Making Faces (23 page)

Two hours later, when the store was empty,
the beer mess cleaned up and the doors locked, Fern made her way to
the bakery. The yeasty smell of bread, the warm sweetness of melted
butter, and the heavy sugar scent of icing greeted her as she
pushed through the swinging door that separated Ambrose from the
rest of the world. Ambrose started when he saw her, but continued
pounding and kneading the giant mound of dough on a floured
surface, positioning himself so that his left side, his beautiful
side, was facing her. A radio in the corner spilled out eighties
rock and Whitesnake asked “Is This Love?” Fern thought it might
be.

The muscles in Ambrose's arms tensed and
released, bunching as he rolled the dough into a wide circle and
began stamping circles with a giant, eight-section cookie cutter.
Fern watched him, his motions smooth and sure, and decided she
liked the looks of a man in the kitchen.

“Thank you,” she said at last.

Ambrose looked up briefly and shrugged,
grunting something unintelligible.

“Did you really beat him up in ninth grade?
He was a senior then.”

Another grunt.

“He's a bad man . . . if you can call him a
man. Maybe he's not grown up yet. Maybe that's his problem. Maybe
he'll be better when he is. I guess we can hope.”

“He's old enough to know better. Age isn't an
excuse. Eighteen-year-old kids are considered old enough to fight
for their country. Fight and die for their country. So a
twenty-five year old piece of shit like Becker can't hide behind
that excuse.”

“Did you do it for Rita?”

“What?” His eyes shot to her face in
surprise.

“I mean . . . you used to like her, right?
Did you throw him out of the store tonight because of Rita?”

“I did it because it needed to be done,”
Ambrose said briefly. At least he wasn't grunting anymore. “And I
didn't like him getting in your face.” Ambrose met her eyes briefly
again before he turned to pull an enormous tray of sugar cookies
from the oven. “Even though you did taunt him . . . just a little
bit.”

Was that a grin? It was! Fern smiled in
delight. Ambrose's lips quirked on one side, just for a second,
before he started the process of rolling the dough all over
again.

When Ambrose smiled, one side of his mouth,
the side damaged by the blast, didn't turn up as much, giving him a
crooked grin. Fern thought it was endearing, but judging from the
infrequency of his smile, Ambrose probably didn't think so.

“I did taunt him. I don't think I've ever
taunted anyone before. It was . . . fun,” Fern said seriously,
honestly.

Ambrose burst out laughing and set down his
rolling pin, looking at her and shaking his head. And this time he
didn't duck his head and turn away.

“Never taunted anyone, huh? I seem to
remember you making faces at Bailey Sheen at a big wrestling
tournament. He was supposed to be taking stats, but you were making
him laugh. Coach Sheen got after him, which hardly ever happened. I
think that qualifies as taunting.”

“I remember that tournament! Bailey and I
were playing a game we made up. You saw that?”

“Yeah. You two looked like you were having
fun . . . and I remember wishing I could trade places with the two
of you . . . just for an afternoon. I was jealous.”

“Jealous? Why?”

“The coach from Iowa was at that tournament.
I was so nervous I was sick. I was throwing up between
matches.”

“You were nervous? You won every match. I
never saw you lose. What did you have to be nervous about?”

“Being undefeated was a lot of pressure. I
didn't want to disappoint anybody.” Ambrose shrugged. “So tell me
about this game.” Ambrose smoothly moved the conversation away from
himself. Fern tucked away the information he had revealed for later
perusal.

“It's a game Bailey and I play. It's our
version of Charades. Bailey can't really act anything out, for
obvious reasons, so we play this game we call Making Faces. It's
stupid, but . . . fun. The idea is to communicate strictly through
facial expressions. Here. I'll show you. I'll make a face and you
tell me what I'm feeling.”

Fern dropped her jaw and widened her eyes
theatrically.

“Surprise?”

Fern nodded, smiling. Then she flared her
nostrils and wrinkled her forehead, screwing her mouth up in
disgust. Ambrose chortled.

“Something smells bad?”

Fern giggled and immediately changed faces.
Her lower lip quivered and her chin puckered and shook and her eyes
filled with tears.

“Oh man, you are way too good at that!”
Ambrose was laughing full out now, the dough forgotten as she
entertained him.

“Do you want to try?” Fern was laughing too,
wiping away the tears she had manufactured to create her “sad”
face.

“Nah. I don't know if my face would
cooperate,” Ambrose said quietly, but there was no
self-consciousness in his voice, no defensiveness, and Fern let it
go with a quiet “okay.”

They visited for a few minutes more and then
Fern thanked him again and said good night. And it had been a good
night, in spite of Becker Garth. Ambrose had talked to her. He'd
even laughed with her. And Fern felt a glimmer of hope flicker in
her heart.

The following day when Fern arrived at work
there was a quote on the whiteboard.

“God has given you one face and you make
yourself another.” - Hamlet

Shakespeare again. Hamlet again. Ambrose
seemed to have a thing for the tortured character. Maybe because he
was a tortured character. But she had made him laugh. Fern smiled,
remembering the invention of the Making Faces game.

2001

“
Why are you making that face, Fern?”
Bailey asked.

“
What face?”

“
That face that looks like you can't
figure something out. Your eyebrows are pushed down and your
forehead is wrinkled. And you're frowning.”

Fern smoothed out her face, realizing she
was doing exactly what Bailey said she was doing. “I was thinking
about a story I've been writing. I can't figure out how to end it.
What do you think this face means?” Fern gave herself an underbite
and crossed her eyes.

“
You look like a brain-dead cartoon
character,” Bailey answered, snickering.

“
What about this one?” Fern pursed her
lips and raised her eyebrows while wincing.

“
You're eating something super sour!”
Bailey cried. “Let me try one.” Bailey thought for a minute and
then he made his mouth go slack and opened his eyes as wide as they
could go. His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth like a big
dog.

“
You're looking at something delicious,”
Fern guessed.

“
Be more specific,” Bailey said and made
the face once more.

“
Hmm. You're looking at a huge ice cream
sundae,” Fern tried again. Bailey pulled his tongue back into his
mouth and grinned cheekily.

“
Nope. That's the face you make every time
you see Ambrose Young.”

Fern swatted Bailey with the cheap stuffed
bear she'd won at the school carnival in fourth grade. The arm flew
off and ratty stuffing flew in all directions. Fern tossed it
aside.

“
Oh yeah? What about you? This is the face
you make whenever Rita comes over.” Fern lowered one eyebrow and
smirked, trying to replicate Rhett Butler's smolder in
Gone
with the Wind
.

“
I look constipated whenever I see Rita?”
Bailey asked, dumbfounded.

Fern snorted, laughter exploding from her
nose, making her grab for a tissue so she didn't gross herself out
too much.

“
I don't blame you for liking Ambrose,”
Bailey said, suddenly serious. “He is the coolest guy I know. If I
could be anyone in the whole world, I'd be Ambrose Young. Who would
you be?”

Fern shrugged, wondering as she always did
what it would be like to be beautiful. “I wouldn't mind looking
like Rita,” she answered honestly. “But I think I would still like
to be me on the inside. Wouldn't you?”

Bailey thought for a minute. “Yeah. I am
pretty awesome. But so is Ambrose. I'd still trade places.”

“
I'd just trade faces,” Fern said.

“
But God gave you that face,” Rachel
Taylor said from the kitchen. Fern rolled her eyes. Her mother had
the hearing of a bat; even at sixty-two years old she didn't miss
trick.

“
Well, if I could, I'd make myself
another,” Fern retorted. “Then maybe Ambrose Young wouldn't be too
beautiful to even look at me.”

She hadn't even meant to quote Shakespeare
then, but Ambrose
had
been too beautiful to even look at
her.

Fern wondered at Ambrose's choice in quotes
until she saw the display cases in front of the bakery. She
shrieked like an excited little girl seeing her favorite pop star,
and then began laughing out loud. The cases were filled with dozens
of round sugar cookies iced in cheerful pastels. Each cookie had a
simple face. Squiggles and lines in black icing created a different
expression on each one–frowns and smiles and scowls, edible
emoticons.

Fern bought a dozen of her favorite ones and
wondered how in the world she would ever be able to eat them, or
let anyone else eat them. She wanted to save them forever and
remember the night she made Ambrose Young laugh. Maybe having a
funny face wasn't such a bad thing after all.

Fern found a marker and wrote Making cookies
or Making faces beneath Ambrose’s message on the board. Then she
circled Making cookies, so he would know she had seen his offering.
And she added a little smiley face.

The next night when Ambrose came to work
there was another message on the board: Pancakes or Waffles?