My Life in Black and White (13 page)

“What you see is what you get,” I said.

Ruthie nodded. “Fair enough.”

“Okay then.”

“Where are you taking me?” I asked as my sister merged onto the highway, heading north.

“Just sit back and relax,” Ruthie said. “You’re supposed to trust me, remember?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Relax,”
she said again, reaching over to click on the radio. Some crappy classical station.

I sighed loudly.

“What?”

“Can’t we listen to something else?”

“What’s wrong with Mozart?”

“There’s nothing wrong with Mozart. I’d just like to listen to music from this century.”

“Expand your horizons,” Ruthie said. “Try a little culture.” She turned up the volume. Violins soared.

“C’mon!” I said.

“Shhhh … listen … it’s soothing.”

“It sucks!”

Ruthie smiled serenely. “My car, my tunes.”

“I hate you,” I muttered, pulling the hood of her sweatshirt tight over my ears. At first, when she’d made me put it on—to smuggle my hair past our mother—I’d protested. Nothing screams “dork” like an Interlochen Arts Camp sweatshirt.

But hoods do come in handy. Especially if you pull the cords tight, so all that’s left is a tiny nose-hole. The rest of your face is cocooned in soft, dark fleece. You’re not just cozy, you’re practically invisible.

The next thing I knew, the car had stopped. I poked my head out momentarily, blinking in the sun. “Where are we?”

“Westerly, Rhode Island,” Ruthie said.

“Why?”

“Because nobody knows us here.
And
… to visit what appears to be a fine haircutting establishment with an even finer name: Mar’s Hairy Business.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh no,” I said, shaking my head. “No way.”

“Yes way. Someone’s got to fix your hair … what’s left of it … I’d offer myself, but I have
zero
skills in that department, so—”

“I told you. I’m not getting out of the car.”

“Well then,” Ruthie said, “I’ll just have to ask Mar if she’ll come to you.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Yes,” Ruthie said. “It is.”

I knew my sister was trying to reverse psychologize me, but I wasn’t about to fall for her tricks. No way, no how. She might have been the budding lawyer in the family, but my position was firm.

Okay, the only reason I was following Ruthie into Mar’s Hairy Business was this: bribery. If I agreed to let some stranger fix my hair, Ruthie had to let me decide what would be done to
her
. Hair, face, nails, the works. I could have my sister shaved, plucked, pierced, tattooed, anything I wanted. That was why I was walking up the steps and through the tinkly glass door right now. Payback.

“Hi there.” Ruthie marched right up to the reception area. “Are you Mar?”

The girl behind the counter shook her blue, spiky head. “Mar’s in Florida. I’m Luna.”

“Well, Luna,” my sister said, “I’m Benny, and this is my sister, Brandy. And we’d like to get our hair cut.”

I stifled a snort. Benny and Brandy were the hamsters Ruthie and I got for Christmas when I was six and she was eight. We used to dress them up in doll clothes and pull them around in Ruthie’s Radio Flyer wagon. When they died, we held a hamster funeral of epic proportions. Programs. Refreshments. Even a song-and-dance routine we’d choreographed ourselves.

“Brandy,” my sister continued, grabbing my hand and yanking me toward the counter, “has a bit of a hair issue that needs addressing.”

“Uh-huh,” Luna said, nodding, taking in my hooded head and my pajama bottoms. “Okay.”

“And
Benny
,” I squeezed Ruthie’s hand so tight the bones scraped together, “has
several
issues—as you can see—all of which will need to be addressed today. That is, if you have time…”

Luna gestured to the back of the salon, which was empty except for a white-haired lady with a bad perm, hunched under a dryer. “I think I can squeeze you in.”

“Great!” Ruthie said, grinning at me.

I shot her my dirtiest look.

Then, before I could stop it from happening, she reached over and tugged down my hood.

“Oh my God,” Luna murmured, one purple-manicured hand flying to her mouth. “What happened?”

“Bear attack,” Ruthie said, glancing at me and shaking her head sadly. “When we were in Maine a few weeks ago, camping.”

“Seriously?”
Luna’s eyes were wide, staring at my face, my hair, the whole ensemble.

I shrugged, as in,
These things happen.

“Oh my God,” Luna said again.

Ruthie nodded solemnly. “Every day’s a gift.”

By the time Luna was finished with us, our mother had left four voice mails on Ruthie’s cell. She wanted us to know that she was “worried sick” and that “the least her daughters could do” was to answer their phones.

“Why is she having a conniption?” I said. “She was
thrilled
I was leaving the house. She practically pushed me out the door!”

Ruthie shrugged. “Maybe she thinks we got in an accident.”

“Please,” I muttered.

I wanted to blow our mother off, pretend we didn’t get the messages. It’s not like we were doing anything wrong. We’d said we’d be back for dinner.

But Ruthie pointed out that it was already five o’clock. If we didn’t call now, by the time we got home our mother would have summoned not only the state police, but also the National Guard.

“Good point,” I said.

Ruthie handed me the phone.

“No way!” I told her. “This whole thing was your idea.” Which was a tough line of reasoning to refute, even for Ruthie.

It took a full five minutes for her to calm our mother down. Violation number one: not answering our cell phones. Violation number two: driving out of state without her permission.

When Ruthie hung up, I said, “You think she’s flipping
now
? Wait until she sees my hair.”

“Are you kidding?” Ruthie said. “You look great.”

“Right,” I said.

My new hair—short and spiky on the left (thanks to my hack job), chin-length layers on the right (to cover the graft)—was bizarre. And eerily reminiscent of Taylor’s bi-level ’do, circa fourth grade.

“I’m serious,” Ruthie insisted, shifting in her seat to face me. “It’s cool. Funkified.”

“Whatever.”

I felt an unexpected pang, looking at Ruthie. For the first time in her life she had groomed eyebrows. And a sleek, side-parted hairstyle that made her nose seem more delicate, even regal. Ruthie seemed to have noticed, too. Ever since we got in the car she’d been sneaking little glances at herself in the side-view mirror. I wished suddenly that I’d told Luna to do something unflattering. A buzz cut. Or a Mohawk. Then I felt bad. “You’re the one who looks great,” I told my sister.

She shook her head. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes,” I said, a bit of an edge in my voice. “You do.”

Ruthie shrugged, looking uncomfortable. She turned the key in the ignition. “I guess we should get going, huh?”

“I guess so.”

“Bye, Luna,” Ruthie said. “Thanks for the memories.” She gave a little salute as we pulled away, showing off her nails—Aphrodite’s Pink Nightie, my signature color. Subtle. Classy.

I shifted my gaze to the passing scene, the storefronts and Saturday afternoon shoppers. Part of me was glad that we’d taken this trip. But a bigger part of me felt worse than ever. I wasn’t Brandy the bear-attack victim with the great attitude and the heart of gold. I was a bitch, jealous of my own sister—a role reversal if ever there was one.

“There’s a Subway in a few exits,” Ruthie said as we entered the highway. “You hungry?”

“Not really,” I said. “Are you?”

“I guess not,” she said.

After a few minutes of silence, Ruthie flipped on the radio. Classical music again, but this time I didn’t say a word. I just pulled my hood over my head and stared out the window.

We arrived home as the sun was starting to set. Ruthie pulled into the driveway and unsnapped her seat belt. She shifted in her seat to face me. “So. What are you planning to do on Monday?”

I knew what she was asking, but I pretended not to. “The usual. Eating bonbons, watching
Ellen
… organizing my socks.”

My sister’s face stayed serious. Gone was the fun-loving Benny of yesteryear. “Lex,” she said, looking me straight in the eye. “You need to go back to school. I understand why you don’t want to, but you need to. It’s too important.”

The way she said it—with such conviction—made my stomach hurt. I could try to argue with her, but deep down I knew she was right.

I heard myself murmur, “Okay whatever.”

“Okay whatever?” Ruthie raised her new eyebrows.

“Dad’s going to make me, anyway. You were there. His whole ‘truancy is a criminal offense’ speech?” I made my voice deep and lawyerly. “‘
Twenty unexcused absences warrants a blah blah blah’
… I already have ten.”

“So, is that a yes?”

I shrugged. “Whatever.”

“
Whatever
is not an affirmative,” Ruthie said. “I need an affirmative.”

My sister the walking thesaurus. How we were even related was beyond me.

“Fine,” I said.

“
Fine
you’ll go to school on Monday?”

“Yes,”
I said. “I will go to school on Monday. Is that affirmative enough for you?”

“Yes, it is.”

“But I am
not
taking the bus.”

“No bus,” Ruthie agreed. “I’ll drive you.”

“Good,” I said.

For a second, I imagined the two of us walking into high school together, with our new haircuts and killer attitudes. Benny and Brandy, the Mayer sisters: a force to be reckoned with.

For a second, I let myself believe it.

Ifonlyifonlyifonly

ON MONDAY MORNING, I woke with a pit in my stomach.
Why did I agree to this? What was I thinking?
Then came a rap on my door and my mother’s voice. “Rise and shine!” Her chipper tone—plus the Lord & Taylor gift box in her hands—made me want to dive out the window.

“Happy first day of school,” she said, beaming. “I bought you a little outfit…. I hope you like it…. If you don’t … well … we’ll just go back and exchange it later.”

I nodded, afraid that if I opened my mouth I’d barf.

“Here!” She handed me the box. “Take a look!”

I nodded again, trying to smile. But when I lifted the lid and peeled back the layers of tissue, I felt sick. Inside was a floaty, cream-colored blouse and a lavender skirt embroidered with tiny, cream-colored flowers.

“Thanks, Mom,” I murmured.

“Don’t you love it? I thought the blouse was darling. And the detailing on the skirt makes it special without being too busy…. I wasn’t sure about sizes….” She hesitated. “But we’ll just take it back if it doesn’t work.”

I nodded, feeling ten times worse.

My mother hadn’t said a word about my weight since the accident. Food comments, yes. Hair comments, definitely: she
freaked
when she saw what Luna had done to me. But she hadn’t yet crossed the line to weight. Even now she was backpedaling. “I’m sure you’re still a size two, honey.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, knowing that I wasn’t. Knowing that she knew it, too.

“Do you want to try them on?” she asked.

“Not right now.” As I placed the clothes back in the box I mumbled something about gym being first period and not wanting to get my new outfit sweaty, which was, of course, total BS. I hadn’t even seen my schedule. “I’ll try them on later,” I added.

Satisfied, my mother changed the subject to something even worse. “Have you done your oil yet?”

Just like that, we were back to the face. I said I hated the oil; she said I had to do it, anyway. I asked what difference did it make? She asked did I
hear
what the doctor said about scar prevention? Then she whipped out a beige-colored bottle—some kind of miracle foundation she’d discovered at the Lord & Taylor cosmetics department, especially for scars. She told me that after I did my oil, she would be happy to do my makeup. “How does that sound?” she asked.