Down and Out in Bugtussle (30 page)

“What are we talking about?” Freddie asks, like he doesn’t know.

“School.” Cameron beams. “She’s been telling me horror stories and making me feel better!”

“Well, tell me some, too,” Freddie says. And so I do. The more I talk, the more I remember and within minutes, I have them all in stitches.

“Okay, so who else wants a conditioning treatment?” Freddie asks when I finally can’t think of anything else to share.

“Oh, I do! I haven’t had one in weeks and I’m overdue,” Cameron says.

“How about it, Ace Jones?” He looks at me.

“It will make your hair so silky smooth,” Cameron says. “And Freddie gives an amazing head massage.” I look at Freddie and he smiles.

“Sure, why not,” I say. “What can it hurt? After you, Cameron.”

“That’s my girl!” he says. Cameron goes to what Freddie is now calling the Conditioning Chair, and I follow Stacey into the kitchen.

“Check this thing out,” she says. “His sink has this cool nozzle
that looks like the spout, but it comes off.” She pulls it off and starts spraying the sink. “How about that?”

“That’s, uh, really cool,” I say.

Stacey helps herself to another spoonful of dip. “What is this stuff?” she whispers after Freddie turns the dryer on and starts heating up Cameron’s hair.

“I don’t know. Maybe hummus dip?”

“What’s in it?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Hummus?”

“Well, alrighty then.” She looks at me and giggles. “I’m having the best time ever.”

“You know what?” I tell her. “So am I.”

We return to the living room where Stacey proceeds to inform me that one of the men she met at the concert is calling every day, wanting to go out. She tries to explain which guy it was and, despite her vivid description of him and his mullet, I simply can’t recollect.

“Honestly, though,” she says. “I like that Skeeter fellow better than any I’ve met in a while. We had so much fun dancing that night.”

“I don’t think he’s a nice person,” I say.

“That’s always the kind I fall for the hardest,” she says with a sigh.

“And what kind is that?” Freddie asks, inserting himself into our conversation.

“The not-nice kind,” Stacey says.

“Now, Stacey, nobody needs that in their life,” he tells her.

“He’s right, you know,” I say. Since Stacey is an adamant disciple of the Gospel of Freddie, maybe she’ll take that to heart and steer clear of the Skeeters and Joe Reds of the world.

“Are you ready?” he asks me. I tell him that I am. “Please,” he says, motioning. “To the Conditioning Chair.” I take a seat on the cushioned chair and Freddie brushes my hair, then turns on the blow-dryer.

“Where did you get this stuff?” I ask as he massages conditioner into my hair. “It smells wonderful.”

“My sister is a hairdresser to the rich and not-so-famous in Ocean Springs,” he says. “She’s always going to some kind of show or convention or something. Anyway, as a result, I have tons of great hair products.” He picks up a shower cap with a tiny yellow rubber ducky sewn onto the top. “Yours to keep. I have a whole box.”

“Thank you, I love it.”

He tucks my hair into the cap and then tells Stacey it’s time for a rinse. I sit and talk to Cameron, who’s sporting a shower cap with a picture of a tiara, and we start talking about pets. She has a cat that she rescued as a kitten when she was in high school, and my heart melts when she tells me that story. And if Freddie’s plan was for me to see that she’s a likable person, well, it’s safe to say it’s working, because any friend of homeless animals is a friend of mine. I tell her about Buster Loo, and when she tells me she’d like to meet him sometime, I believe her.

After we’re all rinsed and have our shower caps tucked into the bags of free samples Freddie put together for us, Stacey gets a professional blow out while I’m left to air dry. I feel majorly left out as Cameron flat irons Stacey’s hair while Freddie does her makeup. Unbeknownst to her, he skips the purple, blue, and greens in her makeup bag and sticks with the browns, peaches, and pinks. The finished product is a stark contrast to what we see at school on a
daily basis. Stacey’s hair is straight and sleek and, without all of that crazy-colored liner and shadow, her sea green eyes seem to glow. Despite our genuine compliments, however, when Stacey inspects her appearance in the mirror on the wall of the living room, she doesn’t like what she sees. Moving her head from side to side, she mumbles and grumbles about the lack of color.

“All of that bold color takes away from your natural features, which are quite lovely,” Freddie explains. Cameron and I continue to tell her how glamorous she looks, but she’s not convinced.

“I guess it looks okay if I was going to buy groceries or something,” she says, “but I couldn’t go out looking like this.” Cameron smiles, Freddie turns around and rolls his eyes, and I stand there and try not to laugh. “My head feels weird,” she says.

I can relate. This whole afternoon has felt weird to me, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. We all say good-bye and go our separate ways. On my way home, I call Lilly to see if maybe she wants to go to the movies or out to eat. She’s not interested.

“Do you want to go out honky-tonkin’ with the Dewberry tonight? I’ll go if you go, and I’ll even start another fight if it’ll make you feel better,” I tell her.

“Nah,” she says. “I have to wait for my phone call.”

“Are you sure? That phone is mobile, you know. You can take it with you. And I’ll go out and tear the roof off every redneck hillbilly place in the five surrounding counties if it’ll make you feel better.”

That gets a laugh out of her. “Not necessary,” she says. She asks if Stacey will have to go out by herself if I don’t go with her.

“Oh no,” I say. “My new friends, Cameron Becker and Freddie Dublin, are going out with her tonight, so I kind of hate to miss it,
but I really want to just hang out on the couch.” I tell her all about the makeover and how pretty Stacey looked with straight hair and toned-down makeup.

“God bless her,” Lilly says. “I can’t believe you hung out with freakin’ Becker and Dublin today.”

“Hey, what if I came to your house tonight with a bag of China Kitchen and a stack of hopelessly romantic comedies? Would you let me in?”

“I’d actually love that. But if Dax calls, I’ll have to drop everything and talk to him.”

“Of course, Lilly. But I can’t be responsible for my behavior if you leave your cream cheese wontons unsupervised.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says. Then she wants to bet me ten bucks Stacey’s hair will look just like it always does when she gets to school on Monday.

“Only a fool would take that bet,” I tell her. “I’ll see you around seven.”

“Sounds good. Thank you.”

When I get home, Buster Loo goes straight to the front door and stares at his leash.

“Let’s go, little buddy,” I tell him. The afternoon is breezy and warm, and I very much enjoy our walk around the park. So does Buster Loo. As I’m walking, I remember that I forgot to drive by and check out those Emersons from the phone book. Oh well, maybe tomorrow. I spend the afternoon in the backyard, pulling weeds and piddling around. At first, Buster Loo stays right beside me and sniffs each individual weed that I pluck, but he eventually loses interest and goes to take a nap in the middle of the yard. Even though I don’t accomplish anything other than uprooting a shitload
of weeds, I very much enjoy the time I spend out there on my knees. This is good, I think, when I go inside to take a shower. Nothing fancy. Nothing complicated. Just plain old happy. Amazing. But I would be a lot happier if Tate Jackson would give me a call.

After I get dressed, I dig through my DVD collection and pull out the silliest, sappiest movies I can find. Then I call China Kitchen and order Lilly’s and my favorite dishes. Buster Loo hops in the car with me and, after I pick up dinner, we head over to Lilly’s. It’s a nice and very relaxing evening and Lilly doesn’t even break down squalling after she gets to speak with Dax for only five minutes.

S
unday I get up early, take Buster Loo for a walk at the park, and then get ready and go to church. When I leave there, I pick up some fried chicken and take it home where I eat by myself at the picnic table in the backyard. Well, not really by myself. Buster Loo sits beside me on the bench and stares at my chicken like it might fly off.

“Today is the day,” I tell Buster Loo when I give him a small piece of meat. “Mama’s going to get her garden on today.” He sits up on his hind legs and waves his paws. He wants more chicken.

I go inside and change clothes, then go out to the garage and dig around to see what I can find. I know there’s a wheelbarrow in there somewhere; I just have to find it. When I do, it’s under a pile of junk that takes me thirty minutes to rearrange. Finally, the wheelbarrow is free. And just above the spot I cleaned out, I see the tools—Gramma Jones’s tools. They’re hanging in nice neat rows on
a piece of Peg-Board on the back wall of the shed. It’s the same place they’ve always been; I just forgot they were there. Under the Peg-Board is a set of old cabinets, also in the same spot since I was a kid. I open the cabinet doors and find several pairs of dust-covered gardening gloves. Each pair still has a price tag, and on the price tag, a faded orange sticker.

She must’ve got them on sale, I think. I also find a foam strip that I assume is to kneel on, a roll of garbage bags, and all shapes and sizes of flowerpots. I need to revive and expand my herb garden, I think. It’ll be twice as nice with all these pots. I pick up a pair of gloves, pull off the tag, and slip them on. I select a few of the gardening tools, put them in the wheelbarrow, and head out into the yard.

I’m amazed how much easier getting rid of weeds is with the proper tools. Who knew? I’d always pulled weeds by hand—the hard way. Come to think of it, I’ve always done everything the hard way. Work smarter, not harder, Gramma used to say. Indeed.

Buster Loo comes up to sniff my pile of weeds, then returns to his spot in the sunshine. I fill up what turns out to be a really gigantic garbage bag and even though my back is screaming in pain, I get every last little weed out of every flower bed in the backyard. I stand up and stretch, then go around to the front yard, where I fill up another huge garbage bag. I walk around the side of the house to where the weeping willow is planted and wonder why Gramma Jones didn’t just write the person’s name on the Post-it note. Maybe I’m being too nosy. Maybe it’s none of my business. Maybe that’s why she didn’t write a name there. Maybe it’s her secret. Maybe she’d like for it to stay that way.

While I’m standing there, something occurs to me that I hadn’t
thought of before. I need to plant a tree for Gramma Jones. I decide to go to the nursery after school one day next week and get her the perfect tree. I don’t know what kind that will be, but I’m sure I’ll figure something out when I get there. I pick the weeds from the beds on the side of the house, tie up the overstuffed bag, and drag it to the curb where I flop it over next to the other one.

I gather up the tools and wash them off and then I hose down the wheelbarrow. After putting everything back where I found it inside the garage, I’m surprised by an amazing feeling of accomplishment. I look around the garage and decide that next week, I’m cleaning this place out and transforming it into my own private garden workshop.

With an aching back and a pounding head, I walk around the yard to inspect my work. I didn’t realize how bad it looked until I got all of those pesky weeds out. There’re a few gaps here and there, along with some overgrown clumps of monkey grass and jumbo bunches of daylilies. I think if I separate that stuff, I can fill in the gaps and probably have monkey grass left over. I decide to do some more research before digging stuff out of the ground and hacking it up. As I walk back around the house, I have another great idea. Everything I have left over, I’ll take to Lilly’s where I will begin Operation Get Lilly Lane out of the House and into That Atrocious Yard of Hers. I know she’ll never be a gardener, but she loves telling people what to do, so she can point and I can dig and that might solve all kinds of problems for both of us. I smile at the thought, then go inside and run myself a steaming-hot bubble bath. I’m proud of myself because today I found something I enjoy that requires nothing more than what I already have here at la casa de Jones.

Later that night, I get a call from a strange number and answer it quickly, hoping it will be Tate Jackson. It’s not.

“Hi, Ace,” comes the sweet-as-sugar voice on the other end of the line. “This is Cameron. Freddie gave me your number. Is it okay that I called?”

“Of course, Cameron,” I say, surprised by an odd feeling of affection for this person who just a few short weeks ago I wanted to run out of town and, thereby, out of my former classroom. “What’s up?”

“Do you think it’s too late to do an art fair this year?”

My heart jumps for joy. “Almost, but not quite,” I tell her. “Since it’s the end of the year, the schedule is pretty lax, so we could have it a week later than usual.” We!? Who the hell is “we”?

“So you wouldn’t mind helping?”