Whatever Doesn't Kill You (10 page)

“So, um, is there a plan for lunch somewhere in the middle of my big makeover?”

“There's a great place to eat right across from the hairdresser's. We can get a shawarma or something afterward.”

“Great.” I don't know what a shawarma is, but it sounds exotic, like something trendy and sophisticated people might eat, and with my stylish—albeit 80 percent off—new wardrobe, I guess I can pretend to be trendy and sophisticated for an afternoon.

The hair salon is a dingy little place with the prices posted on a whiteboard in the window—men's and kids' haircuts
$
5, women's
$
8. It's freezing inside the shop, and there's only one other customer, an old woman in a parka with tinfoil patches all over her head. She's reading a copy of
InStyle
magazine that looks to be about two years old, judging from the dog-eared pages.

“I help you?”

The hairdresser is a terrifying little woman, Eastern European and nearly as wide across as she is tall. I take a step backward, but Ashley's right there, shoving me forward. “My friend needs a haircut.”

“Okay. Sorry for the heat is broken. I waiting for the man to come fix.”

“That's fine,” I tell her. I leave my coat on and sit in the chair. The woman wraps me in a cape that fastens around my neck so tightly I can barely talk, then pulls out the elastic bands holding my braid in place. She starts roughly brushing out my hair, jerking my head back as she sorts out the curls.

“How you want your hair?”

“Um, I don't really know. Just…something nice, I guess. Something different.”

The woman smiles, showing off a mouth full of crooked teeth that all look like they belong to different people.

“Okay. I take good care of you.”

She sets at my head like a predator, armed with a spray bottle of water and a pair of scissors, spraying and hacking and spraying and hacking. I see huge chunks of reddish-gold curls falling to the floor, and despite myself I can feel my eyes brimming with tears. I remember my last haircut: some high-end place my mom took me to on a “girls' day out” where the lady cut my hair so short I looked like Little Orphan Annie.

“Don't make it too short, okay?”

“Is okay.” The lady pats me on the shoulder. “I make your hair look nice.”

Ashley hovers like a bumblebee, telling me how great I'm going to look when all this is over. I feel a lump welling in my throat. I guess I'm not very good with new things after all. Even when the old things suck, at least you know what to expect from them.

But after an eternity of spritzing and snipping and hair-pulling, I have to admit, my hair looks a lot better than it did—pretty good, in fact. Sort of a wavy bob that falls to my jawline. I look down at the floor and see mountains of orange fluff piled all around, but when I look back to the mirror, it doesn't seem to matter as much.

“That's so amazing,” Ashley chirps. “Look, it changes the whole shape of your face. You look so hot.”

I nod, my eyes misting up a little for no reason that I can discern. “Yeah. It looks pretty good.”

The little European woman takes the cape off me like she's revealing a sculpture, and I stare at myself in the mirror, mesmerized. Ashley steps in and fluffs my hair, grinning. “Look at you! You're gorgeous!”

I don't even register the sound of the door chime ringing until I hear the hairdresser speaking to the two men who've stepped inside.

“You come about the heat?” she says.

“Yeah. What seems to be the problem?”

She sounds a little peevish. “I don't know. I pay you to find that out.”

I look up to see who she's talking to—two guys in brown coveralls with their names embroidered on the pockets— and I can feel my stomach dropping as I realize who's standing there. The older man is fiftyish, balding, a clipboard tucked under his arm; the younger, thirtyish and dreadfully, heart-stoppingly familiar. There, in his coverall and grubby work boots and carrying a toolbox, is Travis Bingham.

I let out a little gasp and Ashley looks at me, puzzled. “What's the matter?”

“That's him,” I say between gritted teeth. My heart is racing in my throat. I can feel my hands shaking.

“That's who?”

“Travis Bingham.” She gives me a blank stare. “The guy who killed my dad.”

“No way!” she says too loudly.

“Shh!” I duck so that she's between me and Travis. I don't want him to see me right now—not that he'd have the faintest clue who I am anyway.

“Well, you should say something.”

“I don't know what to say. I'm not ready for this. I wasn't expecting to see him.”

“Eight dollar.”

“What?”

The hairdresser has her hand out. “Eight dollar. See, I tell you I make your hair look nice. You like it?”

“I—yes. I do. I like it.” I dig through my pockets for change and find a crumpled five-dollar bill and a handful of coins.

“You have beautiful hair. You come back again, few months. No wait so long next time to get cut, okay?”

“Sure. Okay. I will. I mean, I won't.”

And away she goes to talk to Travis and the older guy, who looks like he's probably the boss, about the heat. I duck outside with Ashley at my heels.

“Well, are you going to talk to him or what?”

“I—I'm not ready. I don't know what to say.”

“Well…” She pulls her cell phone out of her pocket and checks the time. “Why don't we go get something to eat and we can think about it? Then when they're done whatever they're doing, we can come back and meet them outside.”

I think about the last time I stalked Travis Bingham with a gang of people. “No. I think I really need to be alone to talk to him.”

“Really?” Ashley looks shocked. I don't know if she's more surprised by the idea of my confronting Travis on my own or the thought of doing
anything
alone. It occurs to me that I've never seen her without an entourage before. Having only me to hang around with must be absolutely killing her.

I decide that what Ashley needs is a project. That will make her feel like she's involved without actually bringing her along with me. “Can you do me a favor? I need to find out where he works.”

She brightens at that. “You want me to go back in and ask him?”

“No!” I can just see Ashley opening her mouth and spilling the whole story. “How about…you go in and see if the name of the company is printed on their uniforms or something. Distract the hairdresser—ask her how much it would cost to get highlights or…I don't know. Just make something up. But see if they've got an address or a phone number or something. That way I can go find him at work. But not today. Today I'm not ready.”

With a job to do, Ashley ducks back into the store, and I stand outside on the sidewalk. The snow will look dingy and gray tomorrow, filled with flecks of the coal dust that is always floating through the air in this end of town, but right now the fat white flakes against the gray of the old buildings look dreamy, otherworldly. My hair feels light, soft, and I run my fingers through it absentmindedly.

Ashley comes out after a few minutes.

“I&B Heating and Cooling,” she says. “I'm sorry, but I had to come right out and ask. They didn't have anything on their uniforms except their names. I was subtle though. I said my cousin wanted to get, like, an apprenticeship in heating and cooling, and they told me he should give Ike a call—he owns the place. I even got a business card.” She looks a little worried. “Is that okay?”

I grin, almost as much because she's anxious as because she actually got the job done. “Not bad. You could be a spy or something.” I take the business card from her and tuck it in my pocket. This has been quite a day so far. Yesterday at this time I was friendless and depressed; today I have not only a new friend but also an accomplice. This is a new sensation for me: I'm actually having fun.

We stop across the street for a shawarma, which turns out to be sort of a chicken-and-tomato sandwich wrapped in a pita, and then Ashley drives me home. The roads are slick and slushy, and I grip the overhead safety handle, my jaw clenched as I wonder what it will feel like when we skid out and crash into a parked car or the side of a building. Somehow, though, we make it to the parking lot of my building and Ashley lets me out.

I open the door and pause a second before I step out in the snow. “Thanks. I had a good day.”

Ashley grins. “Me too. We'll have to ditch again sometime.”

“Be careful in this snow. I'd hate for you to crash the car before you even get your license.”

The snow is starting to blow around, whipping at my ears, tangling up my new hairdo and flying down the back of my coat, getting my neck wet. My shoes are soaked by the time I get to the door of my building. I pause just inside the vestibule and pull out my cell phone to check the time. I figure I'll just have time to duck upstairs and stash my new clothes in my room before the kids' bus comes. I'm sure Simon will have something to say about my haircut.If I was a better liar, I'm sure I could make up a fabulous story about how I got paint in my hair in art class and had to run down the street to get an emergency trim or something. As it is, though, I decide my best bet is to be vague.

I open the apartment door, expecting to see Simon crashed out on the couch watching
Oprah
or sitting at the kitchen table doing the sudoku. What I'm not expecting is a living room full of little kids twenty minutes before the bus is supposed to be here, and Simon standing in the hallway with the phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear and the phone book in his hands.

“Never mind,” he says, glaring at me. “She's here.”

I freeze, my arms full of bags and my new hairdo wet with snow and sticking to my face. “What's going on? It's not even three o'clock. The kids' bus isn't even supposed to be here yet.”

“The schools closed at noon because of the storm. Which you'd know, if you'd been
at
school today.” Simon looks me up and down. “What did you do, ditch to go shopping? What the hell has gotten into you?”

I shrug. “I just…thought it was time for a change.”

Simon shrugs back, mocking me. “Time for a change. Sure, great. Change away. Cut off all your hair. Drop out of school. Why don't you get pregnant and dive into a pile of drugs while you're at it? Turn into Emily. That'd be a nice change.”

“What's your problem? I missed one day of school— that's hardly dropping out. And apparently it was only a half day, after all that.”

“Is it your new little friend? What's her name, Amber? Was this her idea?”

“Ashley. And no.” I can't look right at him when I lie, but who cares whose idea it was? I'm not sorry we did it.

“You left a bunch of little kids standing out at the bus stop in a blizzard. Crying out loud, Jenna, you're supposed to be the responsible one.”

I've never seen Simon worked up like this. The veins in his neck are bulging out, and his face is turning red.

“Well, maybe I'm sick of being so frigging responsible.” I kick off my boots, throw my coat down on the floor. The kids are all staring at me, but I don't care. I bundle up all my bags and storm down the hall to my room. I try to slam the door, but Emily has hung a shirt over the top, so it bounces back open again and I have to take the shirt off the door before I can really get a good
THUD
out of it. I climb the ladder to my bed and pull the covers over my head. Why did there have to be a stupid snowstorm today?

One by one the kids leave; I hear their moms asking where I am.

I hear Simon's voice. “She's not feeling well.” Nice of him to lie for me, I suppose. At least now I don't look as irresponsible as he thinks I am. As I actually
am
, I suppose.

After a while—half an hour, maybe more; it's hard to tell with my head buried under my pillow—I hear Simon padding down the hall. He's coming to talk to me. Ugh. He knocks, then opens the door after a minute when I don't say anything.