Down and Out in Bugtussle (18 page)

“What’s that?”

“About Ms. Stacey Dewberry,” he says. “I understand you’re going to a concert with her tonight.”

“Yes, we’re going in her Iroc-Z28,” I say, and we both smile.

“Vintage!” he says. “So, is there any way that we could like, I don’t know, say, uh…”

“Spit it out, Freddie!”

“Makeover!” he practically shouts. “She needs a makeover worse than Joan Rivers needs some slack in her face!”

While I find that very funny, I don’t allow him more than a smile. “She’s perfectly happy like she is,” I say.

“Ace,” he says, looking at me, “she is never going to get laid dressing like she does.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh, but I do because she told me so in one of our therapy sessions.” He smiles a mischievous smile. “She hasn’t had any you-know-what since she broke it off with Joey McRedneck—you know, the one who coerced her into moving over here from Ala-freakin’-bama—and, well, according to her, she’d had quite the dry
spell before she met him in the beer cooler that hot and fateful morning.” He looks at me and I look at my Diet Mountain Dew. “Nobody’s hair deserves to be so abused on a daily basis. You can sit there and act like it isn’t an aberration, but we both know that shit needs to be tamed.” I concentrate very hard on not reacting. “Please, help me devise a plan to get that puff-monster under control and, oh my goodness, those turtleneck sweaters with shoulder pads have got to go.” He reaches over and tousles my hair. “You know hot rollers would do amazing things to these luscious tresses, right?”

“You think so?” I can’t help it. I don’t care what Freddie Dublin thinks of Stacey’s hair. I want mine to look just like it when we go out tonight.

“I know so,” he says. He puts a finger on his temple and pretends to be thinking really hard. “What if you let Stacey and me fix you up for the concert tonight? We can use you as the bait and then maybe next weekend we can talk her into a real makeover.”

“You know what, Freddie? That actually sounds like fun.”

“Yippee,” he says without a trace of enthusiasm.

“You should go to the concert with us.”

“Oh gawd no,” he drawls. “I don’t do eighties rock. Sorry, honey.”

“Are you kidding me? Who doesn’t do eighties rock?”

“This one,” he says, pointing at his chest. “And everyone else born after December 31, 1989.” That stings a little, but I let it pass. He continues. “Okay, so here’s what’s going to happen: Stacey is going to invite you over to her house an hour earlier than what was previously discussed and you will agree without asking any questions. Then you will need to act supersurprised when you get to her house and see me, okay?”

“What? Why? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about making this operation run smoothly,” he says. “During morning break, I invited her down to my classroom and basically had the same conversation with her that I just had with you.” He winks at me. “Turns out Ms. Dewberry secretly thinks you need a little more spunk in your wardrobe.”

“You are a sly devil, Freddie Dublin. Conspiring with the Dewberry.”

“The Dewberry. I like that. So we have a deal then?” The bell rings and Freddie jumps up. Before I even have a chance to respond, he says, “Great! I’ll see you there! Okay, I’ve got to get out of here before those buses.”

“You aren’t worried about getting busted for leaving early?”

“Oh no, I make Mr. Byer more nervous than he already is. He’d never say anything to me.” He grins. “Plus I parked in the senior parking today, so no one will see me leave.”

“Are you serious?”

“But, of course,” he says. “See you in a bit!”

“Okay,” I say as he jets out the door. I sit there for a minute, shaking my head. Five minutes later, I’m still thinking about our conversation when the door flies open and Stacey Dewberry hustles into the lounge. While she speed punches coins into the drink machine, she asks if I’d like to do hair and makeup at her house tonight.

“You could come over at four, which is an hour earlier than we talked about at lunch.” After wrestling her Dr Pepper from the dispenser, she turns to face me. She’s rocking from one foot to the other and I think she’s about to make a break for the restroom, but she doesn’t. I suppose the movement might be her physical reaction
to trying to run a covert op. I decide not to give her a hard time because she’s about to board a school bus loaded with rambunctious students and drive them all over the southeastern side of the county, dropping them off one by one. When I say yes, her face glows with triumph. She hustles out of the lounge and I sit there for another minute, nursing my lukewarm Diet Mountain Dew and wondering what in the hell I just got myself into.

“B
uster Loo!” I say when I get home. “Where’s Mama’s little chiweenie king?” He comes barreling down the hallway and jumps onto the sofa. We play speedy-dog fetch and then I take him for a walk around the block. I clean up his dog bowls, put out fresh water, and give him a new rawhide bone, which he gets very excited about. I hop in and out of the shower, giddy with anticipation. I walk into my closet, where I carefully select the most flattering but still-comfortable jeans, and I slip on my favorite Minnetonkas and a Ralph Lauren Woman top I picked up off the clearance rack at Dillard’s a few weeks ago.

I put Stacey Dewberry’s address into the map app on my phone and see that she lives all the way across town. I tell Buster Loo good-bye and he doesn’t even acknowledge me because he’s too busy with his new piece of rawhide. Fifteen minutes later, I pull up at a small brick house with bright blue shutters and a
black Iroc-Z28 sitting in the carport. I park on the curb behind a spotless Prius with out-of-county plates, which I assume belongs to Freddie D.

“Surprise!” Stacey says as I walk in the door.

“Surprise!” Freddie says in his unenthusiastic way.

I make a big show of asking what Freddie is doing at Stacey’s while they escort me to the kitchen where a massive workstation has been set up on the table. There are three sets of hot rollers, two curling irons—one with a fat barrel and one much skinnier—a hair dryer, and three different-colored cans of Aqua Net. Next to all of that, I see a massive pile of makeup and an impressive collection of brushes.

I feel like a queen as I sit down to play along and very much enjoy them fussing over my hair. Once the hot rollers are in place, Freddie and Stacey start on my makeup. Ten minutes later, I walk to the mirror and burst out laughing.

“I look like a French whore!”

“But a very comely French whore,” Freddie says with a smile. He snaps his fingers. “Stacey! Wardrobe!”

“Wardrobe?” I ask. “I’m wearing what I have on.”

Freddie looks at my pale green polo shirt and jeans. “Tsk-tsk-tsk,” he says, waving a finger at me. “No, you’re not.” Stacey comes down the hallway with two bundles of clothes and Freddie helps her spread them out in the living room. “You and Stacey appear to be about the same size, so we’re going to put a little pep in your step tonight, sweetheart.”

I stare at the various leggings and oversized shirts, thinking how much I like it when Freddie calls me sweetheart, while Stacey runs to the kitchen to fetch herself a Dr Pepper.

“You are going to look so hot,” Freddie whispers.

“Wearing that stuff?” I ask, nodding toward the sofa. He looks at me, and my cheeks burn in the light of his intense attention. “Really?” I whisper. His answer is a nod and wink and, at that very moment, I know that I would do almost anything Freddie Dublin asked of me—well, anything except put on that psychedelic geometric-print top I just spied on the love seat. Stacey returns to the living room and they take turns holding up various shapes and styles of shirts.

“Look at this,” Stacey exclaims, pulling out a hot pink top embellished with gold sequined stars. “I haven’t seen this thing in ten years! This would look great on you!” She looks at Freddie, who gives his nod of approval.

“Okay, I guess I should try it on.”

“Let’s get you some pants first,” Stacey says, rifling through another pile. After vetoing six different pairs of zigzag, floral, and otherwise multicolored stretch pants, they talk me into trying on a pair of zebra print leggings with my oversized pink shirt. I put down the pair of plain black ones that I’d plucked from the pile and take the zebra print hanger from Stacey. Looking at the pants, I remind myself that I did come to party and these do look pretty comfortable. Stacey disappears down the hallway once again.

“I’m going to enjoy looking at you in those,” Freddie says, nodding toward the zebra pants. I look at him and can’t help but wonder if he’s doing all of this so he can snap pictures of me with his fancy little cell phone and use them to blackmail me into leaving town and, consequently, leaving his lovely and well-dressed pal Cameron Becker unbothered by my presence at school. But then I remember that I was nice to her today so maybe that’s not the case.

“Okay,” Stacey says, bustling back into the living room. “If you’re wearing those pants, you have to wear these. It’s the only way.” She hands me a black pair of what she identifies as slouch boots.

“What size are those?”

“Nine.”

“I wear an eight.”

Freddie pulls up the left leg of my pants and looks down. “Well, I see you’re wearing socks,” he says. “You’ll be fine.”

I walk down the hallway to Stacey’s bedroom, close the door, and carefully place the clothes I take off onto the bed. I don’t want to wrinkle them in the likely event that I’ll look like an idiot in the ensemble I’m about to try on and end up having to take these hot rollers out, flat iron my hair back into submission, tone down my makeup, and go to this concert looking like a normal person. I slip on the shirt, wiggle into the pants, then pull on the boots. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I whisper to myself as I turn to face the mirror.

While I’m thoroughly shocked by my reflection, I don’t exactly hate it. The top falls off my shoulder just right and, big bonus! covers my butt cheeks without looking like a maternity shirt or clinging anywhere it shouldn’t. It’s a miracle! I stand there a minute longer, adjusting to this new image of me, and then decide that, much like a one-night stand, this getup will serve me well tonight. I walk down the hallway, happy the stub-heeled boots are more comfortable than they look, although I’m pretty sure my fuzzy socks have something to do with that.

“Hotness!” Freddie says as I strut across the living room. He smiles and I wonder again if this might be a blackmail stunt. Then I worry that I’m developing a raging crush on him.

I am losing my ever-lovin’ mind,
I think. That’s what’s really going on here.

“You look super-freak fantastic,” Stacey says, “Now let’s get those rollers out.”

“And tease those tresses, honey!” Freddie adds.

A few minutes later, Freddie and Stacey are working my hair with picks and, yet again, I feel like a queen. A very oddly dressed queen—one more likely to show up at the Mad Hatter’s tea party as opposed to a castle, be it red or white. When they finish, Stacey picks up her gigantic handheld mirror and has to take several steps back before I can finally see all of my hair.

“Wow,” I say, thinking again of the Mad Hatter.

“Naturally curly hair really takes to a hot roller,” Stacey observes.

“Go check yourself out in the full-length mirror now,” Freddie tells me. I do as I’m told. When I close Stacey’s bedroom door and take it all in—the clothes, the boots, the makeup, and the hair—I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love it. And what I love more than my outrageous appearance is the fact that I feel like a completely different person. I wish I could bottle this feeling and store it on my bathroom shelf where I could pick it up anytime and spritz it all over me like some kind of exotic perfume.

I return to the dining area where Freddie is hard at work on Stacey’s makeup. He doesn’t ask me to help. I guess he knows I can’t be trusted with sky blue eye shadow and liquid eyeliner—perhaps because I was born after December 31, 1979.

Stacey rattles on and on about how great I look while Freddie fine-tunes her hair. As he applies one final coat of hair spray, I can’t help but notice how pretty she is. Her eyes remind me of the ocean,
bluish green and brimming with tales untold. Freddie goes into the living room and, from the same wardrobe Stacey uses to show up at school looking like a goofball, he rounds up a sexy, hotshot ensemble that makes me fret about my own. Then I remember I have on zebra print leggings and a top laden with sequins and wonder how I could so quickly forget “the new me.” Stacey goes back to change, and when she comes down the hallway a few minutes later, she looks like Joan Jett minus the Blackhearts plus a massive wad of spiral-curled hair. Sure enough, Freddie whips out his camera and asks us to pose for some pictures.

“Let me see that,” I say when he’s done. I motion for him to hand me the phone that he’s trying to slip into his pocket.

“My rock stars,” he says with a triumphant smile.

“Indeed,” I say, smiling at the photos of me and Stacey Dewberry, who looks pretty badass in a leather jacket, camo leggings, and military boots.

“I kind of wish I was going now,” Freddie says, and looks like he really means it. “I could don a pair of those stretchy pants and we could be man magnets for real.”