Our hike was so effective at helping me escape the prison of my own mind. After enough time weaving between trees, it almost started to feel like the story we fed Marco and Nonna was true all along — we just came here on a spontaneous spring break(up) whim. To experience nature! That’s all.
But now we’re headed back to Marco’s, and there’s a police siren in the distance.
Our feet freeze in place. Mom grabs my vibrating wrist with her similarly shaky hand and squeezes it into paralysis.
“No way,” she says. “There’s no way.”
“What do we do?” I crane my neck and look around. Behind us is the entrance to the trail we just came out of, and branching in both directions is the gravelly road that leads from Marco’s house to the main road. Nothing but trees and bushes everywhere else. “Should we go back into the woods?”
“And do what?” Mom asks.
“Hide! Obviously!”
“You know what? We’re being silly.” She collects herself with a breath and starts walking in the direction of Marco’s — which is exactly where I imagine the police are headed as well. My wrist is still clutched in her hand. “The odds of that siren being for us are so slim.”
“Who else would it be for?” I ask. “I assume the pool of potential fugitives would be kinda shallow out here in the middle of Bumblefuck! Don’t you think?”
“Why hasn’t anyone called us, then?” she asks.
Just as she says this, my phone vibrates several times.
“My phone is buzzing!” I shriek. “Oh, my God, Mom.”
We freeze in place again as I reach into my pocket and unlock the screen.
WILL: Nice meeting you yesterday. Hope you made it back up the hill safely.
WILL: And sorry about my sister at the end. I know it was an accident.
WILL: I’ve always hated that dumb wagon anyway!
WILL: How you feeling? Up for a hang later?
“What is it?” Mom asks.
“Will.” My pulse descends back to a slightly less life-threatening rate. I can’t believe he’s willing to forgive me just like that. “The guy from yesterday.”
“Oh.” Mom resumes walking. “See? We’re fine.”
The siren gradually fades from earshot as we get to Marco’s. It’s gone by the time we step inside. The only thing we can hear is the fuzzy echo of Marco’s conference call droning on speakerphone from behind his closed office door. The emotional roller coaster of the past few minutes still has me on edge, though. How exactly does one adapt to a lifestyle where every siren we hear is a potential death threat?
“Maybe we should shave our heads,” I whisper. “We’re eventually gonna have to go out in public —”
“Bitch. If you think I’m about to pull a G.I. Jane on myself because of a random police siren, you’re insane.” Mom grabs onto a clump of hair, as if to protect it from the suggestion. “No one is looking for us. It was nothing. A speeding ticket, probably. Or an ambulance.”
“Can you at least do me?” I know I’m being ridiculous. Even if that siren was looking for us, what the hell is a fresh cut gonna do? It’s not like a cop is gonna take one look at me and be like, Oops, my bad. The guy I’m searching for has an unkempt mop of greasy dark-brown curls. Carry on! But still. At the very least, I need a reinvention of some kind. Maybe by cutting off all this extra hair, my constant worrying habit will fall onto the tile floor along with it. “Do you think Marco has a clipper set?”
She shrugs. “I’m sure he does.”
We find it under the bathroom sink in a toolbox-looking case with the words CONAIR imprinted on it in big nineties-looking letters. Mom recognizes it as the one she got him for Christmas a zillion years ago.
“Go as short as you can without making me totally bald.” I plop myself down on the closed toilet seat and prepare myself for a new identity. “But higher on top. You know — make me look like a cool soccer player.”
“You do realize you’re just going to look like you but with a skin-tight fade, right?” Mom drapes a towel over my shoulders and chest. “Your face is your face, hon.”
“I don’t care,” I say. “Just do it, please?”
She purses her lips and appeases me. The electric sound of clippers fills the room.
“Remember how I used to bring you with me to the salon on Saturdays?” Mom says over the buzz. “When you were a kid.”
“Of course.”
I can still smell the burning hair tools and Paul Mitchell styling products. I loved that scent combination! Dreamed about it all week at school, actually. Screw math and science — I wanted to be on that big leather couch in the waiting area, watching Mom work miracles for her customers. She was a superhero in that place. I remember one time this lady came in with a frizzy-ass rat’s nest on her head and an equally tragic story coming out of her mouth about how some dickhead had recently ghosted her. Within a couple hours, Mom had blessed her with the smooth hair of a runway model and the sassy advice of an Instagram life coach.
“You always know how to fix me,” the lady had told her on her way out. Then she looked and pointed at me, my head buried in the latest Allure and/or Glamour. You know! The usual eight-year-old boy mags. “Is he yours?”
“That’s my Joey.” Mom beamed from behind the register. “He’s a real comedian.”
“Oh, is he fresh?” the lady asked.
“No, I mean he’s actually funny!” Mom said. “You should hear him. Always making up these little jokes. Joey, tell her a joke.”
I shook my head like a frightened monkey and giggled into my magazine in embarrassment. Basically the same reaction I would have nowadays if someone were to put me on the spot like that. Rude! But the memory brings a smile to my face nonetheless.
“I always loved when you came to work with me.” Mom digs into the toolbox for a shorter clipper attachment. “Even if my boss was a twat about it sometimes.”
“Really? But she was always so nice to my face!”
“I know, right?” She pauses. “I mean, I probably should’ve just left you at Nonna’s those days. But I liked having you there.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I liked being there.”
Our conversation falls into a serene lull, both of us lost in our own versions of the memory. I look down at the thick collection of discarded hair clippings on the towel before me and somehow feel better already.
“I think you should take that guy up on his invitation,” Mom finally says. “He clearly still likes you.”
“For some reason,” I say.
“Hey!” She smacks my arm. “There are a million reasons he could like you. Don’t be stupid. And maybe it will take your mind off everything. What else are you gonna do all day?”
“I don’t know. What else are you gonna do all day?”
“I’ll figure it out,” she says. “Maybe go into town with Marco. Yesterday he said he wanted to take me out to this —”
“In public?” I ask.
“Keep your head still.” She presses down on the top of my scalp and runs the clippers up the back of my neck. “Yes, in public.”
“You need to be careful.” I think back to the sound of that siren slicing through the mountain air and feel my heart quicken. But Mom’s right. Right? She has to be. It was nothing. A speeding ticket. An ambulance. A false alarm. “Please.”