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Truth is, I knew the lady with the green scarf was not Mama.

But I followed her anyway.

Mama’s hair was supposed to be brown and wavy like mine. Or brown and curly like DiDi’s. Not pale and blond and straight like rain. Also, Mama was dead. So yes. I knew the lady with the green scarf was likely not her, but I still followed along. Just for a bit. It was this game I play sometimes: What If.

What if it was all a big mistake and Mama didn’t die the way I’ve always been told? What if she didn’t want to leave me and DiDi, but had no choice? Like, maybe, she was working for the government on some top secret mission where her death had to be faked and her identity changed. After all, Mama had been the best hairdresser in South Carolina, so she would know all about hair color and makeovers.

… But see, that doesn’t really work out, because DiDi always says Mama was so popular, she had a line of people waiting on her at the beauty parlor from opening to closing, every day. Not leaving much time for government spying. So, unless the FBI was hunting down the masterminds behind all that sprayed-up hair at the Piggly Wiggly (which, in my humble opinion, would make a fine government priority), I guess Mama wouldn’t be their first choice of spy.

Still, I couldn’t help thinking… What If.

Now, following the lady with the green scarf during the Grand Opening of a brand-new Super Saver was not exactly what I thought I’d be doing my very first week as a resident of this fine town on Long Island, New York. But then our old neighbor, Davey Dylan, hadn’t planned on that snapping turtle biting off his pinky finger five summers ago. It just happened. When he saw that turtle heading out to nap under a rotten log, it made him think of snapper soup. When I saw the lady with the green scarf heading for the cosmetics, it made me think of Mama.

As she slowed down near the lipsticks, my heart started beating really fast inside me. I watched as she looked up and down the aisle. Searching and searching.

She reached out her hand. I held my breath.

But then she grabbed hold of some nothing-brand lip gloss, and just like that, it was over. After all, Mama had been a Revlon lady all the way. And there were no What Ifs about it.

“May we help you?”

Two Super Saver clerks were standing behind me, looking all official with their big old name tags: KATE, ASST. MGR., and TIM, TRAINEE. Tim was also wearing this big button that said:

SUPER TRAINEE!

TELL ME IF I’M DOING A SUPER JOB!

Now, I was supposed to be looking for maraschino cherries, so DiDi could make Mama’s Famous Twinkie Pie. But anytime I’m in a store and a clerk asks, “May I help you?” these words always come out before I can stop them:

“Do you have Revlon’s Cherries in the Snow lipstick? In the Classic Gold Case, please?”

Asst. Mgr. Kate leaned way down and touched the tip of my nose with a pearly painted finger. “Listen to you with that little southern accent. You are adorable. And out here shopping all by yourself for lipstick. Is it for your mommy?”

Now, the worst part about looking like a ten-year-old when you’re twelve is that no one takes you seriously and just answers your questions. Add freckles and a name like GiGi and grown-ups just about lose their minds thinking you’re too cute for words. DiDi always says my being extra brainy trumps being tall any day and I should just look people in the eye and Say It Like It Is.

So I did.

“No, ma’am. My mama died when I was a baby.”

Dead Mamas have a way of changing things.

“Oh. Dear. Let me find out for you, right away.” And she got right down to business, talking into this headset thing she was wearing. Like she was part of the Lipstick Secret Service or something. I held perfectly still until she looked up and slowly shook her head. “I’m sorry, no. We don’t carry that shade.”

Now, I already knew Cherries in the Snow wasn’t in that store. I knew it wasn’t in any store, anywhere, in the whole country or planet, and hadn’t been for a good while. So it’s not like I was even hopeful or anything. That would be plain silliness. It’s just… there’s something about asking for Impossible Things. For one little second, they feel Possible.

I smiled even though the disappointment pressed into me like a too-tight belt buckle. “Oh, that’s okay. Thanks anyway. Could you tell me where I can find maraschino cherries, then? The red kind in a jar, please.”

After Dead Mamas, maraschino cherries were probably like a vacation, because Asst. Mgr. Kate smiled as wide as the day. “For that, we’ll turn to our newest trainee, Tim.”

She gestured to Tim, who was standing there with his shirt tucked in a whole lot tighter than I’m guessing most shirts would want. He gave a nervous nod.

“As part of our Grand Opening Super Trainees Challenge, Tim will be back with any one of our quality Super Saver Products in under ninety seconds or it’s yours free!” And just like that, she had a big old stopwatch in her hand. “Maraschino cherries!” she called out. “Red—in jar—go!”

Click! Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick…

And off he went. Looking like he was going to fetch those cherries if he had to tackle his own granny to get to the last jar.

I looked at Asst. Mgr. Kate.

She looked at me.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick…

And that stopwatch, it kept right on counting down the seconds like the whole place would explode or something if Tim failed to come back in time. People always come up with these ideas that they think are all fun and games, but truth is they’re just plain stressful.

Like DiDi’s favorite cooking show on TV—the one where the contestants get this Basket of Mystery Ingredients. And whatever is in there, they have to cook. I swear once they pulled out chicken feet and pancake mix. Then, just like that, the clock went off and they had to make a gourmet dinner. During the last ten seconds, the judges always start wringing their hands like the world’s going to end, practically crying, “Get the food on the plate! Just get the food on the plate!” DiDi loves this show. But I don’t.

It’s just not fair.

If you don’t get to pick your own ingredients and take your own sweet time, how do you even have a chance to make something worthwhile?

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick…

And what do you know. There he was. Speed-walking around the corner. Big button shining. Shirt tucked in tight as ever. Holding up that jar of cherries like it was a chicken feet and pancake soufflé.

Click.

Tim handed me the jar and snapped right back to standing at attention.

“Is there anything else we can get for you, young lady?” Asst. Mgr. Kate began to raise that stopwatch again.

“Oh, no thank you,” I said, and started to walk away. But then I remembered something and turned back to Tim. “You’re doing a Super Job.”

That Tim, Trainee. His face split into a grin that was half triumph and half relief, and without missing a beat, he gave me the old wink and double gun fingers and said, “Thank you, miss—and you have a Super Day!”

Asst. Mgr. Kate couldn’t have looked prouder.

If my life were a TV cooking show, it’s no mystery what I’d want in my Basket of Ingredients. But, like I said before, you don’t get to pick. No one does. And besides, even if I could, I don’t think there’s a basket out there big and magic enough to hold Mama and her lipstick.