Remember Dippy Read online

  As usual, I didn’t know what to say next, and besides, I had to scram. “Well, I gotta fly. So, uh, see ya.”

  “Okay,” she said, reaching for the milk. “See ya.”

  Not exactly a romantic exit. I grabbed my bike from the garage and rode home wishing I’d asked Jo more about the movie or something, but I can never get the right words out around her—heck, I can barely get any words out around her. She must think I’m shy or uninterested or boring. I’d have to show her I wasn’t any of those things…if I could only untie my tongue.

  I didn’t get to wallow in my misery over Jo for long. From about halfway down our street, I noticed more decals on our mailbox. I couldn’t make the words out yet, but it definitely didn’t say OPE anymore, and the mailbox door was ajar too. I biked faster.

  TRY SCOPE. That’s what the decals spelled, and inside the mailbox stood a bottle of Scope mouthwash. Dirk had even drawn a smiley face sticking out its tongue inside the O of SCOPE.

  I didn’t know how I was going to retaliate, but I was going to get that rat good. It was bad enough when he was making fun of Mem, but now it was personal. As soon as I could think something up, I’d even the score. In the meantime, I tossed the Scope bottle into the kitchen trash, found Aunt Collette’s sweatshirt, and made tracks to the 7-11, hating Dirk Dempster more with each turn of my bike wheel.

  Mem was paging through a paper by the news rack when I got there, and Aunt Collette had a line of customers at the cash register. I watched her talk and laugh. She has a knack for chatting with everybody about everything, or maybe about nothing. I wished I could do that around Jo.

  “Hey,” I said to Mem.

  “Hey,” he said without looking my way. For a second I thought he was mad at me for being late, but then I remembered that was his way.

  “Whatcha looking for, the weather page?” I asked.

  “Nope, just looking.”

  “Oh. So, how was Sugar Loaf? Did you ride the Flume of Fear?”

  “Yup.”

  “Did Aunt Collette?”

  “Once, then she threw up.”

  “Ouch.”

  He folded the newspaper and put it back on the rack. “Mom says we’re supposed to get haircuts today.”

  “What? I don’t need a haircut. And who’s gonna pay for it?”

  Mem batted the air as if to wave off my question. “Don’t have to pay. Mom’s friend Holly across the street, she always does mine for free. Guess she’s gonna do you too. C’mon.”

  In the old days, you’d never catch Mem agreeing to get his hair cut. He used to get hysterical if anyone but Aunt Collette touched him, and even with her it was dicey when it came to his hair. He couldn’t stand the feel of the tags in the back of his shirts either, and he always whined about his shoes feeling too tight no matter how loose they were. To this day he won’t wear gloves. Or shirts without buttons. Or anything yellow or made of wool. To tell the truth, I don’t know how he ever gets dressed in the morning.

  “Come on, Johnny,” he nagged.

  “Fine.” I glanced out the door toward Hair by Holly, but my eyes caught a different sight—The Man walking into the store. He was wearing the same cowboy hat and a different flowered shirt, but most of all, he was wearing a big fat grin the minute he spotted my aunt. He pretended to be rummaging for something in the freezer section until the line of customers dispersed, then bee-lined over to her and started gabbing.

  Luckily, Aunt Collette hadn’t noticed me yet. I wanted to know who this guy was and why he was hanging around so I handed Mem another newspaper and craned my ears in the direction of the counter. One thing I found out right away was how quiet The Man’s voice was. I had to piece the conversation together from what Aunt Collette was saying.

  “Hi there, TJ,” she said. “How’s things?…Oh, I had the day off yesterday. I hope my helper took good care of you…Ninety in the shade…Those? Those are my latest parking tickets. I collect them…Well, good luck with that. How long’ll you be away?…Next Thursday? Well, I don’t know. I’d sure love to, but I have my son and—gee, that’s supposed to be the best restaurant going…I’ll tell you what. You let me think it over and I’ll let you know when you get back…Fly safe now, you hear?”

  Aunt Collette was grinning to herself as The Man left. I didn’t understand why she hadn’t said yes to this date he was asking her on. Girls are so hard to figure out. All she had to do was say yes, and then he’d know she liked him, and since she already knew he liked her, they could relax and get on with it. Life would be a lot easier if people said what they meant, the way Mem does.

  “That you over there, Johnny?” Aunt Collette called. “You come out from behind those papers and stop spying on me.”

  Oops. I wandered over and sat on the counter next to the cash register. “Sorry for being late.”

  “That’s all right, sweetie, no worries,” she said.

  I watched her replace the spool of paper in the register, then I came out with it. “He likes you,” I said.

  “You think?”

  “C’mon, Aunt Collette, give me the dirt.”

  “What dirt?”

  “Fill me in on this guy. Is he your boyfriend?”

  She laughed at that. “No.”

  “Do you want him to be your boyfriend?”

  “Aren’t you the little busybody? For your information, he’s—oh, I don’t know. It isn’t that simple when you’re my age.”

  “It isn’t that simple when you’re my age, either.”

  “You got girl troubles?”

  “It’s just that—” I didn’t know whether to go on. Maybe Aunt Collette had some good advice. After all, she’s a girl; she might understand Jo. But maybe she was just another adult who wouldn’t get it.

  “It’s just what?”

  “Nothing,” I said, though part of me wished I hadn’t. “So, you gonna go out with him?”

  She looked over at Mem in the corner and exhaled noisily.

  “You worried about who’s gonna watch Mem?” I asked.

  “Partly. You offering?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Even after you’ve watched him all day?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks, that’s sweet of you. I’ll let you know… Good morning there, girls.”

  I turned around to see Jo and Patsy standing behind me. Jo was holding two bottles of pink lemonade. Patsy had a bag of licorice in one hand and a box of chocolate-covered raisins in the other.

  “Hi, Ms. Dippy,” Patsy said.

  “Morning,” smiled Jo. “Hi, Johnny.”

  “H-hi.” I could feel Aunt Collette watching me. I could feel her figuring out that Jo was The Girl.

  “Looks like you’re stocking up on all the good stuff,” Aunt Collette said.

  “We’re going to the Majestic later,” explained Jo. “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off is playing at one.” Turning to me, she said, “You two want to join us?”

  My cheeks started to burn. “Sounds good,” I managed to say.

  “Meet us out front.”

  “Great. So I’ll, um, yeah. We’ll just…right, so…”

  Aunt Collette saved me from my stammering. “Now you and Mem skedaddle, you hear? Holly’s probably twiddling her thumbs waiting for you.”

  “Right,” I said. “See you later.”

  Jo set the lemonade bottles on the counter. “Make it ten till one.”

  Wow, I thought as I walked over to where Mem was still looking at the newspapers. I think Jo just asked me out on a date! “C’mon Mem,” I said, “time to face the blade.”

  Mem was lost in the newspaper. “Hmm? Blade, what blade? Hey, it’s Jo! Hi, Jo! Hi, Patsy! We’re gonna get a haircut.” As I dragged him by the arm, he called out, “Bye, Jo! Bye, Patsy! We’re gonna face the blade. We’re gonna get a haircut too.”

  • • •

  Did I mention that I’ve never been inside a hair salon before? Buster’s Barber Shop is where I go, and I like it there. You always know what you�
�re going to get with Buster, plus he’s fast. Walking into Hair by Holly with its light-up mirrors and sit-under hair-dryers and shelves of styling goop felt like crashing into Oz.

  “Can I help you?” said a girl who didn’t look much older than Mem. She was standing behind the counter. If this was Oz, then she was the wicked witch’s daughter—dyed-black hair, thick black eyeliner, and black lipstick that accented her permanent scowl. From what I could see of her, she was what my mother would call well-upholstered and what Dirk the Jerk would probably call porky—round face, plump arms, and dimples where her knuckles belonged.

  “We’re here for Holly,” I said.

  The girl flipped her hair behind her ear, revealing about ten metal studs. “Holly went home sick. But I can help you if you want. I’m Leesha.” She closed the magazine she’d been reading and hopped off her stool, letting her gauzy black dress graze the floor. She must have been six feet tall. I wanted to grab Mem and run back to Kansas. One look at Mem and I knew he was feeling the same way.

  “Y’know,” I said, “we’re not in any rush. Maybe we’ll come back another day.”

  “Suit yourself,” she scoffed, a dozen silver bracelets clinking at her wrists. “But Aunt Holly will take a lot more hair off than I will.”

  Now she had my attention.

  “No matter what you tell her, she always gives guys crop-tops, especially in the summer.”

  “Holly was going to do it for free,” I said.

  Leesha’s eyes narrowed, and she stared at me hawk-like for what felt like a long time. “Whatever,” she finally mumbled, walking over to the first haircutting station and motioning us to follow her. I nodded to Mem, and he came along with me, but he was rubbing his hands together so I knew he was nervous.

  Wow, what a set-up. There was a phone, a potted plant, a mini-TV, framed photos, a coffee pot, a clock, and a tiny boom box, all there in the space between the chair and the mirror. The only thing Buster the barber has on his shelf is a set of combs and scissors soaking in that blue cleaning liquid.

  “Who’s first?” Leesha asked, patting the swivel chair.

  “Who’s first?” Mem said to the floor. “Who’s first?”

  Leesha looked confused. “You tell me.”

  “You go, Johnny,” he said.

  “That’s okay, Mem. You go.”

  “No. You go first.”

  “But I had the first turn the other day with…um…Trouble. Yeah, and with the shower. You should have the first turn today.”

  Mem started inching backwards. I thought I’d have to give in and be the guinea pig, but Leesha saved me. “You’ve got better hair,” she told him. “I’d rather work on yours anyway.” Then she tossed a sneer my way.

  Mem studied his hair in the mirror. He glanced at Leesha, then at the door, then at me. I thought this might be Mem’s way of telling me he wanted to bolt—which was fine by me—but instead of darting out, he shuffled over to the swivel chair and took a seat. “I’m gonna have the first turn,” he told her. “Cuz Johnny got the first shower yesterday, that’s why.”

  “If you say so,” she said.

  “Yeah, I say so.”

  Mem sat quietly enough while she put a plastic cloak over him—nice and loose, like I told her. He even tolerated it when she combed his hair and fluffed it with her fingers. But when she revealed her shears, he got squirmy. She kept trying to snip, and he kept jerking away and turning around to make sure I was still there.

  “Hey, you’re gonna get hurt,” Leesha scolded him, “and I’m not gonna get in trouble just because you can’t sit still, so cut it out.”

  Now Mem was rocking back and forth in the chair, white-knuckling the armrests. “Cut it out?” he asked suspiciously. “But you’re the one who’s supposed to be cutting it. No, Holly is. Holly’s supposed to cut it. I want Holly. Holly! Hollllllyyyyy!” And just like that, he was off the deep end, gonzo.

  Leesha jumped back in a six-foot flurry of black gauze. “What is wrong with you?” she cried, looking back and forth between her scissors and the crazy kid in her chair, like she was trying to figure out if her shears had actually driven him insane. She’d obviously never met anyone like Mem.

  I was about to call the whole thing quits, when I had a brainstorm. “You get cable by any chance?” I shouted over Mem’s wailing.

  “Don’t know,” she shouted back. “Why?”

  “Try channel 47, The Weather Channel.”

  Skirting Mem, she went over to the mini-TV and clicked it on. Hooray for all of us, there was a mini-Marty the Meteorologist happily predicting rain. Mem eased back into the chair, wide-eyed and serene, as if Marty had hypnotized him through the tube.

  “Good, now do his hair,” I said. “Quick, before they cut to a commercial.”

  “You guys are weird,” she muttered. That’s the first time anybody ever lumped me into the same category as Mem. Oh well, who cared what this freaky girl thought?

  “He’s got great ends,” Leesha told me as she worked. “Nice and light. He’d be perfect for a little color.”

  “Color?” I cringed.

  “Yeah, like maybe gold. Or bronze. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re nuts.”

  “Just offering.” She didn’t say another word until she was done with Mem’s head. Then she unsnapped his cloak and asked him if he liked it.

  Mem stood up and examined his reflection for a long time. “No. But I like how my hair looks.”

  “Wait, what?” asked Leesha.

  I translated, “I think what he means is, he didn’t like getting his hair cut, but he likes the results. Right, Mem?”

  “Right, Mem? Your turn, Johnny.”

  I had to admit, Mem’s hair looked pretty good—normal, just a shorter version of what he already had. Still, the idea of letting the wicked-witch-in-training go after me with a sharp instrument didn’t exactly thrill me, and I hesitated.

  “Your turn, Johnny,” Leesha mimicked, folding her pudgy arms like I was taking too much of her precious time.

  “Fine,” I said, taking a seat. “But aren’t you a little young to be a hairdresser?”

  “Not if you know how to manage the system.”

  “What system?”

  “Look, do you want a trim or not?”

  “Fine, but only take off a little. I like the back of my neck covered.”

  “Chill, will you?” She tightened the cloak around my neck like a tourniquet. “I told you I don’t do crop-tops. I’m an artist.”

  I didn’t need an artist. I needed a trim, and I didn’t trust her, so I watched every hair she snipped, and she knew it.

  “You can breathe now,” she said at last. “I’m done with the scissors. Let’s get this dried, and you’re good to go. You want gel?”

  “What does it do?” I asked.

  “Just makes your hair hold its shape. No big.”

  I considered whether Jo might like me better with more shape. “Okay, but only a little.”

  Leesha mushed the gel, which smelled like cucumbers, into my hair and spun me around to face her and her blow-drying gun. A noisy blast of hot air hit me, and I had to close my eyes against the gale force. I’d never had my hair dried for me, and it felt kind of nice once I got used to the heat. After a while, she turned off the dryer and plumped my hair with her fingers.

  “All right,” she said. “You’ve got a good head there once you groove a little style into it. Take a peek.”

  She turned me around. When I glimpsed myself in the mirror, I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t believe it. Who was this alien with the spikes and the poufs staring back at me? Somebody, please tell me this is all smoke and mirrors, a big joke. But it wasn’t. I looked like a rock star on a bad hair day, only worse.

  Fighting the impulse to scream, I managed a weak “wow,” which Leesha thought was a compliment. She uncloaked me and repositioned a couple of the spikes. “Now, I took off the bare minimum in back,” she fussed, “so I should see y
ou again in four to six weeks.”

  In your dreams, Leesha. “Well, thanks,” I murmured. “Right, Mem?”

  Mem was glued to The Weather Channel again, and it took him a minute to pull himself away. When he did, he didn’t seem to notice my hair crisis. “Well, thanks,” he said. “Wishing you blue skies.”

  “Any time,” Leesha purred. “And tell your friends.”

  I’d tell my friends, all right. I’d tell them to steer clear of this house of horrors—that is, if I could ever face them again. “C’mon, Mem.” I poked my head out the door to make sure no one I knew was passing by. I’d die if I bumped into the guys or Jo. Thankfully, the street was bare for the moment so I stepped outside and motioned Mem to follow. “Let’s go,” I said and started running down the sidewalk toward Niko’s.

  “But your bike’s across the street,” Mem panted.

  “Never mind, we’ll get it later.”

  “I wish I knew how to ride a bike.”

  “I’ll teach you sometime—just hurry.”

  Mercifully, Niko’s was empty—too early yet for lunch—so I sat Mem at a table and told him to watch TV or read the menu or do whatever he wanted as long as he stayed in that chair. Then I raced past the counter and the kitchen into the bathroom. With the door locked behind me, I bent over the sink and ran the hot water full blast. The spikes on my head were as stiff as icicles, but they finally melted under the steamy water. Half a roll of paper towels later, my hair looked more or less like I’d just washed it. Hallelujah. I was going to go straight home and do a real washing, with extra shampoo and lots of elbow grease.

  Except, that’s not what happened.

  On my way up front to retrieve Mem, I caught a glimpse of Niko that stopped me short. He was crouching on his hands and knees with his face pressed to the kitchen floor, talking to himself in Italian. “Niko, are you okay?” I called, thinking he was hurt or sick or gone crazy or something. He’d been looking so awful lately. Maybe he’d collapsed right there on the floor.

  “Fine, just perfect,” he grumbled, standing up, all hot in the face. He looked worse than ever, and an open pack of cigarettes was hanging out of his shirt pocket. “What you want, pepperoni this time?”