Beard Science(22)

I shook myself and met my father’s questioning gaze.

“Yes, sir?” I asked.

“Are you listening?”

I shook my head, balling my hands into fists under the table, preparing myself for a confrontation. “No. I was thinking.”

My parents shared a quick, amused glance, then my father said, “Your momma said you made a butternut squash pie yesterday?”

I nodded, scratching my forehead. “Yes.”

“You didn’t bring it home?”

Why would I? You would never eat it and momma would get after me about my diet.

Quelling these rebellious thoughts, I endeavored to answer without emotion. “Uh, no. I took it to, uh—” I caught myself before I said I took it to Cletus, instead saying, “I took it to the Winstons, along with the compassion cake.”

My father chewed on his chicken, swallowed the bite with a sip of water, then said, “Well, that was nice of you.”

My momma then talked about the investors and how their visit had gone well. My father then talked about a business trip he had coming up. And then dinner was over.

I cleared my plate, helped with the dishes, then went back to my room in a daze.

Did they not notice my burgundy polish? Or do they not care?

I couldn’t be certain which, but what I did know was that I’d made a change and I’d been prepared to defend my choice. Even though the confrontation hadn’t happened, I’d been prepared.

And that made me feel strong.

I didn’t get much sleep that night. My head was too full of ideas, of things I could change. The possibilities were endless.

Because, they aren’t me.

I’m me.

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

And I got to choose who—or what—I wanted to be.



Two large special orders were cancelled Wednesday morning and rescheduled for the following week, leaving me with a bounty of both bananas and time.

I’d planned to go home, catch a nap, maybe write a letter to Anne-Claire Noel, or Akiko, my Japanese pen pal. Instead, and without planning to do so, I found myself at the East City mall just outside Knoxville.

“Since I’m here, I might as well go in,” I muttered to the inside of my car, trying to recall how much money I’d brought with me.

If memory served, I had five hundred dollars. I’d been carrying it around in my purse since a special event in Nashville over the summer. An up-and-coming musician had wanted my banana cake for his birthday party. I made seven cakes in the shape of four-feet-long bananas and served every piece myself.

I guessed he liked my cakes because his manager gave me the five hundred dollars as a tip.

The East City mall was nothing extravagant. On one end was Sears—with a garden center—and on the other end was JC Penney, and in between were mostly national-chain retail stores with a smattering of locally-owned shops.

For example, the Garrison Meat and Cheese Emporium—an independent deli—and Lisa’s Crafts and Honey—which, as the title suggested, carried craft supplies and jars of honey—were two of the most prominent local businesses within the mall.

I could have gone to Bell Town mall. It had the fancy stores, but it was another forty-five minutes away. Time was the deciding factor; I didn’t have another hour and a half to spend, not if I wanted to make it home in time for dinner, and therefore avoid questions about my afternoon.

Presently, while unbuckling my seatbelt, I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. I wasn’t wearing any makeup. As I locked the car, I glanced down at my hands. My nails were still burgundy.

My parents hadn’t said anything, but the absence of makeup had earned me several side-eyes from the bakery staff earlier in the day. I’d ignored these looks, feeling good about my lack of a mask, feeling more like myself than I had in a long time.

These changes, though perhaps subtle, had been my choice. And the thrill that accompanied making my own choices spurred me forward with a spring in my step, across the parking lot and into the department store.

Once inside, however, I faltered. I second-guessed myself, suddenly wondering why I’d come at all. I’d never gone shopping without my mother. I didn’t even particularly enjoy shopping. Usually the activity consisted of me trying on clothes my mother picked out, and turning this way and that as she scrutinized the fit. The only clothes I owned not picked out by my mother were several matching pairs of red lace bras and underwear, the overalls I used for gardening, a pair of jeans, and a few T-shirts.

The overalls I’d picked up at a yard sale.

The jeans had been a gift from my grandma Lily.

The T-shirts were mostly souvenirs sent by my pen pals over the years, places they’d visited.

But the underwear had been sent by Anne-Claire Noel for my twenty-first birthday. She’d warned me ahead of time that she was going to send them so I could intercept the package before my father came home from work. Toutes les femmes ont besoin de lingerie sexy, ça leur donne un secret, she’d written, Une femme avec un secret est mystérieuse et séduisante

(Translation: All women need sexy underwear; it gives them a secret. A woman with a secret is by nature mysterious and alluring.)

With that thought in mind, I headed straight for the lingerie section and promptly picked up a black lace bra and panty set in my size. Then I made a beeline for the women’s section, my head held high in false bravery as I searched through the racks with shaking hands.

But then a miraculous thing happened. After three racks of clothes, my hands stopped shaking. I stopped feeling determined and fell into a rhythm, growing absorbed with the oddly meditative act of assessing clothes. I just simply searched for . . . well, for something I liked, something of my choice.

Pretty soon, I’d amassed an armful of outfits and sought the dressing rooms. Previous experience shopping with my momma meant I knew where they were and that they were unlocked. I chose the dressing room farthest down the hall and locked the door behind me.

And then, for the first time in my life, I tried on clothes that I’d picked out. At first, the experience was incredibly bizarre and I didn’t know what to think of the image before me. It was me, but it wasn’t the Banana Cake Queen. The Banana Cake Queen didn’t wear a maroon and white flannel tunic with leggings.

She also didn’t wear a sapphire-blue sweater dress that hugged her body.

She also didn’t wear a white T-shirt and dark skinny jeans.

Nor did she wear a fitted—and awesome—black dress, with a scoop neck, capped sleeves, and a band of black lace at the hemline.

But apparently Jennifer Sylvester did. Because after an hour trying on clothes, I bought myself four new outfits.

And then, drunk on determining my own destiny, I decided I was hungry. Furthermore, I decided I would eat something delicious rather than save my appetite for one of my father’s joyless dinners.

Carrying two bags full of new clothes, I walked to the Garrison Meat and Cheese Emporium. I had a soft spot for cheese steak sandwiches and my father’s militant food practices meant such artery-clogging delectableness was never allowed in the house.

I walked past the men’s section, the cosmetics counter, the shoe department, and into the central concourse. East City mall was the closest mall to Green Valley, so unsurprisingly I recognized several people on my way to the Emporium. Equally unsurprising, no one greeted me. But a few folks gave me odd looks and double takes, as though either my appearance or my presence was confusing.

The Emporium was just off a modest food court in the center of the mall. Garrison Bradly—the owner—had set up three small tables at the front of the shop where customers could eat sandwiches or snack on their popular cheese platters.

I spotted Garrison Jr. behind the meat cutting counter helping a woman I didn’t recognize. I plucked a number from the countertop ticket dispenser and waited my turn, counting four other people milling about waiting to be served.

One of these people was Scotia Simmons, local gossip, all around unpleasant person, and good friend of my mother’s. I gave Scotia a wide berth, trying to look as natural as possible, not because I was worried she’d talk to me, but because I didn’t particularly want her to call my momma and share my whereabouts.

So I loitered next to the fancy condiments and feigned interest in the ingredients while I people-watched. Garrison Jr.—who was now about fifteen—had grown taller since I saw him last. I knew he’d joined the football team because my daddy told us so over dinner. But I also knew he preferred books to sports and was frequently hiding in a corner of the local library devouring fantasy novels.

Scotia was on the phone with her daughter, Darlene—former head cheerleader at my father’s high school, now attending Vanderbilt for graduate school—and was lamenting the fact that Mrs. Beverton, our local choir director, hadn’t been waxing her upper lip since last May.

“She’s grown a full mustache, Darlene.” Scotia tsked, speaking louder than was strictly necessary. “The poor woman looks like a weasel. Enough already without the whiskers, bless her heart.”

I pressed my lips together in an unhappy line. Mrs. Beverton was a kind woman and didn’t deserve to have her physical attributes discussed uncharitably in such a public place.

Still, I stared unseeingly at the mustard label and attempted to fade into the scenery. I was in yellow, standing next to the mustard display, and was the Banana Cake Queen. I was basically invisible.