Anyways, they put the cards away fast when our teacher came out of nowhere. Mr. B put a peace sign in the air to make us all hush. His beard and white shirt looked really nice for the special day. His teeth even sparkled as we all got quiet for his big speech. A normal teacher would have just reminded us to put our names on the forms to make the line go faster, but not Mr. B. Instead of saying “cheese” to the photographer lady, he said, “Take a moment to thank yourselves for being here, for showing up, before the camera snaps.” I don’t know where he gets all of these ideas. I don’t really know who I am, so how the heck am I supposed to thank myself?
I wonder what Dylan Beaman thought of Mr. B’s speech. He was scratching his chin right next to me in line because of our last names in the alphabet. I also noticed that, even though he’s a boy, he actually wanted to look nice and used his free comb from the D.A.R.E. lady. As soon as he got it, he brushed stray pieces of his hair behind his ears. I wonder how easy it is for him to thank himself for being somewhere just like Mr. B said. I hope Dylan knows that pictures are probably going to come out great with his new FORD: BUILT TOUGH T-shirt. His parents will probably want to put them into gold frames for everyone to see. If he happens to give me one of the prints, I swear on my life I won’t ever give it away.
I don’t know why, but after Mr. B’s big speech, I actually decided to give Dylan Beaman my free comb. I kept my eyes down, and just said to him, “Here, take this.” It’s really the most words I’ve ever said to Dylan Beaman out loud. I thought that the comb would give him a reason to think about me, but the fact is that it ended up in the trash can only two minutes later. I saw him throw my comb there real quick when I bent down to double-knot my shoelaces. It seemed like a lot of other people’s combs ended up in there too, so I can’t take it too personal, right? A small pile of them covered the whole top layer of the big gray bin. I pretended that I didn’t see what he did, and then stood back up and wiped the dust off of my knees. In that moment, though, I had a sudden feeling of losing something.
My hair tie had fallen out and my braid was coming undone. I decided to have a bathroom meeting with Sofie ASAP, which stands for as soon as possible.
This morning was my first time making a really good braid all by myself. I was so nervous that I would never be able to do it like that ever again. Do you know that feeling? I tried not to have a cow, but it really was an emergency. We aren’t allowed to have walkie-talkies at school, so I signaled for Sofie using a new secret code we came up with the other day. I knocked the air three times like there was an invisible door. She knocked back.
We went to the girls’ room right away and sat in two stalls right next to each other. I really didn’t want her to see me struggle to fix my hair. I decided to do a basic ponytail, but for some reason I couldn’t get all my hair to fit through the band. I tried over and over. On my sixth try, the little pink tie flew right out of my hands. I must have stretched it too far. It landed into the toilet without making a sound. I looked down, and I couldn’t believe it. The hair tie just floated in the water like a lifesaver that I will never get to use. Of course, I had to leave it there for good. In that moment, the bathroom stall seemed smaller than ever. I don’t know.
My hair squiggled everywhere, and I didn’t even have my silly comb to fix it. But, for Pete’s sake, why would I comb and pay attention to something I don’t even like? Everybody says my hair makes me look more like Mom, but I don’t want to grow up to be Mom. I held my own hands, feeling sillier than ever for hiding in the girls’ room of all places.
Do you think I’m stupid? I just wanted to tie myself to a balloon and fly away, skipping Picture Day altogether.
Then out of the blue, Sofie said, “I don’t know why they give us all the same kind of comb if we all have different kinds of hair. I pretended to lose my comb. I couldn’t even use it.” I bet you Sofie’s comb is in the same trash can where Dylan Beaman threw mine. Sofie’s hair is curly and today it was in many braids that her dad made really nice for Picture Day. Sofie said that when she grows up, she’s not going to make her kid have the same hair as everybody else at school. It made me smile to think about her future life, even though it’s probably not going to be like my life at all.
I asked Sofie through the wall, “So, what do you want to be when you grow up? Is it hard for you to know?”
Sofie said, “I don’t really know anybody who does what I want to, but I think it could happen anyways.” I hope she’s right. I haven’t told anyone this before, but I want to grow up to be a mailman or something that will involve secret gifts or me walking by myself for a long time. Maybe I could even grow up to be like Steve Irwin, that Crocodile Hunter on TV. I do like animals. Sofie wants to go to outer space or be a dancer. If she goes to the moon sometime, I hope she takes me with her and her future daughter with really cool hair. Maybe you think that’s weird, but I think it could be good.
Anyways, Sofie and I left the stalls and fixed our hair in separate mirrors. I wasn’t sure if my fingers could fix much. I could hardly brush through once without getting stopped by a knot. I tried to remember how much I liked my outfit, but even that seemed hard to do while looking at my reflection. I decided to be brave and offer Sofie a high five anyways. I wanted her to know that I think she looked great in her blue sparkly shirt. For the record, that is different from calling someone cute.
I guess I’ll go to sleep now. I haven’t really been checking under the WELCOME TO HOUGHTON sign for letters this week, but I’ll try sometime soon.
Sincerely,
Charlie or Sean
Sunday, September 28, 1997
Hi,
I don’t want to say too much about this, but my bedroom is pink. It’s a problem with me even though I really do like flowers and cotton candy. My parents painted my room pink when we moved in, but I have felt like a boy long before that. They just don’t get it. Lately, my dad has been calling it my “big-girl room” almost every time he walks in. I hardly ever talked about him to my old friends because my dad can be hard to predict. I’ve never even told Sofie about him because she has a really nice dad, and probably wouldn’t understand.
My dad used to have a job with a bunch of other dads mining copper out of the ground in White Pine, the city where we used to live. They all say that, back in the day, our old city was the best and easiest place in the world to find a job. Then things changed. We had to move here so Dad could sell T-shirts that say COPPER COUNTRY STRONG at a small store that only plays country music and hockey games on the radio. I don’t actually know what he used to do other than look for shiny things underground, but he can’t do it anymore and he’s still sad about it. He and his old work friends all still do things together, though, but it’s not work. He calls it “hanging with the boys,” and he sometimes comes home very sloppy. It makes me wonder what it means to be a boy. Do you think I would have what it takes to be a good one?