Pretty Is

By the time I went to bed on Saturday night, exhausted, I had written Kayla a letter of apology and mailed it. I had turned over to Mama all the money in my purse plus five weeks’ worth of future allowances to pay for a hairdresser to even out the mess I’d made. Mama and Daddy had told me I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere except to church or on errands with one of them for the next two weeks.

On Sunday morning the last thing I wanted to do was go to Sunday school and church, but nobody gave me a choice.

As soon as I walked in, Ricky Talmadge grinned and made scissor motions with his fingers. Jesse Miller clapped his hands over his buzz cut and said, “No! Don’t let her near my beautiful hair!”

And of course, Kayla was there, with her golden hair trimmed short. Danielle and Samantha and Jane-Marie surrounded her protectively, and they all looked at me like I was a rabid raccoon that had somehow wandered into Sunday school. They huddled together and sent wide-eyed, shifting glances my way. Even Shakara seemed half afraid of me.

So I stood around clutching my purse until it was time to move into classrooms, and there I sat very still and tried to concentrate on what the teacher was saying. I didn’t look at anybody during class, least of all at Kayla.

The teacher was Mrs. Oakes, whose three children were grown up. She had very tightly curled gray hair and smiled a lot without actually seeming to like us. Samantha’s mother had told her that Mrs. Oakes got talked into teaching the sixth-grade group; everyone else the committee asked had flat-out refused.

I wasn’t sure if she knew about what I’d done. But the lesson was all about leaving vengeance to the Lord and turning the other cheek.

On Monday there were afternoon thunderstorms, and that evening dark came early. Daddy was on the couch after dinner, reading U.S. News magazine, when I wandered into the living room. “Turn on the light for me, will you, hon?” he said without looking up. I went over to the floor lamp in back of him and turned the switch two clicks, and pale yellow light spread through the room.

He kept reading and didn’t say thank you. I stood uncertainly for a minute, then sat down at the other end of the couch and tucked my feet under me. “Daddy,” I said.

“That all depends. They could take us to court, which would mean we’d have to hire a lawyer, for a phenomenal fee. Or we could settle it out of court—pay the Mortons something to drop the whole thing.” He laid the magazine on the floor and folded his arms, looking hard at me. “Could be one heck of a mess.”

“I had a talk with Ted today—stopped by his office,” he said. “He wouldn’t come right out and say what they were going to do. But I apologized for your behavior, and he was listening. I figure he’s not the type to sue.”

“Jeannie’s got a short fuse. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s sued somebody, either. But if she has time to cool off, she might see there’s no point in it. Even if she gets money—which is not guaranteed—it won’t put the hair back on Kayla’s head.”

I felt a little more hopeful then, but only for a minute. Because Daddy frowned and said, “On the other hand, she just might be mad enough to do it anyway, and she just might get a big chunk of money out of us. So before you do a fool thing like that again, give a little thought to what you might get your whole family into.”

In the grocery store on Thursday, Mama sent me to get cereal while she picked through the green beans and peppers and tomatoes, and the instant I turned down the cereal aisle I came face-to-face with Mrs. Winsted, my fifth-grade teacher. She was putting a box of Grape-Nuts into her cart, and her blond hair was extra frizzy, like she’d just permed it, and she was wearing a tank top and blue-jean shorts that she was a little too fat for.

I was tongue-tied. Mrs. Winsted always dressed up for school, and it was almost like seeing someone naked, to see her in these sloppy summer clothes, behind a cart full of hamburger meat and Marshmallow Pinwheels and Diet Pepsi and a pink toilet brush.

She looked a little startled herself, but she still had the same cool, firm voice. “Erin, how nice to see you. How’s your summer going?”

“Well, from what I hear, you’ve made quite a name for yourself.” I looked nervously back at her and was surprised to see that she looked more amused than disapproving, which set her apart from just about everyone else I’d seen lately.

But of course Mrs. Winsted couldn’t help acting like a teacher. “Really now, Erin, whatever possessed you to do such a thing?”

“You were never a troublemaker. This doesn’t sound to me like something you’d come up with on your own.”

She paused, and when I said nothing, she gave me the old 1-mean-business look. “You think about it, okay, Erin? Think about who your real friends are.”

Mrs. Winsted’s face softened into a smile. “Have a good summer,” she said cheerfully. Then she swung her cart around me and turned the corner.

I was thinking about it, but not the way she wanted me to. Maybe the whole thing had been Hannah’s idea; maybe she’d even persuaded me to do it. But that was only because she was on my side, against mean Kayla and her stupid pals. Hannah was my best friend. Maybe my only friend.