Words That Start With B (3 page)

It’s the first day of school at last. My eyes snap open and I’m so awake I can barely remember what it feels like to be sleepy. I jump up and go about the business of dressing — looking over last night’s decision and changing my mind. My blue shirt is new, but my old
T
-shirt with the tree and stitched leaves is cooler, more Miss Ross. She loves nature and the environment and you can’t get more naturey than a tree
T
-shirt. A tree-shirt. Ha. I’ll have to remember to tell Benji that one.

I’ve decided to wear my hair curly. It doesn’t curl everywhere, mostly at the back and underneath, but it’s easier to goop it up and scrunch it than it is to straighten it. I swiped a bottle of super-hold gel “specially formulated for curly hair” from the Hair Emporium. It smells like jellybeans. When I pull the sides of my hair back with clips it looks almost pretty and you can’t tell that the front pieces don’t curl as much. I think it makes me look older.

I don’t have to mention my hair at breakfast. Mom does it for me. “You have your father to thank for those curls,” she says. I chew my cereal and pretend not to be interested. She doesn’t often thank my father for anything. I don’t know much about him, only that his name is Bill and apparently
his hair is curly. I’ve never even met him. He and my mom broke up before I was born and he moved out West to sell life insurance. She never even told him she was pregnant, which I used to think was a low down thing to do, but Denise assures me that where my father is concerned, nothing is too low down. Denise calls him Bill the Pill. People used to ask me if I missed him, but how can you miss someone you never knew? Plus, the way my mom and Denise talk about him, he doesn’t sound like the type of father a kid would miss. Mom is careful not to say anything too nasty about him in front of me, but once I overheard her talking with Denise and she called him a piece of human lint. That’s definitely not Dairy Queen talk.

More than once Denise has said to me, “Trust me honey, your father left the best part of himself behind here with your Mama.” Then she pats my knee and winks at me so I’ll get that she means me.

Unfortunately, Denise is my mother’s best friend. She is taller than any other woman I know and has red hair that she gets touched up at the salon every four weeks. She has big feet and big hands and a horsey face, and she probably wouldn’t win any beauty contests, but she makes up for it by wearing a lot of makeup and tight clothes. Denise doesn’t have any kids of her own and so she thinks we’re pretty dumb, which is why she goes out of her way to make sure I get her point.

If you ask me, she spends way too much time at our house. A few weeks ago she started turning up in the mornings before heading off to work. Now I wake up to the sound of her honking at something my mom said over coffee in the kitchen. The first time it happened it woke me up, and for a second I thought maybe a Canada goose had landed in our
backyard. She’s that bad. But sometimes she brings those little white powdery doughnuts. Like this morning. I stuff one in my mouth and take two more for lunch. Mom frowns.

“Isn’t three doughnuts a little much?” she asks.

“One is for Benji,” I lie.

“Oh, to be young and have such a metabolism,” Denise sighs.

I roll my eyes, shout goodbye to anyone who is listening, then run over to pick up Benji. The first day of the rest of my life has begun!

***

“Your hair is different,” Benji says. He’s sitting on his porch picking invisible lint off his jeans. They’re the same jeans he wore all last year, and yet they’re not even a little bit too short. I had to buy all new things because somehow I got too long for everything over the summer. I’ll probably be the second-tallest person in my class now.

I glare at him. “Good different or bad different?”

“Good different. You look,” Benji thinks about it for a second, “pretty.”

“Oh, great. So before I was not pretty.”

“No, no, before you didn’t care if you looked pretty; now it’s like you care.”

“Well, I don’t care. I’m just trying something new.”

Benji changes the subject.

“I thought you were wearing the blue shirt,” he says.

“Changed my mind,” I say, shrugging my shoulders like it’s no big deal.

Benji scrutinizes my tree-shirt. “I get it. Because Miss Ross loves the environment—”

“Not
just
because of that,” I protest. “I also think it’s a cool shirt. You said it was a cool shirt, remember?” I feel a
little embarrassed. I wonder if Miss Ross will think it’s too obvious. “Besides, it’s my
tree
-shirt,” I finish lamely.

Benji breaks out into a smile and laughs. “A tree-shirt! That’s a good one!”

I feel much better. If something is even a little bit funny, Benji will laugh out loud and he doesn’t care who hears him. It doesn’t matter if he’s in a movie theatre, a classroom or just walking down the street. If it’s funny, he laughs. He should start a business where comedians pay him to come and sit at their shows. He’d make a fortune.

“Come on, I don’t want to be late!”

“We’ve got ages,” Benji points out.

“If we stay any longer Denise will come out and go on and on about her feet.”

Benji perks up a little. “Denise is over?”

I forgot that for some reason Benji is not bothered by Denise’s honking laugh or the fact that she can’t open her mouth without telling you too much information. I swing my backpack over my shoulder and start walking. “I’m leaving!” I call.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!”

***

“Hi, Clarissa! Hi, Benji!”

Mattie Cohen pulls herself away from a knot of people and runs in our direction. She is the only person I know who still wears a dress on the first day of school. This one is navy-blue and forest-green plaid with buttons all the way down the front. She’s wearing it with a white blouse and knee socks, actual knee socks, even though it’s at least twenty degrees already. She looks like she should be going to Hogwarts.

“Hi, Mattie.”

“Your hair looks nice, Clarissa.”

I wish I could say I liked Mattie’s hair or her dress, but I don’t think I can manage to say the words without smirking, and I am trying to be nicer this year.

“Thanks.”

“How was your summer?”

“Fine.”

“Mine was amazing! I went to camp and joined the swim team and I even babysat for my neighbours once. They had a new baby. Can you believe it? I’m not even thirteen yet and they let me babysit their brand-new baby.”

Ugh. If there is anything I hate more than Mattie Cohen, it’s babies.

“That’s nice. Come on, Benji.”

“I really like your dress, Mattie.”

“I said, come
on,
Benji.”

Finally the bell goes and we all shuffle into the classroom. This is it, the moment I have been waiting for since that day in grade three. Maybe even before that. I’m not bad at school, but I’m not the best, either. Despite that, I have a feeling that this is the year I will amaze everyone with my artistic abilities and math skills. I, Clarissa, who have never been able to draw anything but stick people, will suddenly be making masterpieces. Miss Ross will call my mother to discuss the deep and meaningful poems I’ll be writing in language arts. The choir teacher will beg me to sing the solo at the Christmas assembly. Maybe I’ve been a genius all along but none of the other teachers was smart enough to see it. If anyone can, it’s Miss Ross.

So you can imagine my disappointment when a skinny man with red hair opens the door and says, “Gooooooood morning, ladies and gentle-monkeys. My name is Mr. Campbell and I will be your captain on the 7B ship.”

Mr. Campbell tells us his first name is Tony, and then he tells us a really boring story about how people used to call him Tony the Tiger because of his name and his red hair. Worst of all, he does an impression of Tony the Tiger and doesn’t even notice that only a few people are laughing at his seriously dumb joke. Benji is one of them, of course. Traitor.

“Are there any questions before we dive into science?”

I raise my hand.

“Yes, Miss—?”

“Delaney. Clarissa Delaney.”

“Well, Miss Delaney, what can I do for you?”

“Where’s Miss Ross?”

Tony the Tiger keeps smiling his big, dumb smile.

“I believe Miss Ross is on sabbatical,” he says.

I don’t know what that means, but it sounds serious and disturbingly permanent.

“Will she be coming back?”

“I’m not sure I’m the right person to ask that question of, Clarissa.”

“Well, then who is?”

“I believe your question falls under the jurisdiction of personal information.”

“So you don’t know?”

“No, I don’t know. But I
do
know we are going to have a grrrrreat year!”

I seriously doubt that.

I feel like a zombie; I sleepwalk through first period. Mr. Campbell passes out textbooks and workbooks and talks about the year ahead, but I can’t concentrate. Benji keeps trying to catch my eye but I pretend not to notice. I’m so disappointed I might cry or hit something, and neither of those things are a good way to start grade seven.

All of the colour has been drained from the room. Gone is the huge painting of the tree behind the desk. Instead, Mr. Campbell has posted a big map stuck all over with pushpins. At the top the title
Where in the World Has 7B Been?
is spelled out in green and blue letters cut from construction paper. The window ledges have been cleared of all plants. Gone are the little red bookshelves bursting with Miss Ross’s own personal collection of books. I’d imagined myself reading through them on the brightly striped beanbag chairs that she’d kept at the back of the room. These have been replaced by a long table and plastic chairs. Worst of all, there are no birds anywhere. Try as I might, I can’t find even the slightest trace of Miss Ross.

I don’t know anything about this Mr. Campbell. Does he like whales? Does he write his own skits with parts for every student for the Christmas assembly? Does he play the guitar and hold singalongs in class? Does he know that everyone at Ferndale Public School counts down the days till grade seven, when they get to be in Miss Ross’s class, and that he has gone and ruined that?

***

At lunchtime everyone discusses Mr. Campbell and whether or not he is married with kids. Well, not everyone. Mostly Mattie Cohen and her friends, but they’re so loud it feels like the whole room is talking about it.

“He’s pretty cute. Don’t you think he’s cute?”

“For a teacher.”

“Well, I think he’s cute. I bet he has a nice wife and a baby.”

I could care less about stupid Mr. Campbell and his stupid wife and baby. He is not Miss Ross and that is all that counts.

***

When the world’s longest school day is finally over, I practically run through the halls and out the door. Ah, freedom. I take a deep breath. It still smells like summer.

“Wait up!” Benji gets caught behind a group of grade eight boys. They move together forming a wall of solid jerk and laugh as he tries to find a way around them.

“What’s the rush?” one of them jeers.

“Yeah, where’s the fire?”

They push him around a bit and one of them horks loudly, aiming dangerously close to Benji’s shoe. Finally he manages to squeeze through them and runs to catch up. His cheeks are pink and he’s breathing pretty hard.

“Jerks,” I mutter. “Come on, I need a Slurpee.”

We walk in silence to the 7-Eleven. I’m afraid I might cry if I open my mouth, and Benji knows better than to bring it up, but we’re both thinking the same thing. It’s going to be a long year. Other kids go by, laughing and shouting, but I can’t bring myself to join in. I can’t stop thinking of the year I had planned, all the awards and gold stars I was going to receive.

Not even an extra-large blue raspberry Slurpee makes me feel any better. I gulp down as much as I can before the brain freeze kicks in and I have to stop because it hurts too much.

“Nerds?” Benji offers.

I put out my hand and he taps the box: a pile of neon green candy falls into my palm. I dump it into my Slurpee and watch as the neon green stains the Slurpee a dark, muddy colour.

“Gross,” Benji says.

“It looks almost as bad as I feel,” I say.

We keep walking in silence until Benji says, “If we hurry we can still watch
Full House
.” I snort. Like that will make me feel better.

Benji’s all-time favourite
TV
show is this old series he discovered in reruns called
Full House.
He loves the idea of all those people living together. Not me. I’d go crazy with all those uncles and sisters around. Especially that Michelle Tanner. She is my least favourite character. People are always forgiving her because she’s so cute. If you ask me, that Michelle Tanner knows she is cute and uses it to get away with things. They show a full hour of
Full House
at four o’clock. I would rather watch one of those real-life rescue shows, but Benji says they give him nightmares and my mother says the sound of all the sirens and screaming upsets her clients. So, I lose. At least Uncle Jesse is pretty funny.

***

“We’re home!”

Mom says something back, but I can tell she’s with a client. Benji and I drop our backpacks in the kitchen, grab some cookies and head down to the basement. Down the
stairs and immediately to the left is the Hair Emporium. Straight ahead is the den. Mom usually schedules ten minutes between clients, so there’s rarely a time when someone has to wait, but just in case, she lugged two of our dining room chairs downstairs to create a waiting area outside the salon. Between the chairs is a coffee table stacked high with magazines; most of them are hair magazines, but we also get subscriptions to
People
and
Hello! Canada
so clients can check out the celebrity hairstyles, too. One of my jobs is to make sure the new magazines are put out every week.

“No one wants to go to a hair salon and read last year’s magazines,” Mom says. “They’ll think we’re out of date.”

When I was little I used to like hanging out in the waiting room and chatting with Mom’s clients. But now I’d rather be left alone with Benji and the
TV
. Last year Mom put up three Japanese dressing screens to divide the waiting area from the rest of the den. Even with the screens, when Mom has a client I have to keep the
TV
on low, which is sort of unfair, since it’s my house, too. But Mom says that television doesn’t set the right sort of atmosphere for a salon. Instead, she has a radio tuned to the country station. She says country songs are full of people pouring their hearts out, “just like hair salons. People come in for a cut and colour, but they also come in to chat about what’s bothering them. So when they leave, their heads and their hearts are just a little bit lighter.”

Benji and I stare at the
TV
, but he’s the only one watching. I keep imagining the year as it should have been, and I start feeling worse and worse. I’m impatient for Benji and Mom’s clients to leave so I can have her all to myself, just for a little while.

***

At the end of the day Mom walks her last client up the stairs, says goodbye at the door and then comes back down to the salon and cranks up the radio. This is my signal to grab the cleaning bucket from under the kitchen sink and make my way to the salon for Power Hour.

The name Power Hour comes from a churchy
TV
show that’s on Sunday mornings; it’s for people who can’t make it out to real church. In our house, Power Hour is an hour of intense cleaning, so named because of two things. One, my mother is a furious cleaner who likes to get the job done fast, and two, she is a firm believer in the saying, “Cleanliness is next to godliness.” Even though the joke is a little bit lame, in a mom-joke kind of way, I love Power Hour.

One of the few things I have inherited from my mother is a love of cleaning. I hate mess of any kind and one of my favourite smells is my Mom’s homemade cleaning solution, which Denise calls Annie-Off. Annie-Off smells like lemons and vinegar and something else I can’t put my finger on. It’s kind of sharp and spicy, like something you might smell in an Indian restaurant. You can use Annie-Off on any surface and it never leaves a residue or feels greasy. Plus, it’s made of all-natural ingredients, which is better for the environment. The recipe for Annie-Off is top secret, and if there’s one thing my mom is better at than cleaning, it’s keeping a secret. She mixes up a big batch once a month while I’m at school, and I come home to find a row of spray bottles from the dollar store lined up under the kitchen sink. It’s maddening. I have suggested many times that we sell Annie-Off and make tons of money, but Mom says some things she’d rather keep in the family. Fine for her, but when she dies
and leaves me the recipe, I am going to sell Annie-Off and make a million dollars.

During Power Hour Mom looks after the individual stations, the sink, the dryers and all the combs and brushes. My job is to sweep and mop the floors, clean the mirrors and change the garbage. I also vacuum the waiting area, primp the magazines and dust the figurines. We make a good team, Mom and I. It normally takes us less than an hour, except for the times Denise stops by, plops herself down in one of the swirly chairs, kicks her shoes off and yells over the music while we clean. She never offers to pick up a broom or help disinfect the combs and scissors. It’s like she doesn’t notice we’re in the middle of something. Typical Denise.

I am just starting to feel a bit better, all that cleaning clearing my head, when I hear the back door slam and Denise is clomping down the stairs, already yammering on about some “idiot” at the Shoppers Drug Mart in Leasdale who “wouldn’t know a lipstick from a crayon.”

Mom listens and nods and makes supportive noises.

“
Mmm, hmm
… He didn’t! Oh, poor DeeDee.”

Poor DeeDee? So she spent a few bad hours with a real jerk. After today she’ll never have to deal with him, whereas I am stuck with Tony the Tiger for an entire school year. I wait for a break in Denise’s tirade but there doesn’t appear to be one. I can’t get a word in edgewise.

Since no one seems to care about my day, I am sure to make as much noise as possible in my cleaning, sighing occasionally, until finally Denise picks upon it.

“What’s gotten into you?” she asks.

“Well, school was terrible, thanks for asking,” I say.

“It’s just the first day,” Mom says. “I’m sure things will get better.”

That’s it? “It’s just the first day?” “I’m sure things will get better?” I wait for the supportive noises and the “Poor Clarissa,” but they don’t come. Unbelievable.

“You shouldn’t frown like that, it’ll give you wrinkles,” Denise says, “and then you’ll really have something to frown about.” She tries to run her fingers through my hair but I am too fast for her.

“You were such a cutie pie when you were a kid. Blond as blond can be. Perfect little curls. The longest god-given eyelashes I ever saw. Your mom could have put you in commercials.”

“Now Denise, you know how I feel about mothers who push their kids into the business,” Mom says.

Denise sighs and for once I agree with her. What is so bad about being on
TV
?

“Not even one Little Miss competition,” Denise says. “And you with your mother’s genes. It’s a crying shame.”

Mom catches my eye in the mirror and winks. “Clarissa here would have thrown a fit and you know it,” she says.

“Well, that time has passed,” she says, giving me the once over and frowning. “At least you’ve still got those long lashes.”

What I would like to do is kick Denise as hard as I can. Instead, I happen to “trip” while emptying the dust pan into the garbage, and a pile of hair clippings lands all over her feet. Denise jumps up, shaking her legs.

“Lord Almighty, you should be more careful, Clarissa!”

“Sorry, Denise. I guess I had trouble seeing through my long lashes.”

Before she can respond I dash out of the salon and run up the stairs two at a time, locking myself in my bedroom. Even from there, beneath the sounds of Denise ranting about what a horrible child I am, I can hear my mother laughing.