Part 7 (1/2)

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in plastic; Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in wire; Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in wood. I say ”hey” to all the Jesuses. Hey, baby. It's what I used to say to my mom's stomach when she was pregnant with Henry. I don't remember it; I read about it in a notebook I found hidden at the back of my mother's closet. She was only pregnant for five months before she lost him. The last entry in the book, the entry my mother wrote a few months after Henry died, said that I kept patting her belly, saying Hey, baby, Hey baby, Hey baby. She wrote that the last time I said it, my father put his face in his hands and cried. She wrote that I never said it again.

I get tired of walking around, so I slump down on a bale of hay in one of the life-sized Nativity scenes. I glance around. Mary seems smug, Joseph seems stunned, and baby Jesus looks like a glowworm in a blanket, but the bale of hay is the perfect place for a girl to hide from her mother, her father, the world. I gather my hair up in a loose bun at the back of my head, yank one of the elastics I always wear around on my wrist and wind it around the knot. Then I dig in my backpack for Much Ado About Nothing and start reading.

”You can't sit here,” a voice says.

82 I look up, confused. I must have been sitting for a while, because my b.u.t.t's asleep. The guy standing over me is maybe fifteen, but I don't recognize him. He's wearing a uniform vest the red of his numerous zits. His name tag says ”Walt.”

”What's up, Walt?”

Walt is short and skinny, with a very prominent Adam's apple. He also has a serious hair-gel fetish. He's probably the one who set up the Nativity scene that I am ruining with my presence. I'm pretty sure I'm not holy enough to guest-star in any Nativity scenes.

”You can't just sit there,” he warbles. ”This isn't a library.”

”I know that,” I say. I wonder if his hair is stiff enough to pop a balloon. ”I was just resting my legs.”

”Yeah, well. You can't do that, either.” He scratches at a pimple on his nose. ”You've been back here for forty-five minutes.”

”I have not,” I say.

”Have too.”

I don't feel like getting up. I don't feel like talking to Walt. I don't feel like talking to anyone. ”There's no one in the store. What do you care if I sit here or not?”

”I don't care,” Walt says. ”My boss cares. He told me to tell you to leave. He thinks you're going to steal something.”

”Like what?”

83 ”How should I know?” he says.

”Think I'm going to smuggle out the baby Jesus over there?”

”Maybe.”

”And why does he look like a glowworm, anyway?”

”Like a what?”

”Never mind,” I say. I don't know why I'm torturing Zit Boy. It's not his fault that I'm in a p.i.s.sy mood and that his boss thinks I'm going to make off with the Virgin Mary. I shove my book back into my bag and stand up, my b.u.t.t tingling painfully. ”I'm going.”

”Good,” he says.

I feel a weird little snap at the back of my neck, and suddenly my hair falls down. I shake my head and pluck the broken elastic off my shoulder . I'm about to fling it to the floor when I see Walt's face. He's smiling.

”What?” I say.

”Nothing,” he says. But he's still smiling.

”What?” I say again, louder.

”You're that girl, aren't you?”

”I'm a girl, if that's what you mean,” I say, though I know. Of course I know.

”That senior girl. I saw the picture,” he says. The smile is now a smirk. There should be some sort of law against smirking. You should have to be at least eighteen to do it. It should require a license. ”Everyone at school has seen that picture,” he's saying.

84 ”I don't know what you're talking about,” I say.

But he's watching me tug at my hair, and he doesn't believe me.

”Sure,” he says.

This kid doesn't even shave yet. He probably has a p.e.n.i.s the size of a pencil eraser . ”What are you talking about?” I say, practically shouting.

”Nothing,” he says. He's starting to enjoy himself.

He's bouncing up on his toes to make himself taller .

”That's right, nothing,” I say, practically spitting.

”You know nothing.”

Bounce, bounce, bounce. G.o.d should strike him dead. Or at least explode all his zits at once. ”You need to look into something for those pimples,” I tell him, turning to leave. ”I saw a commercial on TV for some stuff that might help.”

”Maybe you should be on TV. Or in one of those movies. You'd get paid, anyway,” he calls after me. I walk faster, but not fast enough. Just as I make it to the front counter, where some gray-haired man is frowning sternly, I hear Zit Boy call: ”Or maybe you like to do it for free?”

Okay. Fine. Christmas store, bad idea. Nativity scene, bad idea. I push open the gla.s.s door with my foot and storm outside. I know I should just go home, but I think that maybe Cookie Puss and Fudgie the Whale could use some company. But what's the first thing I see?

85 A green minivan parked right next to the ice cream store.

A minivan that looks a lot like Luke's mom's minivan, a van that Luke sometimes used when he had lots of stuff to cart around, or when he wanted a little portable pri- vacy. I'm a.s.saulted by flashbacks. Hands slipping up the back of my s.h.i.+rt, looking for the bra clasp. Fingers scrabbling at the front of my jeans. The smell of carpet- ing and warm skin. And then newer memories: slam- ming the door on Luke at the party, my picture on the cell phone, his stone face as he pa.s.sed me in the hallway.

I'm standing frozen on the walk when I see the door of the ice cream shop swing open. I don't have time to think, to consider if it really is Luke's mom's green van and if that really is Luke coming out of the ice cream store with another one of the half-vanilla, half-chocolate milkshakes he lives on. I do the only thing I can: I duck into Sally Beauty Supply. The choppy-haired punk girl at the counter looks up from her magazine, looks me up and down, and then looks down at the magazine again.

Well, here's someone who obviously hasn't seen the infa- mous photograph. Hallelujah. Sighing in relief, I begin fake-browsing the shelves. I have my choice of cheap lip- sticks in every shade known to woman and hair clips with beads, sparkles, or feathers, as well as curlers, crimpers, dryers, tweezers, and other instruments of tor- ture. I pick through nail files and polishes, shampoos and conditioners, gels and mousses. I make faces at the 86 wig heads and then wonder if there are hidden cameras doc.u.menting everything I'm not buying. Moving on to the dyes, I marvel at the colors. Vampire Red. Purple Pa.s.sion.

Too Blue. Flamingo. Fade to Black. For some reason, I like the last color the best, like how it looks, all inky and thick in the bottles. I grab a couple, one in each hand, just to look as if I'm actually shopping, doing something other than hiding from other people's mom's vans.

”You're going to need developer with that.”

I whip around and see the girl from the counter standing there. With her plaid pants and a ”Luv A Nerd” T-s.h.i.+rt, she's paired black socks with green rub- ber flip-flops. I'm momentarily stunned by her fas.h.i.+on choices, and by the Oreo-sized plugs piercing her ears.

”What?”

”Developer,” she says. She pulls a big bottle of white stuff from the shelf. ”You can't use the dye unless you mix it with this.”

”Oh,” I say. ”But . . .”

”Have you ever dyed your hair before?” she asks me.

Her hair is Flamingo, with Purple Pa.s.sion bangs. She's clearly an expert.