Moonglow Page 11

  The next morning I hid out in my bedroom feigning illness until the house was empty. I looked at myself in the mirror only once, foolishly hoping that maybe it had all been a nightmare. No such luck. Should I smash my face against the glass? Aren’t people more sympathetic if you’re scarred instead of just repulsive?

  Before I could do anything that would upgrade my appearance from seriously ugly to unfixable, Jess and her mother arrived to drive over to the Hair Hut. Good thing I already know that Jess’s tendency to be a drama queen is not self-taught, but inherited, because Mrs. Wyatt stole glances in the rearview mirror to look at me during the entire ride, each time her expression growing more and more concerned, until you would have sworn she was witnessing a massacre. I expected her reaction. Since Jess had had time to absorb the shock of my very shocking appearance, she had ventured into stage two—acceptance—and was relishing her role as my savior. That title, however, belongs to Vernita.

  Overweight, with short, spiky hair in seven different shades of white that makes her look younger than she probably is, a long brown cigarette dangling from her mouth, Vernita greeted us at the door, stirring what looked like honey in a coffee cup. I took it as a good sign. Until she gasped.

  “Praise be, St. Martin!” she shouted the second I entered the salon.

  “Who?” Jess asked.

  “St. Martin de Porres,” Vernita replied. “Patron saint of hairstylists everywhere.”

  “Oh my God!” I cried. “You’re going to need divine intervention to fix me?”

  Waving me toward the back of the room, she dripped honey on the floor and shook her head. “Relax, baby-doll. Vernita and her magic potion will have you back to looking female in no time.”

  Turns out, what I thought was honey was really her magic potion, a secret concoction of wax, some other hair removal depilatory solutions, and something that smelled like pumpkin pie. When she leaned over me and started to apply the hot, sticky mixture onto my upper lip, I realized the smell was coming from the clove cigarette she wouldn’t stop puffing. Obviously, herbal cigarettes don’t violate Nebraska’s anti-smoking law.

  Next she placed a strip of cool linen over the hot wax and told Jess to hold my hand.

  “On the count of three, baby-doll,” Vernita said, her cigarette bouncing up and down. “You’re gonna become a woman.”

  Wrong. On the count of three I was still a girl, only one who was in agonizing pain.

  “Ahhhhh!!!!!” I screamed, twisting Jess’s hand in mine and making her shout along with me. “That hurt!”

  But my pain wasn’t over yet.

  “Do her arms next, Vern,” Mrs. Wyatt commanded as she flipped through a magazine in the corner of the salon.

  “Maybe I should make another appointment,” I suggested, not sure if I could endure the amount of pain two much larger body parts would cause.

  Vernita ignored my request and glopped more wax onto my arms. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Sophia Loren when I waxed her from head to toe,” she said. “Baby-doll, beauty hurts.”

  “Hurts like hell,” Mrs. Wyatt seconded.

  “Who’s Sophia Loren?” I asked.

  “I don’t know who she is either, but she is beyond beautiful!” Jess replied. “Look!”

  Shoving her smart phone in my face, Jess showed me the picture she had found online of this Sophia woman, the most incredibly gorgeous woman I have ever seen.

  “She doesn’t have hair in any of the wrong places,” I observed.

  Covering my arms completely in the sticky solution, Vernita replied, “Should’ve seen her before I performed my magic.”

  The magical feeling remained with me for the next few days, and it wasn’t just a physical thing; I felt the difference inside. My thoughts felt softer; I didn’t feel like this piece of hard glass that had been broken in several places, leaving behind jagged edges. I felt like my real self again, not that imposter who considered lies, insults, and physical violence normal and necessary. I wanted to make up for all the times I had made everybody around me feel less than spectacular.

  That’s why I made Barnaby breakfast. I didn’t even get mad when he asked before he took his first bite if I had added pepper to the pancake mix. I deserved that. My father said they were the best pancakes he’d ever had, which we all knew was a lie, but it was a lie that he believed, so we didn’t question him. Sometimes questions are unimportant and irrelevant and don’t need to be asked, which I assume is why my father didn’t ask me how I got rid of my facial hair. What did it matter how it had disappeared? The unsightly, unwanted mess was gone. The important thing was that I was happy again.

  My father only said one thing to me after that breakfast. “Thank you.” I don’t know if he was referring to the meal I had cooked or thanking me for not mentioning the fact that he had cried in front of me. I decided it didn’t matter which and replied, “You’re welcome.”

  I carried the goodness I was feeling with me like a brand-new purse. I clutched it close to my body, swung it by my side, and stared at it with pride and admiration. It was mine, and I wanted to show it off. After school I surprised Caleb with his favorite snack—marshmallow Peeps. Immediately I made the connection with the picture of Little Bo Peep on my mother’s compact and felt like she was giving me her blessing: She had never met Caleb, but she approved of him.

  Caleb’s eyes lit up like a little boy’s; he was thrilled by the simple gesture and amazed by his luck. He bit into the sugary soft green marshmallow and stretched it until it was about a foot long, then popped the other end into my mouth. I made a mental note to remember that this was the first time in my life that I felt sexy. All the times before when Caleb and I had kissed or fooled around, I had felt nervous or at least self-aware, not completely at ease, probably because I had known what was coming and I had known what Caleb was hoping our kisses would lead to. When we had our moment with the Peeps—or the Peepscapade as I christened it—it was spontaneous and impulsive, and I felt a warm tingling in my stomach and a bit lower that I had never felt before. I wasn’t scared of what was happening or what our actions might lead to; I wasn’t thinking about anything except how happy I felt.

  Later on when I told Jess, Archie, and Arla, they all shrieked appropriately, asked for specifics, and forced me to recount the entire scene, which really just amounted to Caleb’s and my eating an entire package of Peeps and kissing the sugar off our lips.

  In geometry, Jess leans over to me and whispers, “You do understand that the Peepscapade is a direct result of your recent beauty treatment?”

  Yup, she’s self-congratulating, but she’s kind of right, so I can’t dispute her train of thought.

  “If one waxing can change your world like this, you have got to sign up for monthly treatments!” she exclaims. “Vernita will give you a discount.”

  It’s my chance to do something that could truly make up for how crappy I’ve been acting toward Jess lately. “Let’s do a birthday makeover!”

  I have to cover my ears when Jess cackles. “Oh my God!! I cannot wait until your birthday tomorrow!!”

  Her cackling is infectious, and I add my gigglaughs—which are the heartier version of my regular giggles—to the sound. In between cackles and gigglaughs, I tell her that I can’t wait either, but that we have to shut up before Mrs. Gallagher comes into class or else we’ll both spend my birthday with the after-school-special delinquents.

  “Dominy Robineau,” Jess announces, “your sixteenth birthday will be one you will never forget!”

  She has no idea how right she is.

  “Happy birthday, sis.”

  The next morning I find Barnaby sitting at the kitchen table eating cereal, a square box wrapped in bright red and white paper that upon closer inspection is revealed to be a collage of pictures of different-sized candy canes in front of him. Barnaby must have gotten the paper from the attic, since it’s the same paper my father used to wrap our Christmas gifts last year. Ah well, it’s the thought that counts.


  “Thanks, Barn,” I say, the words coming out of my mouth slowly, cautiously. “I can’t believe you actually remembered.”

  Munching on a huge mouthful of Frosted Flakes, he replies, “Dad reminded me.”

  Jerk. Well, semi-jerk. He did get me a gift after all.

  “Open it,” he commands, jutting his spoon into the air in the direction of my gift.

  A voice inside my head tells me to give in to my emotions, give in to the excitement and joy that my brother went out and bought me a gift with his own money. I tear off the paper, and I want to silence that voice forever. Silence all the voices around me that tell me to do stupid things like be joyful and be nice to people and not to hurt anyone. A putrid smell starts to ooze out of my body, like rotting flesh, a smell of garbage, decaying meat, and I’m heartbroken to discover that the goodness I’ve felt lately was never meant to be permanent, never meant to be mine. Barnaby’s gift is a shaving kit.

  “I thought you could use it,” he says, milk dribbling down his chin. “Ape Girl.”

  First the cereal bowl crashes to the floor, then the table, then Barnaby with me on top of him. My hand is wrapped around his tiny throat, and I can feel the muscle and veins and bones underneath his skin. He’s trying to speak, but his sounds are meaningless, and I ignore them. With wonder I watch his skin change color from pink to red to purple. It’s fascinating to me how quickly life can be extinguished; one little concentrated effort, and it’s gone. Apply a bit more pressure on the sides of his scrawny neck and the purple will intensify until Barnaby’s face turns blue, and then his entire body will stop moving. I press down, harder and harder, not stopping until my father rips me off of my brother, severing our sacred connection, and infuriating me because I’m not going to see Barnaby in his final transformation; I’m not going to see him get what, in this moment, I truly believe he deserves.

  “Dominy, stop!”

  My father’s command fills up the kitchen, but it’s as if he’s shouted at me from a mile away. I hear a whisper, a snippet of his anger and his fear.

  Looking at Barnaby on his side, his legs twitching, his bony fingers shaking and clutching the throat that I just held, stroking the now-red skin, it’s like I’m watching a movie that I directed. I’m not part of the action any longer, even though I’m the one who set it in motion. I feel normal again.

  “She tried to kill me!” Barnaby screams.

  I remain silent because I can’t disagree.

  “Ape Girl tried to kill me!”

  My father steps in between the two of us when Barnaby lunges at me even though I don’t take a step toward him; I don’t flinch. It’s as if I’m not in the room, although I can hear and see everything.

  “What the hell happened?!” my father asks, crouching down so he and Barnaby are on the same level.

  “She flipped out again! Like some . . . rabid animal!”

  My father drops his head, and his eyes examine the floor. I have no idea what’s so enticing about the linoleum, but he can’t lift his head for a few moments. Finally he turns toward something on the floor, and I feel my head turn in the same direction. He sees Barnaby’s gift. He then looks back at Barnaby, his expression eager for an explanation.

  “T.J.’s grandmother works at the Hair Hut,” Barnaby explains. “She had to do a wax job on Dominy ’cause she’s sprouting hair like some mutant dog!”

  When my father slaps Barnaby across the face, it’s the first time I’ve seen him hit one of his kids. This is more sinful than my actions; nothing is right in our house, in our family. I close my eyes, and slowly I feel them shifting back into focus in the darkness. When I open them I can feel my body again.

  Barnaby is on the verge; I don’t know what he’s going to allow his body to do: cry or lash out. He does both.

  “Why’d you hit me? She’s the one who tried to kill me!”

  I can’t see my father’s face, but I know that he’s weary. His body shifts, and his knee hits the kitchen floor; he has to press his hand into the tiles so his whole body doesn’t topple over. All the while Barnaby is slapping his hands against my father’s shoulders, his arms, his head, and my father lets him, lets Barnaby give him the punishment he feels he deserves, until Barnaby is exhausted and stops. At first my brother’s arms are limp as my father hugs him, but their embrace grows tighter, and soon Barnaby relents; he gives in and accepts my father’s grip and his apology.

  “I’m sorry,” my father whispers into Barnaby’s ear. “Please forgive me.”

  There’s silence as the two of them continue to hug and contemplate the flurry of emotions filling their minds and hearts. I know exactly how confused they must feel, but they’re also lucky; they have each other to hold on to; I just get to watch.

  Watching my father as he kneels in front of Barnaby, I can see his face now; he isn’t crying, but he’s ashen—his handsome features are drenched in gray. He holds Barnaby tenderly around his neck, the neck that I tried to snap a few minutes ago. “Your sister didn’t mean it,” he says. “It wasn’t her.”

  Neither of us really understands what he’s saying.

  “It’s . . . it’s her birthday and you . . . you hurt her,” he stammers. “It was wrong of you to do that. You know that, don’t you?”

  Barnaby nods his head. I see his lips move, and I know that they mouth the words “I’m sorry,” but I can’t hear them. They’re only meant for my father anyway.

  “Now let’s clean up this mess.”

  We follow my father’s orders like robots, silent and mechanical. We don’t look at each other, but somehow we work as a team to make the room look normal again, as if rage hadn’t devoured it moments earlier. Maybe this is what a family does during times of crisis? Cleans up their messes in silence. But the silence doesn’t last long, and when my father is making noise throwing away some broken dishes, Barnaby leans in close to my ear, deliberately ignoring my face, and whispers, “Don’t think I’m ever going to forget what you did.”

  He runs off to catch his school bus before I can tell him that I doubt I will either.

  “You’ll be home tonight?”

  My father’s voice sounds like the kitchen now looks. Serene, but startling.

  “I was thinking of doing something with Caleb and Jess,” I reply, even though I hadn’t made any such plans. The thought of being alone in this house with my father and Barnaby any longer than I have to is suddenly unbearable.

  “I thought we would have a quiet family dinner for your birthday,” he says. “Just the three of us.”

  I watch him make circles on the kitchen counter with a sponge.

  “Can I invite some friends?” I ask.

  He presses down harder onto the surface; there’s a stain that simply won’t come out. “No, let’s make it a family celebration.”

  My father looks at me, and his face is no longer gray; it’s the face I remember. He’s handsome and young and filled with hope. His quick changes are confusing me; I don’t know who my real father is and who is the imposter. Something is so wrong. It feels like a turning point, but it doesn’t feel like my birthday.

  “Let’s not invite anyone else until . . . until the weekend, and then we can have a party,” he says. “Just make sure you come home before dark.”

  He tosses in this comment casually, to make it sound like he hadn’t wanted to say it since the conversation started, but I know better. He throws the sponge into the sink and leans into the counter, his back to me, and I see his shoulders rise and fall. He’s breathing deeply, searching for courage or warding off fear. “I have to work later tonight, and I want to make sure . . .”

  He turns around to face me, and the sight of me makes him lose his concentration, erases all meaning from his mind, and he stops speaking. Whatever he wants to say to me, whatever words he wants to share with me remain unspoken, remain his alone. The stone wall is back up; I can barely see my father standing right in front of me.

  “Make sure what?” I ask.

/>   “That . . . um . . . that you’re home for our celebration.”

  I desperately want to ask him what’s going on, but I’m desperately afraid that he’s going to tell me the truth, so I keep quiet. I nod my head as I grab my coat and bag so I can leave, get out of this house, finally get outside where I can gulp in the air.

  “I love you, Dominy.”

  The words stop me from leaving. I have one foot out the door; I can feel the fresh air on my face, but I can feel my father’s love like sunshine on my back. Pushed and pulled into two different directions. I want to reply; I want to turn around and look my father in the eye and tell him that I love him too, but the words won’t come. Something is holding them back, keeping them from finding their voice, keeping them trapped inside my mind and my heart. It’s the same thing that’s pushing me outside into the unknown and away from my father.

  The door slams behind me, and I still can’t breathe. I feel as if I’m completely alone in the world.

  When I wake up next to Jess’s dead body, I no longer simply feel as if I’m completely alone in the world. I know that it’s true. Because that’s how you feel when you become a very bad person.