in her well water and very porous hair. Mother’ll just put a rinse over it,” I explained.
“Thank God!” said Kay-Kay. “That happened to me one year at camp. I swam every day that summer, and my blond hair turned the color of pea soup. I guess it must’ve been the chemicals or something. Anyway, school was starting up the very next week.”
“Oh, no!” I said, sympathizing. I knew exactly what Kay-Kay was talking about. During the summer months, Mother gets a frantic call from some towheaded kid’s parent for that very reason at least once every few days.
“For the entire fourth grade year, I was known as Poopy Head.”
I tried to imagine a girl like Kay-Kay Reese being called anything other than beautiful. “What did you do when somebody called you that?” I asked, scooping a clump of blond Kay-Kay hair into the dustpan and dumping it into the trash. Given my last session with Mrs. Wallace and my own nickname, I was interested in Kay-Kay’s
coping mechanism
.
“I cried every day and sat in the back of the class with”—she smirked when she said this—“Kyle Cox.” I stopped sweeping and looked at her. “The two of us were a real pair,” Kay-Kay went on. “Poopy Head and . . .” She stopped herself.
“And what?” I asked.
“Oh, well . . . I probably shouldn’t tell
you
of all people.” She grinned, and her teeth reminded me of the tiles in Mother’s bathroom, a perfectly even row of gleaming white porcelain.
“Why not tell
me
?”
“Because Kyle
likes
you, silly. He wouldn’t want you to know his hideous old nickname.” All of a sudden, I felt like I was having one of Miss Bertha’s hot flashes. “You’re
blushing
,” Kay-Kay singsonged. “That must mean you like him, too. Oh, all right, I’ll tell you, since you already like him anyway. Kyle was known as Bacon.”
"Bacon?”
“Because he was . . .” Kay-Kay looked at me nervously.
“Because he was
fat
?” I asked, filling in the blank for her.
Kay-Kay nodded. “That’s why he went to Kessler for middle school. They have sucky teams there, so he was able to make junior football, which is how he eventually dropped the weight and became such a great athlete.”
Before I could reply or ask more questions, Mother was back and snipping the ends of Kay-Kay’s hair again. For the rest of the afternoon, I floated around Heavenly Hair on a cloud of hope—with a little hair mixed in, of course.
chapter eighteen
The Box
Today was crazy busy at the salon. We’ve had springlike temperatures for the past two days, which makes everyone want a new hairdo. I offered to stay till closing (on Saturdays, I only work ten to one), but Mother insisted Miss Bertha take me home. “Go enjoy the day,” said Mother. “Maybe get a little exercise.”
On the way to my house, Miss Bertha stopped off at the park. She wanted to eat her lunch in peace before going back to the Saturday afternoon chaos—four perms, two highlights, three manicures, and walk-ins. I agreed to keep her company, provided she wouldn’t let me eat anything.
Miss Bertha unpacked her lunch, and I stared out the window: babies wailed in strollers; bigger kids squealed on swings; a couple lay kissing on a faded quilt. I pretended not to notice The Kissers. “So how are you, Rosie?” asked Miss Bertha. “We’ve been so busy I’ve hardly spoken to you today.”
“My grades are good,” I replied, distractedly. Kisser Boy had his hand on Kisser Girl’s breast now, and he was kneading it like bread dough.
“Well, I’m glad about the good grades,” said Miss Bertha. She took a swig of sweet tea, stifled a delicate belch, then slipped a stray piece of ham into her mouth. The Kissers had pulled the blanket on top of them. “Good Lord, I do wish they’d show some dignity!” Miss Bertha snapped. “I feel like yellin’
Get a room!
out the car window.”
“Please don’t.”
“Oh, I’m just teasing, Rosie. I won’t, but don’t you think that’s disgusting?”
“Well, sure,” I said. This was a lie, however. Personally, I was glad
somebody
was having teen sex. Miss Bertha started the car, eased it forward a few feet, then turned it off again. Now all I had to look at was a rusty swing set. I knew better than to suggest we go sit at the picnic table a few feet away; Miss Bertha’s convinced public places like that are crawling with germs.
“So what have you got planned for tonight?” she asked, studying me over the top of her drugstore half-glasses. I rolled my eyes. Miss Bertha knows I
never
have plans. “How about spending the night at my house? We have another church supper.” I rolled my eyes again. “I could pick you up
after
the supper,” she tried. I watched while Miss Bertha packed up her assorted pieces of Tupperware as if they were fine bone china.
“I have homework,” I replied, which was true. Mrs. Edinburgh had given out an extra-credit assignment (although with a 95 average, I didn’t really need it).
I thought back to when I used to spend the night with Miss Bertha on a regular basis. It was always fun—partly because she’d kept her daughters’ old Barbie dolls, and partly because she made real chocolate fudge, from scratch, without burning it. As good as her fudge always was, I never once overate it. Miss Bertha and I were always too busy talking—or rather
I
was too busy talking. Other than Grandma Georgia, Miss Bertha was the only person who made me feel like what I had to say was important. She’d nibble her piece of fudge, dress a Barbie, and listen to me talk like I was the most interesting person on earth.
“Well, you can always change your mind later,” she said, switching on the ignition. Smokey Robinson’s "Cruisin’ ” eased out of the speakers. Miss Bertha had the dial set on the oldies station, the same one Kyle and I had listened to on the way home from the game. I thought back to what Kay-Kay had said about Kyle’s liking me.
“Rosie?
Rosie?”
“Huh?”
“Good Lord, you’re far away. Why don’t you drive so I can fix my face before I get back to the shop.”
I got out of the car and went around to the driver’s side, and Miss Bertha slid across the seat. I glanced back at The Kissers, but they were gone. It struck me then what Smokey was talking about with all his
oh, oh, babes
. The lovers in the song weren’t just driving around town. They were cruisin’
away from here
—probably so they could go get a room. The whole distracted drive back to my house I fantasized about Kyle wanting to get closer and closer—
ooooooh, ooooooh.
“What on earth are you thinking about, hon? You’ve been smiling for the last ten minutes, and I ain’t said a thing funny!” said Miss Bertha.
“Oh, no reason,” I lied. “I’m just in a good mood is all.”
At home, I went straight to my room, but it was hot and stuffy upstairs. I cracked the window open a little and sniffed the air outside. Even though it was only the last day of February, I could actually smell spring. It was distant and faraway, but there just the same. I glanced at the treadmill. It was free of damp bras and panties (only because my hamper was overflowing), ready for use, but I couldn’t stand the thought of climbing on it. Instead, I decided to go for a walk. Yes, I said
walk
.
I reached the end of my street and took a left onto Third Avenue. I kept going until Carter Street and made another left toward my old elementary school. At Riverside Drive, I took a right. The Duck River Bridge had a pedestrian walkway, which I had never in all my life used. Back when I was little and actually rode my bike and went for walks, I wasn’t allowed on the bridge. Timidly, I stepped on the walkway and glanced down at the muddy water coursing below. The river’s nickname was the Muddy Duck, and it reminded me of that chocolate river in
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
, a movie that’d always scared me with its disappearing kids and freaky parents. I sped up and climbed the steep hill on North Main and headed toward the courthouse.
My thighs screamed. Sweat poured off me. My barely broken-in tennis shoes rubbed watery blisters on my heels. The clock tower clanged three times. I kept walking. Shops lined both sides of the street, but I avoided looking in their windows. Hope was perching on my soul again, and a glimpse of my reflection would surely kill it. I rounded the corner toward Reynolds’s Drugstore. Even from a distance, I could see Charmaine was at the cash register (her bleached-blond hair is impossible to miss). I stared at my feet and kept walking.
“Hey, Rosemary!” Charmaine stuck her head out the door and called after me.
“Hey,” I panted and waved.
“Hon, we’re having another special on that Pounds-Away. Look in tomorrow’s paper for the coupon, okay?” I nodded and tried to catch my breath. “Go on, doll. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“It’s okay,” I half gagged. “Thanks.”
“Don’t forget them coupons now! You can use more’n one. I’ll just ring ever-thang up separately,” she said, and went inside the store again. I leaned over, hands atop my knees, just the way I’d seen athletes do after a race. Blood thumped noisily in my ears, and I wondered if this was how Mrs. McCutchin felt just before her heart attack.
“Well, hey there! I didn’t know you were a runner!” Kay-Kay wore neon-yellow running shorts and a pink sports bra. Delicate beads of perspiration glistened on her slightly tanned skin (a visit to the tanning bed, no doubt).
“Oh, I’m not a runner. I’m barely a walker,” I explained.
Kay-Kay let out a laugh. It seemed to come from someplace deep within her flat six-pack abdomen. “Great about the Raiders last night, huh?” she said, still jogging in place. “Kyle played amazingly well. You really should come to his games. Hey, you know, we should run together one of these days. I get so bored doing this all by myself. It’d be fun to have somebody to talk to!”
I could barely talk and stand still, much less talk and run with Kay-Kay. I struggled to catch my breath. “Sure,” I managed to croak.
“Well, I’d better go for now! You come to those games, hear?” Kay-Kay winked at me and smiled. I watched her sprint off toward the Episcopal church. Her body was a tight, efficient machine. Nothing jiggled except her ponytail. Without thinking, I glanced at myself in the plate glass window. The girl staring back at me was a sweaty, fat mess—lumpy thighs, chunky middle, hair stuck to her head, and a big fat face. It hit me then what another win for the Raiders meant. More away championship games. More endless study halls
without
Kyle.
The second I got home, I called her. “Miss Bertha, I changed my mind. I think I will spend the night at your house tonight, if it’s still okay.”
“Why sure, honey! You know it is. I’d skip the church supper, but I’m in charge of the dessert table. I’ll try to get out a little early, though. Unless you’ve changed your mind and want to come with me?”
“Uh, no thanks. Just pick me up after, okay?”
“See you round seven-thirty then,” she said, and hung up.
Miss Bertha didn’t make her famous fudge. She didn’t even
offer
to make fudge. Instead, we watched
Pretty Woman
and ate hot-air popcorn (no salt, no butter, no taste, no calories), and I had a Diet Coke. I knew these were special purchases for my benefit. Miss Bertha never drinks anything besides sweet tea, and popcorn kernels get stuck in her bridgework.
“What do you think the odds are that he stayed with her?” I asked. Secretly, I was comparing Julia Roberts’s chances of snaring Richard Gere with my own for dating Kyle Cox.
“I think it’s highly unlikely that some tycoon would wind up with a prostitute, but crazier things have happened, I reckon. We all need a fairytale happy ending now and then.”
“We sure do.” I sighed. It was getting late, and I knew Miss Bertha liked to turn in early. “I think I’ll go to bed now.”
“Wait just a minute, hon. I got something I been meanin’ to give you.” Miss Bertha disappeared for a minute and came back with an old shoebox. It was decorated with magazine cutouts and Spring Hill High School stickers. It looked like something that might belong to me, but I knew it didn’t.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Miss Bertha took a deep breath and let it out again. “Your grandma left this with me when she moved. It’s some of your mama’s old stuff. I tried to give it to Rose Warren, but she wouldn’t take it, said for me to pitch it.” Miss Bertha handed the box to me.
“So what is it?” I asked, feeling squirmy all of a sudden.
“Just a bunch of old pictures. Stuff most mothers would want their daughters to see.”
“My mother is not
most mothers
,” I reminded Miss Bertha.
“I know that, and don’t you dare tell her I gave it to you. She’d have a fit.”
“I won’t,” I promised. I was just about to head up the stairs when Miss Bertha stopped me.
“Rosie, now that I think about it, maybe things did work out for that Julia Roberts and Richard Gere. They were both just alike—two desperate people doing desperate things they regretted later on. I guess they probably had a pretty good understandin’ of one another.”
“I guess so,” I agreed.
In the privacy of Miss Bertha’s tiny attic, which serves as a guest room/craft area, I opened the box. The first thing I saw was a five-by-seven photograph of Mother and Aunt Mary. Obviously, they were at some sort of school-sponsored event, a formal one at that. Mother’s face was slightly chubby, and she wore a pale blue strapless chiffon dress, pearls, and dyed-to-match pumps just barely visible beneath the floor-length hem. Aunt Mary had on a similar dress except it was pink
with
straps, and she wore a silver necklace instead of pearls. Mother clutched a small beaded bag and faced the camera. Aunt Mary clutched Mother’s arm and leaned into her, as if shielding her somehow. I glanced at the back of the picture.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered, noticing the date. I was born just one month before the picture was taken. I studied Mother’s face again. She wasn’t chubby. She was postpartum. And this wasn’t just some school function, it was the prom. It had to be. Spring Hill High School didn’t have any other formal year-end events. No wonder Aunt Mary stood so close to Mother; they were sticking together. I could only imagine the scandal—high school girl gets pregnant, boyfriend bolts, small town talks and talks and talks, ruined girl has the nerve to try to reclaim her old life . . . and go to the prom.
In other, larger, more sophisticated towns, none of this would’ve been a big deal, but in Spring Hill, Tennessee, it was huge. I stared at Mother’s face and wondered if
this
was why she worked so hard. Years and years of toiling away at Heavenly Hair, at home, at raising me. Maybe Mother was still trying to prove she was a good girl. Maybe that’s why she was so desperate for me to lose weight. Maybe she thought my fatness made her look like a failure.
There were various other mementos in the box—yellowed newspaper clippings, wrinkled photographs. In one, Mother accepted the Best Spirit award at cheerleading camp. In another, she took the first-place ribbon for the literary magazine’s poetry competition. There wasn’t a single mention of my biological father. It was as if Mother had conceived me all on her own; certainly, she’d done everything else for me that way. I tried to imagine what it would be like, getting pregnant in high school. In some pictures, Mother wore the happy expression of an uncomplicated girl. In others, she appeared careworn—Before Me and After Me pictures.
Carefully, I tucked the artifacts back into the box, switched off the lamp, and pulled the covers up around my neck. Spiky tree branches danced on Miss Bertha’s attic ceiling until the lady next door switched off her porch light. I lay in the darkness and tried to imagine Mother’s seventeen-year-old life. Mother had reorganized her dreams because I’d given her no other choice.