Beard Science(47)

“I know you’re going through this silly phase of rebellion, and I understand wanting to try out the fashion fads, but could you please dress for work tomorrow? We have that photographer coming by the bakery and a Skype call with Jacqueline about the meeting in New York.”

My mother, looking harassed, threw herself into the chair across from me, slapping her notebook down on the counter and opening it to an earmarked page.

It was Friday, eleven days after my first kiss. My life would now be measured in days since my first kiss, because that’s how dually amazing and devastating it had been.

I hadn’t yet picked up my bananas from the store, and I had a long evening of special orders ahead of me. I was tired because I hadn’t been sleeping much.

I missed Cletus and I didn’t know how to stop missing him. Kissing him had been a mistake, a terrible mistake. Even before the kiss my feelings for him had grown tangled. I’d wanted to be with him all the time, talk to him about nonsense, listen to his ideas, likes, and troubles, and share mine.

Not helping matters: his body, and face, and voice, and eyes.

Crap.

Throwing myself into work only helped marginally, but I didn’t really have a choice. Fall was a busy time of the year for weddings in the Valley. Everyone wanted their photographs staged against the canvas of autumn colors.

“Jennifer? Did you hear me?”

Shaking myself from my musings, I nodded. “Thank you for letting me know. I’ll make sure I’m in costume tomorrow.” I made a mental note to set my alarm for thirty minutes earlier.

I’d been wearing comfortable clothes on a more regular basis since my date with Billy, both around town and to work. At present I was in a new pair of jeans and a T-shirt one of my pen pals from Germany had sent some years ago. I’d used it as a sleep shirt until just last week. This was the second time I’d worn it during the day or in public.

A fact that irked my mother to no end.

“Costume?” she asked, the sharpness of the word snagging my attention.

I glanced up from the wedding cake I was decorating—white fondant with yellow, purple, and red leaf accents—and met my mother’s glare.

“Yes. Costume.”

She made a sound similar to a huff, but it also had elements of a snort. “What are you talking about?”

“I just meant I’ll wear one of the yellow dresses, and I’ll do my hair and such.”

Her mouth fell open. “Are you telling me you think of your everyday clothes as a costume?”

I set down the tiny rolling pin I’d been using for the fondant on the counter and stared at my mother. We were alone and I was tired. And I was agitated. Therefore, I didn’t think twice about my response.

“Of course it’s a costume, Momma.”

“I thought you liked looking pretty?”

I paused, studying her, the stunned hurt in her eyes. I had two options, and neither struck me as very appealing. I could continue pretending like I enjoyed playing dress up every day. Or I could tell her the truth.

The last several weeks, fighting against her constant objections to my hair and clothing choices, had strained our relationship. But then, did we really have much of a relationship? My pen pals knew more about me—about my hopes and dreams—than my own mother.

I decided to tell her the truth. If I were in her shoes, I’d want the truth from my daughter. But I also wanted to be respectful, because she was my mother and she loved me, even though she didn’t really see me.

“Honestly, Momma? I don’t like those dresses, and they don’t make me feel pretty. They make me feel like a fool. They make me feel like I’m playing a part. I don’t like the color yellow and I don’t want my hair to be blonde. And that’s the truth.” I kept my tone cautiously calm because I didn’t want her to think I was insulting her choices or priorities, I wasn’t. I just wanted different for myself. I wanted to be honest, and I wanted her to listen and understand.

My mother’s face fell, disappointment shining in her eyes. Eventually, the disappointment became hurt, then frustration. “I guess I’m sorry, then. I’m sorry I wanted better for you than I had for myself. I guess I’m sorry you don’t like all the time and energy and countless hours I’ve put into building your brand, building you up to what you are.”

“It’s not me,” I mumbled, the words slipping out before I could catch them.

“What? What did you say?”

“It’s not me. I’m not the Banana Cake Queen. I don’t like being a brand, I don’t like the attention, I don’t like having my picture taken, I don’t like serving people cake and having them gawk at me. I never wanted it. I never wanted any of it!” My voice had lifted to a shout as my confession built, one truth on top of another, one frustration bleeding into the next. I was a soda bottle that had been shaken for years, and the top had finally popped off.

She gasped, wincing as though I’d slapped her, and stared at me like I was a stranger. “Jennifer Anne Sylvester. What has gotten into you? You do not raise your voice to me.”

I swallowed the bubbling bitterness in the back of my throat. I wanted to honor my parents. I loved them. I didn’t want to disappoint them. But how was I supposed to breathe when I wasn’t even allowed to think?

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” She stood, drawing herself up, her chair scraping against the kitchen tile.

“I’m sorry I lifted my voice.” I was sorry.

She nodded, looking cautiously pacified. “And what else?”

“I’m not sorry I don’t like being the Banana Cake Queen. I feel like I’m a character in the theme park of my life, and it’s a lonely place to be. That’s the truth and you wanted to know.”

My mother stiffened, lifting her chin, and staring daggers of disillusionment at me. She picked up her notebook and clutched it to her chest.

“I have nothing to say to you if you’re going to behave this way.”

With that, she swept out of the room.

I stared at the chair where she’d sat. I stared for a long time, my chest aching with fear. I wasn’t afraid she’d disown me or toss me out. She wouldn’t. But she’d never look at me the same. I’d been an achievement she was proud of for so long, and I didn’t know where I fit in her life if I wasn’t her pride and joy.

Maybe I didn’t fit. And that thought made me cry.

Or maybe I cried because I was tired of being pathetic. Maybe I cried because I wasn’t what my momma wanted, and I wasn’t what Cletus wanted. Maybe I cried because I didn’t know who I was or what I really wanted.

My plan for last Monday had been to give Cletus the thumb drives. Unfortunately, at the time, I could only find four of the five data drives I’d hidden around the kitchen. After tearing the kitchen apart, I discovered the fifth hiding in a box of gluten-free flour. No one but me messed with the gluten-free stuff, so I decided to leave it there until . . .

Well, until such time as I crossed paths with Cletus again.

If our paths cross again.

That thought made me sad.

Regardless, last Monday I was going to give him the video copies, release him from our deal, then put my pride on the line once more and ask him out on a date. The cookies had been baked especially for the occasion. It was an old family recipe. Legend was, my grandfather Donner had wooed my grandmother with his vanilla cookies.

But Cletus didn’t want my cookies.

He wanted a sex-goddess with experience. He wanted a sex-goddess’s cookies.

I was a fool.

Since our final lesson, since that life-changing kiss, just the thought of him caused heart palpitations. I suffered from late-night insomnia, reliving the moment over and over. I frequently daydreamed about him, his mouth, how he’d held me, how amazing he’d felt. I’d caught myself more times than I could count touching my lips, remembering and wishing. If I had a nickel for every time I’d thought about how fantastic the kiss had been, I’d own all the nickels in the world. Every single nickel.

For Cletus, it had been tutoring. He’d been helping me practice. Poor, ignorant, inexperienced Jennifer Sylvester.

I didn’t want his help. I wanted . . . Well, I wanted him. And I wanted him to want me. Me. Just as I was. I wanted us to be equals.

But that is never going to happen.

I slid to the floor and pressed my face against a kitchen towel, crying for who I wasn’t. However, a while later, when the tears finally stopped, when my head ached and my eyes were scratchy, and the pity party was officially tiresome, I heard a little voice in the back of my head. This is pointless, Jenn. What are you actually going to do about it?

I stared at the cabinet in front of me and realized I was tired of feeling helpless. I wasn’t going to be helpless. Not anymore. I was taking control. I was going to figure things out, for myself, by myself. If I’d learned anything in the last few months, it was that I couldn’t live my life to make other people happy. So I was going to start there.

I needed to be true to myself.

By God, I was going to be true to myself!

But first, I needed to go pick up the bananas.



I used more bananas in a week than most people ate in six months. Usually, I picked up the bananas Friday morning and Sunday afternoon. But on this Friday I didn’t make it to the Piggly Wiggly until near closing time.