Authors: Debra Garfinkle
“ Don’t. Let’s think outside the box.”
She looks around. “What box?”
“Never mind. Have you outgrown any sweaters lately?” She shows me a pile of clothes for Goodwill on the top shelf of her closet. It’s not exactly a gold mine. More like an aluminum mine, if there are such things as aluminum mines. Whatever.
Aha. I pick out a tight white sweater which plunges in the back. I snip off the tag and tell Heather to wear the sweater backward. I pair the look with Heather’s h igh-t op sneakers, formerly wasted on basketball. I’m a fashion savant.
She models the new outfit for me, twirling in her skirt.
I pronounce her, “Cute, funky, and a little indecent.”
“Is that good?”
“It’s great. And for the grand finale, let’s bring on the makeup.”
She stops twirling. “I d on’t wear makeup.”
“Well, you should. Looking good is empowering. Boys will beg to do things for you. T hey’ll be listening to your every beautiful word.”
The power of face paint always thrills me. I make her eyes look darker and deeper, her nose cuter and smaller, her cheeks soft and pink. Coupled with the clothes makeover, Heather has gone from plain to pretty in a little over an hour.
“Heather, your ride is here,” Mrs. Gray calls out. “Shay, can you help me with dinner?”
“Sure thing,” I yell as we walk out of the bedroom.
Tyler’s in the hallway. He points to Heather. “What did you do to her?”
“I brought out her beauty,” I reply.
“Heather, you were already beautiful,” he says.
“I know she was. I just played up what’s already there.”
Heather smiles. “I think I look bitchin’.”
“ You’re not supposed to look bitchin’. Y ou’re only fifteen.” He shakes his head. “Jeez, Shay.”
“It’s okay to make you over, but not your sister? Please,” I say.
“I like looking bitchin’,” Heather says. “Let’s go.”
I follow her downstairs. She heads for the front door and I rush to the kitchen.
I w on’t let worries
about my sister ruin one of the best days of my life. I can’t wait to tell Evie what happened. “Hey!” I shout into the mouthpiece as soon as she says hello. “You wouldn’t believe who I hung out with at Valley Mall today!”
“Shay?”
“Yeah, Shay. But also two of the Debbies. Debbie M. and Debbie P. Not Debby with a y. You should have seen the way Debbie M. licked my ice cream.”
“So sorry I missed that.” She doesn’t seem sorry at all.
“I actually spent half the day with three popular girls.”
“
Actually
is a nerd word, remember?”
“That’s right. I hope I didn’t say it in front of the Double Ds. Evie, it was like
Debbie Does Dallas
here. Debbies Do the Mall.” I’m talking so fast, I’m practically panting. “After we finished our ice cream, we saw
Grease
at the mall theater.”
“We talked about that movie last weekend. We both thought it sounded dumb, remember?” She sounds much less enthused than I expected she’d be.
“Who cares about the quality of the movie, Evie? Think about me sitting with three of the most popular girls at school.”
“They just wanted to drool over John Travolta. He’s a flash in the pan. I didn’t even like him in
Welcome Back, Kotter
.”
I shake my head. “Can’t you be happy for me?”
“Those girls called us Dip and Drip to our faces, remember?”
“Well, I phoned to tell you about it. So, see you at school tomorrow.” I hang up.
Ick. Mrs. Gray is
wearing that pink polyester dress again. Today she’s accessorized with bright pink eye shadow, pink rouge,Day-G lo pink lipstick, and a pink gingham apron. I guess it’s better than my mom’s plunging necklines and tight jeans. I ’d rather have a mother who heads the Fashion D on’t list than one with a lifetime membership as a MILF.
But Mrs. Gray is not your mother,
I remind myself.
You’re just here until Tyler and Evie figure out how to get you home.
I sigh.
“Are you okay, dear?” Mrs. Gray asks.
“Yes, fine. What are we fixing for dinner tonight?”
“First, I want to give you something.” She holds up a pink gingham apron which matches hers. “I sewed this for you.”
I open my mouth but no words come out.
“ You’re a sweet girl, Shay.” She hands me the apron.
No one ever sewed anything for me before. In fact, my mom’s given me most of my presents in cash.
“Is it okay?” Mrs. Gray asks me.
I c an’t talk.
“Try it on, dear.”
I want to, but my hands fumble too much. Mrs. Gray puts the bib of the apron over my head, then ties the pink bow at my back. I use the bottom of the apron to wipe my eye.
“It’s perfect for you.”
Me? A pink gingham apron perfect for me? Well, why the hell not?
“I can teach you to sew more of these if y ou’d like.”
I nod. There’s nothing I ’d like better.
18
I awake with a
start late at night. Someone is arguing. “It’s about time you got here!” Mom yells.
Holy cow! Something horrible must be happening because Mom never raises her voice. I get out of bed, put on my bathrobe, and start to creep down the stairs.
Dad is yelling back. I stop halfway down the stairs and sit on the landing.
“You’re never home,” Mom says.
“I work hard for this family.” Dad stands by the front door, still in his overcoat.
Mom faces him with her hands on her hips. “What if I want to work?”
He has to clutch the doorknob and take deep breaths.
I have to clutch my knees and take deep breaths.
Finally, Dad says, “Why would you want to work? You’ve either been getting your consciousness raised or watching those Marlo Thomas specials.”
“I could have my own TV show. I could start a magazine.”
“Good Lord!”
“I can find things to do besides wait for you!” she yells.
“I can too.” He walks out the front door and slams it shut.
I race downstairs. Mom is still standing in the hallway.
“Mom! Run outside before Dad leaves. Ask him to come back.”
“Maybe I don’t want him back.” Her voice is too calm.
“Of course you do, Mom. He’s your husband. He’s my father. We’re supposed to be a family.”
“What about me?” she asks.
“You’re Dad’s wife.”
“I’m more than that.” She says it like there’s something wrong with being a wife. “Shay—”
“Oh, no, Mom. Not Shay again. Don’t listen to Shay.”
Dad’s car starts in the driveway. “Hurry, Mom. You can still catch him,” I tell her.
She pushes past me. Instead of going outside to save her marriage, she walks upstairs.
“Mom!”
Dad’s car pulls away.
I’m awoken by squeaks
and lurches and sighs.
It’s Heather rummaging through her closet and throwing clothes on the floor.
The clock on her nightstand shows 6:17. Way too early, especially because there’s no coffee in this house.
Heather catches me with one of my eyes half open. “ You’re up! Thank you for helping me last night!”
I yawn. “So I take it the meeting went well?”
“That’s a total understatement. I was compared to both Jaclyn Smith and Kate Jackson!”
“Awesome. Who?”
“You know.
Charlie’s Angels.
The brunettes. And Roger Hyashita, who’s not only a senior but student council president, said I looked bitchin’. Me! Bitchin’!” She bounces on my bed. “Can you believe it?”
“I definitely believe it.” What the hell does
bitchin’
mean anyway? Something good I guess. “You go, girl.”
“Huh? Go where?”
“I mean, that’s great.”
“And it’s all thanks to you,” Heather says.
“Not all of it.” N inety nine percent of it. “It’s your bitchin’ face and body too.”
Though I’m half asleep, I suddenly realize I’m making a difference. Maybe that’s why I was sent here. Maybe as soon as I ’ve changed enough people’s lives, whoever or whatever sent me to 1978 will bring me home. I think I saw that plot last year on a Christmas TV movie.
Heather’s bouncing again. “So can you please, please, please help me with another outfit today?”
I rub my eyes, haul myself out of bed, dig through the closet, and hand her a turtleneck sweater.
“That? I wore that for the last choral performance.”
“ We’ll cut off the turtleneck part. Here.” I toss a navy jumper to her.
“My mom bought that jumper for me. It looks like a school uniform.” she says.
“Never question my fashion sense. Put it on. Backward.” When she wears the jumper backward, it looks funky and totally plays up her boobs. “You’re the best,” Heather says.
“I know. This morning, wear the outfit just like your mother intended. On the way to the bus stop, w e’ll tape up the jumper to thigh level, turn it around, cut up your sweater, and get everything looking, um, bitchin’.”
“Cool. And can you do my makeup again? I’m allowed to use it. I just never did before you came.”
“Sure.” I give her full on, l ong-l ashed, c harcoal eyed, red-l ipped face paint. She looks hot. I teach her how to throw her shoulders back to show off her chest.
After a few minutes of practice, we head downstairs.
Tyler’s in the kitchen, shoveling bright bits of
Hardy Boys
cereal into his mouth.
I start chugging a Tab.
“Where’s Mom?” Heather asks.
Tyler furls his improved brows. “Still sleeping.”
“Really?” Heather says it like she just found out the guy who played Mike Brady is gay.Doesn’t Mrs. Gray ever get to sleep in?
“Mom was up late last night. Fighting with Dad over Shay’s brilliant plan for her to get a job.” Tyler stands up and pushes out his chair. “Shay, we need to work on that time travel project. Instead of meddling with my parents, you should try to help yourself.” He grabs his backpack, heads out the front door, and slams it behind him.
19
Five minutes after AP
Physics starts, Mr. Spitz stops his gravitational pull lecture mid-sentence and stares at the door. As does the rest of the class.
Shay walks into the room and stands by the doorway. She’s one of the few girls here without black-framed glasses, greasy hair, pimples, or some combination thereof.
After a long silence, Mr. Spitz finally sputters, “Can I help you?”
“I’m fine,” she says. While the class gapes silently, Shay seats herself on the left side of the room, crosses her ankles, and folds her hands on top of the desk. She actually looks sweet.
Mr. Spitz opens his mouth, leaves it hanging for approximately thirty seconds, and then clamps it shut. He wanders to his desk and checks his notes. Finally, he says, “Why are you here, Miss . . . ?”
“Saunders. Shay Saunders. I’m Tyler Gray’s friend, just visiting. I’m going to audit your class,” she says to Mr. Spitz. Says, not asks.
“What about your own classes?” he sputters.
“Oh, I’m a dropout. I heard you were so inspirational, your class was just the thing to get me to re-enroll in school again.”
What can he say? Apparently, nothing. He stands in frozen silence for another minute before nodding, clearing his throat, and teaching again.
Mr. Spitz actually can be inspirational. He uses rubber bands, magnets, and metal balls to illustrate gravity in space. It’s fascinating.
At the end of class, Shay walks to my desk and stands over me. My eyes are directly across from her very tight red sweater, which probably matches the color of my face. “Welcome to your first class,” I manage to say. “What did you think of it?”
She shrugs. “It was cool how the teacher explained physics with rubber bands and stuff.”
“You just used
physics
and
cool
in the same sentence.”
“Gawd, I guess I did.”
“I hope my dad comes back,” I say.
“Assuming your mom will take him back.”
“Did you say something else to her?”
“No, Tyler. Give it a rest. Not everything is my fault, you know.”
She has a point. Dad was pulling late nights for a long time before Shay ever got here. And I know it bothers Mom. Last night was just the first time I heard her yell at Dad instead of crying in her bedroom. “Shay.” I look her in the eyes instead of in the sweater. “I’m sorry about this morning when I acted so . . .”
“Sulky? Pissy? Juvenile?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of
sensitive.
”
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Let’s chill. You want to walk over to the lunch area together? We’re eating with Rick and the Debbies today, right?”
“We are? All right!” I stuff my backpack as fast as possible. “I’ll meet you there. First, I want to ask Evie to join us.”
After buying a turkey sandwich, I set my tray on the table and sit across from Evie. “Hey, you missed a good movie Sunday,” I say. “You like my haircut?”
She glances at me, says, “Nice,” then returns to her horsemeat surprise, which the cafeteria calls beef stew.
“Shay picked out a bunch of trendy clothes for me too.”
“Just call her Svengali.”
“I did. She didn’t understand. She does like to change people, huh?”
Evie keeps eating.
“If we had a dog, Shay would probably cut its fur, dye it pink, and enter it in kennel shows. If she found a mouse, she’d give it assertiveness training.”
Evie smiles at that. “I just hope she doesn’t dump you as soon as we help her with that time travel project.”
“Even if we wanted to help, we couldn’t,” I say. “Because if time travel is even possible, don’t you think scientists would have figured it out by now? And since they couldn’t, why in the world would high school seniors be able to? Even a genius like you.”
“Imagination is more important than knowledge. You told me that.”
“That’s actually a quote from Einstein,” I whisper. “He’s uncool.”
“Who cares?”