While they talk about their upcoming trips to places like the Bahamas, I remember this is the last day that cheese is on sale. I pull a pen from my purse then write the word “cheese” on the palm of my hand so I won’t forget.
Girls hang around in groups in the locker room as they stretch their legs, pull back their hair, and make small talk. Kennedy, a senior cheerleader, sees a plastic Maui souvenir keychain hanging from someone’s bag and gets excited.
“Maui is the best, by far. The waves are huge and the tropical flowers everywhere make for great pictures. And basically the whole island smells like Bath and Body Works.”
Another chimes in, “Yeah, I’ve been to Maui, but I still like the Keys best. The sand is softer. Whiter.”
Cassidy makes eye contact with me. She knows I can’t participate in this conversation.
Five of them, including Cassidy, compare sand textures and amenities of resorts I’ve never even heard of while I try to conceal my impromptu grocery list. Before someone can ask me about my favorite beach, I toss my bag in an unused locker then head out to the gym floor. Miss Mound sits in the bleachers and thumbs through paperwork. She looks up.
“Hey, Chelsea.”
“Hi, Miss Mound.” I sit down and go into the butterfly stretch. She goes back to organizing paperwork. Extending my legs in front of me, I reach for my toes then lie on my back and bend at the knees, cupping my hands behind my head. I stare into the rafters and think about beaches. The air. Is it different? The water. Is it cold? How does it feel to run your feet through sand? Do they really have little bar huts like they do in the movies?
Fifteen other girls make their way out into the gym. The conversation has switched to favorite ski resorts. I crisscross my legs, look down, and open my hand to stare at the word “cheese.” Cassidy sits next to me and twists her thick, gorgeous, brown hair into a knot on the top of her head as Miss Mound turns on some hip-hop music to get things started.
“Girls, let’s begin with kicks today.” This is our cue to get up and get into formation, and that’s exactly what we do. What am I doing here? And how will I be able to pull this off?
__________
I stop by the store on the way home and buy a generic bag of tortilla chips to go with the cheese. This will get us through the week, Dad and me. I pull into our oil-stained driveway and shift my five speed into park. Grabbing my backpack and grocery bag, I head to check the mail. On my way to the mailbox, I bend down and pull a weed the size of a small tree that’s been thriving in a cement crack for about a month now, and toss it on the lawn. I’ve been in charge of the mail for years, but each time I open the rusty lid, screeeeech, I get nervous about what may be inside. Because most of the time, along with pizza coupons, postcards, and miscellaneous junk, there are two little words in that stack somewhere: Amount Due.
It’s not the first time. Probably not the last.
The infamous cut-off notice. There’s the ten-day notice, then there’s the forty-eight-hour notice. Fortunately, this one is the former so I’ve got ten days to get this figured out. I step inside the house and read the fine print in hopes for a loophole:
When the temperature is actually, or predicted to be, 101 degrees Fahrenheit heat index or higher on the day of disconnection or the nighttime low is predicted to be 20 degrees Fahrenheit or less, OG&E will suspend disconnection of service.
Unfortunately, we’ve had the most beautiful fall weather—low eighties—so this won’t help us out.
Although this is about the millionth time we’ve received a cut-off notice, we’ve actually only been cut off twice. Once in junior high. Once in elementary school—fourth grade picture day, to be exact.
__________
“Chelsea, did you forget it was picture day?” Ms. Foltz greeted me at the door. “Honey, your hair is dripping wet.”
I hung my backpack on my hook. There was a plethora of curls, plastic headbands, and outfits with iron creases around. But me? Wet hair.
Everyone, and I do mean everyone, looked like they stepped out of a television commercial. Picture order envelopes filled out by their moms pulled out of backpacks and folders, checks enclosed. Package A was the popular choice, they discovered, after everyone compared.
I tucked in my shirt then trudged to my desk. I tried several times to complete the first math problem for morning work, but I couldn’t. Just couldn’t. I walked back to the classroom door where Ms. Foltz continued to greet each student, complimenting them each on their adorable outfits and “gorgeous” hairdos.
“Ms. Foltz, may I use the restroom?”
“Sure, Chelsea,” she responded, then looked over me to yet another adorable picture day kid. “Looook at you! All fancy-schmancy for picture day!”
Walking to the bathroom, I was practically blinded by all of the shiny curls. I went straight to the mirror and started combing my hair with my fingers, as fast as possible, to try to add some life to the limp mess. I squatted down under the hand drier, pushed the big round button, and started drying my hair. I restarted it seven times. Seven cycles of drying, scrunching, and fluffing . . .
I don’t think Dad even knew it was picture day. I had forgotten to tell him.