“What happened to your hair!?” Melody exclaimed.

Bee-Bee’s curls were gone, replaced by a jet-black bob with bangs.

“I like my hair to match my mood,” she told Melody. “Come on in, I’ll show you my collection.”

Melody quickly introduced Mrs. McKenna to Bee-Bee and they both followed her into the salon.

“Voilà!” said Bee-Bee, opening a closet door to reveal several shelves filled with Styrofoam heads wearing wigs of every color and style imaginable, including the red macaroni curls she’d had on the day before.

“What fun!” said Mrs. McKenna. “Can you imagine what my fourth graders would think if I came to school wearing one of these?”

“I have you down for a manicure today, is that right?” Bee-Bee asked, leading them back out into the main room.

Mrs. McKenna nodded. “I’m trying to talk Melody into having one, too — but she’s still on the fence.”

“Why don’t I get you started, and Melody can decide later on,” said Bee-Bee. “First pick a color.”

Mrs. McKenna walked over to the glass cabinet to look at the polishes.

“These are exquisite,” she told Bee-Bee.

“I’m hoping Melody will help me name them.”

“She’s got a way with words,” said Mrs. McKenna, “that’s for sure. What are you going to call this silvery one, Melody?”

Mrs. McKenna held up a bottle of sparkly polish. It was the very first polish Bee-Bee had made for the salon.

“Hmmmm,” said Melody. “Maybe Silver Linings?”

Bee-Bee whistled.

“You’re good!” she said.

“What about this one?” asked Mrs. McKenna, holding up another bottle.

The first thing that popped into Melody’s head was Lipstick Stain, because the polish was the same shade as the lipstick stains on Miss Hogan’s front teeth. But Melody had promised herself she wasn’t going to be gloomy, so she quickly came up with a more cheerful name for the bright red polish in Mrs. McKenna’s hand.

“Candy Apple.”

“You’re hired!” cried Bee-Bee. “Seriously, I’ve got some labels in the drawer by the phone, and there’s a black sharpie in there, too. Knock yourself out.”

Mrs. McKenna selected a beautiful coral polish with swirls of gold running through it, and while Bee-Bee got to work with her emery board and cuticle nippers, Melody sat cross-legged on the floor nearby making up polish names and writing them carefully on the labels.

“Where does the inspiration for your colors come from?” Mrs. McKenna asked Bee-Bee. She was soaking her fingertips in a bowl of warm water with rose petals floating in it.

“Close your eyes,” Bee-Bee told her, “and tell me what you see.”

Mrs. McKenna closed her eyes.

“What am I supposed to be looking for?” she asked.

“Colors,” said Bee-Bee. “Every feeling has them. Whenever I sit down to make a polish, the first thing I do is close my eyes and take a minute to get in touch with my feelings. That’s where all my ideas come from.”

“I see mostly yellow,” said Mrs. McKenna, “with a little bit of orange around the edges. Also some tiny pink stars.”

“You must be feeling happy today,” said Bee-Bee. “Pink, yellow, and orange are all happy colors. When you’re feeling sad, you see blues and greens.”

Melody closed her eyes, too.

“What does it mean if you see red?” she asked.

“Red is a tricky one,” Bee-Bee told her. “It can either mean passion or heartache.”

There was an awkward silence. Everyone in the room knew which of those feelings Melody had been experiencing lately.

“I have a funny story to tell you,” Mrs. McKenna jumped in, breaking the silence. “I have this little boy in my class, Jacob, who was doing a report on Booker T. Washington for Black History Month. What do you remember about Booker T. Washington, Melody?”

“The T stands for Taliaferro and he was one of the most influential African American leaders in America from 1895 until his death in 1915.”

“That was impressive,” said Bee-Bee.

Melody shrugged. “I did my report on him, too,” she explained.

“So, anyway,” Mrs. McKenna went on, “poor Jacob made the mistake of running a spell check without proofreading afterward and ended up with a report about an esteemed African American statesman named Booger T. Washington instead of Booker.”

Melody giggled. “Remember last year when the lady from that peace organization came to talk to us about Mahatma Gandhi?” she reminded Mrs. McKenna. “She wanted us to make up a list of questions we would ask if we were sitting next to him at a dinner party. Nick said he would want to ask Gandhi if he had any pets. You and that lady laughed so hard you both cried.”

“I miss Nick Woo,” said Mrs. McKenna. “How is he doing?”

“Fine,” said Melody. “Except that he’s obsessed with water towers.”

“I have a thing about water towers, too,” said Bee-Bee. “There’s something so friendly-looking about them, you know?”

“Yeah, well, Nick thinks they’re full of boogity-eyed aliens dripping with ectoplasmic ooze.”

“Ectoplasmic Ooze. Now there’s a nail polish name for you,” said Bee-Bee.

They all laughed at that. Then Melody got back to work. By the time Bee-Bee had finished painting Mrs. McKenna’s nails, Melody was almost done naming the polishes.

“What about it, Melody?” Bee-Bee asked. “Manicure for you today, too?”

“I don’t think so,” she replied. “Maybe some other time. I have to come back anyway, to finish naming the colors.”

“Sounds good,” said Bee-Bee. “And when that time comes — we’ll mix up a special color together just for you. Number one hundred and one.”

“What will you call it, Melody?” asked Mrs. McKenna.

“I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about it.”

Melody was sad to leave the Bee Hive that afternoon, and sadder still to have to say good-bye to Mrs. McKenna when she dropped her off. They had stopped at Wrigley’s on the way to pick up a bottle of Vernors for her grandfather.

“I guess I’ll see you around,” said Melody, tucking the ginger ale under her arm and opening the car door.

“Take care, Melody,” said Mrs. McKenna.

As Melody watched her drive away, the sad feeling started to bubble up inside her again. She’d been keeping a lid on it all day. It had been so wonderful spending time at the Bee Hive, making up names for Bee-Bee’s colors and laughing with Mrs. McKenna. But none of that changed the fact that her father was in love with Miss Hogan and that no matter how much she wanted to, Melody would never, ever know the person who had felt her kicking inside her like a little kangaroo.