Beard Science(21)

I shook my head, but was unable to speak. I didn’t want to tell her that I’d gotten chocolate frosting on my dress because the gingham apron she wanted me to wear didn’t provide adequate coverage. So I’d changed, rather than wear the dirty dress. I didn’t want to tell her because it wouldn’t have made any difference to her anger.

My father huffed, releasing a humorless laugh. “Catch up, Jennifer. Use whatever brains you have. Are we going to have to guess? Or are you planning on telling us where you’ve been? What was so important that you had your momma worried half to death?”

“I took the compassion cake to the Winstons. Today is the one-year anniversary of Bethany Winston’s death and I . . . I just thought, maybe the cake would help.”

My parents were silent for a beat, exchanging a look, then their eyes moved back to me.

“Are you telling us a lie, Jennifer? Because it’s almost 10:30 PM and you’ve been missing since this afternoon.” My father’s voice was stony and suspicious.

I shook my head, ready to defend my honesty, but my phone chose that moment to ring. Startled, I pulled the cell from my purse. Before I could check the screen, my father snatched it from my hand and answered it, bringing it to his ear.

“Who is this?” he demanded.

I glanced at my mother, found her watching me with sad eyes, sharp with disappointment.

“What?” my father stiffened, standing straighter, his gaze darting to mine. “Oh, oh. Hello, Billy. Oh, no. It’s fine. It’s not too late. No, no. Not at all. Yes—here’s Jennifer.”

With confusion and wonder, my father handed my phone back to me and mouthed to both my mother and me, “It’s Billy Winston.”

I accepted the phone, frowned at it, then brought it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hey, you left before we could make plans.” Billy’s baritone sounded from the other side.

“Oh, sorry.” I shook my head to clear it, our earlier discussion feeling like it happened weeks—not hours—ago.

Then I heard Cletus demand in the background, “Take her to The Front Porch for steak, and don’t let her split the bill.”

“Mind your own business, Cletus,” Billy chided.

“She is my business,” Cletus retorted.

I grinned in spite of everything.

“Jenn? Are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m here.” I hazarded a glance at my parents and found them watching me with unadulterated astonishment.

“How about Friday? We’ll go to the jam session for a bit, then out to The Front Porch,” Billy suggested.

“For steak,” Cletus shouted.

“Uh, jam session on Friday and then The Front Porch?” I clarified.

My father nodded his head vehemently and my mother covered her mouth, her eyes wide and excited. They both looked happy and proud and so totally different from what they’d been just moments ago.

And a funny thing happened. My heart broke a little. Looking at my parents and their one-hundred-and-eighty degree mood swing felt like . . . well, it felt like a betrayal.

“Yep,” Billy confirmed. “And Cletus says you can’t wear a yellow dress. And, for the record, I agree.”

“It’s a deal,” I said, doing my best to infuse my tone with cheerfulness even though I was panicking a little at the request.

Billy didn’t notice my false enthusiasm. Things settled, we said our goodbyes. My parents didn’t seem to notice either, because as soon as I hung up with Billy, they rushed forward to give me hugs.

“I’m so proud of you, Jennifer.” My father kissed my cheek, looking at me like I was something special.

“Oh, Jenny, you should have said something. No wonder you didn’t want to pay special attention to Alan Northumberland, not when you’ve got Billy Winston calling you.” My mother giggled.

Yes. Giggled.

I forced myself to form something like a smile with my mouth, stepping away from their fussing. “I’m really tired. I think I’ll go to sleep now.”

“Yes, yes. Go get your beauty rest.” My momma shooed me away, her earlier sadness and disappointment replaced with admiration and pride.

I turned and walked to my bedroom, my stomach still sick, and my heart in fractured pieces. One moment I was treated like a disobedient, disrespectful twelve-year-old, the next a beautiful success.

All because of Billy.

Never because of me.





CHAPTER 10


“I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.”

 Virginia Woolf, Moments of Being



~Jennifer~

The day after receiving my new homework assignment, I changed my nail polish.

Instead of pink I wore burgundy. Dark burgundy. I was at the Piggly Wiggly, picking up a rarely required mid-week crate of bananas, when I spotted the new shade on the end of an aisle. Sourwood leaves turn a dark maroon in the fall all along the Smoky Mountains; the color reminded me of their vibrant last hurrah before winter.

I stared at it. I liked it. I bought it.

That afternoon, after I was finished with my special orders for the next day, I removed the pink polish and replaced it with burgundy.

This small act of rebellion set my heart racing when I realized I would be wearing purple nail polish during dinner. My parents would see it and mother might not like it . . .

But then I remembered how they’d accused me of being a liar the night before, how they’d been proud of me because of Billy Winston’s phone call, how they’d been upset one moment and elated the next.

And my heart hardened.

My father usually cooked dinner. He was very particular about food, how it was prepared and what ingredients were used. He was so particular, he never ate anything I baked, not even my banana cake. I guess one could say he was a health nut.

“Jennifer. Come out and set the table,” he called.

I jumped slightly in my desk chair. I’d been absorbed in a letter from one of my pan pals. Anne-Claire Noel lived in the south of France and—for the last six years—had the most enthralling stories about the local nightlife.

She always started all her letters with Jennifer, tu ne croiras jamais ce qui est arrivé ! (Translation: Jennifer, you’ll never believe what happened!)

And she always ended her letters with Quand vas-tu faire payer ces gens pour te faire bosserquatre-vingt (80) heures par semaine ? L'esclavage sous contrat est illégal aux Etats-Unis. (Translation: When are you going to make those people pay you for working eighty hours a week? Indentured servitude is illegal in the USA.)

After so many years of writing letters to my pen pals, I could read and write in French, German, and Japanese. Luckily, my father couldn’t read French. Nor could he decipher my Japanese pen pal’s letters (written in Japanese) which oftentimes included stories that were even more salacious than Anne-Claire Noel’s. He’d tried intercepting a few letters and attempting to translate, but lost interest after a few days.

Thank goodness he didn’t know about Google translate; at least, he didn’t know about it yet. I dreaded the day he discovered its existence. Just in case, I kept the most scandalous letters hidden in various books on my shelves.

I’d only met Anne-Claire Noel once, at a pageant when I was seven and she was eight, but we’d been writing each other since. She was now in law school and had been urging me to formalize my role with the Donner Bakery since I was fifteen. Her most frequent suggestion was that I establish my own corporation and have my momma pay me as a contractor.

I lived vicariously through her capering and I hoped to visit her . . . one day. Of course, she always brought up the fact that—as soon as I formalized the terms of my employment with the bakery—I’d have a lot more of my own money to spend however I liked, including flying to the south of France if I so desired.

I brought up the idea of paying me to my parents when I was nineteen. The conversation did not go well. My father had been furious, so I never brought it up again. I didn’t even like thinking about it, as I knew they would take offense. Besides, I had some money; not a lot and not a bank account. But it wasn’t like my parents were stingy with me. I drove a brand new BMW; it had been a gift for my birthday.

But your momma’s name is on the title, not yours . . .

I set aside the letter and gave my newly painted nails one more glance, then left my room. Without a word, I set the table while remembering the conversation I’d had with my father when I was nineteen, how upset he’d become when I suggested being paid for working in the bakery.

Come to think on it, my parents seemed to get offended no matter what I did.

I bet they’re going to get angry about my nail polish.

Tonight my father was making baked chicken and broccoli with no sauce. I suspected he took perverse pleasure in preparing flavorless—and therefore joyless—food. Therefore, I felt apathetic about his grilled chicken and broccoli, but I’d talked myself into a passionate tizzy about my nail polish by the time dinner was ready and we sat at the table.

I decided if they didn’t like my nail polish, then they could just . . . just . . . not like it, that’s what. They didn’t have to like everything about me.

They aren’t me.

I’m me.

I have to live with me, all day, every day.

And I like the red polish!

“Jennifer?”