Making Faces

  When Ambrose smiled, one side of his mouth, the side damaged by the blast, didn't turn up as much, giving him a crooked grin. Fern thought it was endearing, but judging from the infrequency of his smile, Ambrose probably didn't think so.

  “I did taunt him. I don't think I've ever taunted anyone before. It was . . . fun,” Fern said seriously, honestly.

  Ambrose burst out laughing and set down his rolling pin, looking at her and shaking his head. And this time he didn't duck his head and turn away.

  “Never taunted anyone, huh? I seem to remember you making faces at Bailey Sheen at a big wrestling tournament. He was supposed to be taking stats, but you were making him laugh. Coach Sheen got after him, which hardly ever happened. I think that qualifies as taunting.”

  “I remember that tournament! Bailey and I were playing a game we made up. You saw that?”

  “Yeah. You two looked like you were having fun . . . and I remember wishing I could trade places with the two of you . . . just for an afternoon. I was jealous.”

  “Jealous? Why?”

  “The coach from Iowa was at that tournament. I was so nervous I was sick. I was throwing up between matches.”

  “You were nervous? You won every match. I never saw you lose. What did you have to be nervous about?”

  “Being undefeated was a lot of pressure. I didn't want to disappoint anybody.” Ambrose shrugged. “So tell me about this game.” Ambrose smoothly moved the conversation away from himself. Fern tucked away the information he had revealed for later perusal.

  “It's a game Bailey and I play. It's our version of Charades. Bailey can't really act anything out, for obvious reasons, so we play this game we call Making Faces. It's stupid, but . . . fun. The idea is to communicate strictly through facial expressions. Here. I'll show you. I'll make a face and you tell me what I'm feeling.”

  Fern dropped her jaw and widened her eyes theatrically.

  “Surprise?”

  Fern nodded, smiling. Then she flared her nostrils and wrinkled her forehead, screwing her mouth up in disgust. Ambrose chortled.

  “Something smells bad?”

  Fern giggled and immediately changed faces. Her lower lip quivered and her chin puckered and shook and her eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh man, you are way too good at that!” Ambrose was laughing full out now, the dough forgotten as she entertained him.

  “Do you want to try?” Fern was laughing too, wiping away the tears she had manufactured to create her “sad” face.

  “Nah. I don't know if my face would cooperate,” Ambrose said quietly, but there was no self-consciousness in his voice, no defensiveness, and Fern let it go with a quiet “okay.”

  They visited for a few minutes more and then Fern thanked him again and said good night. And it had been a good night, in spite of Becker Garth. Ambrose had talked to her. He'd even laughed with her. And Fern felt a glimmer of hope flicker in her heart.

  The following day when Fern arrived at work there was a quote on the whiteboard.

  “God has given you one face and you make yourself another.” - Hamlet

  Shakespeare again. Hamlet again. Ambrose seemed to have a thing for the tortured character. Maybe because he was a tortured character. But she had made him laugh. Fern smiled, remembering the invention of the Making Faces game.

  2001

  “Why are you making that face, Fern?” Bailey asked.

  “What face?”

  “That face that looks like you can't figure something out. Your eyebrows are pushed down and your forehead is wrinkled. And you're frowning.”

  Fern smoothed out her face, realizing she was doing exactly what Bailey said she was doing. “I was thinking about a story I've been writing. I can't figure out how to end it. What do you think this face means?” Fern gave herself an underbite and crossed her eyes.

  “You look like a brain-dead cartoon character,” Bailey answered, snickering.

  “What about this one?” Fern pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows while wincing.

  “You're eating something super sour!” Bailey cried. “Let me try one.” Bailey thought for a minute and then he made his mouth go slack and opened his eyes as wide as they could go. His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth like a big dog.

  “You're looking at something delicious,” Fern guessed.

  “Be more specific,” Bailey said and made the face once more.

  “Hmm. You're looking at a huge ice cream sundae,” Fern tried again. Bailey pulled his tongue back into his mouth and grinned cheekily.

  “Nope. That's the face you make every time you see Ambrose Young.”

  Fern swatted Bailey with the cheap stuffed bear she'd won at the school carnival in fourth grade. The arm flew off and ratty stuffing flew in all directions. Fern tossed it aside.

  “Oh yeah? What about you? This is the face you make whenever Rita comes over.” Fern lowered one eyebrow and smirked, trying to replicate Rhett Butler's smolder in Gone with the Wind.

  “I look constipated whenever I see Rita?” Bailey asked, dumbfounded.

  Fern snorted, laughter exploding from her nose, making her grab for a tissue so she didn't gross herself out too much.

  “I don't blame you for liking Ambrose,” Bailey said, suddenly serious. “He is the coolest guy I know. If I could be anyone in the whole world, I'd be Ambrose Young. Who would you be?”

  Fern shrugged, wondering as she always did what it would be like to be beautiful. “I wouldn't mind looking like Rita,” she answered honestly. “But I think I would still like to be me on the inside. Wouldn't you?”

  Bailey thought for a minute. “Yeah. I am pretty awesome. But so is Ambrose. I'd still trade places.”

  “I'd just trade faces,” Fern said.

  “But God gave you that face,” Rachel Taylor said from the kitchen. Fern rolled her eyes. Her mother had the hearing of a bat; even at sixty-two years old she didn't miss trick.

  “Well, if I could, I'd make myself another,” Fern retorted. “Then maybe Ambrose Young wouldn't be too beautiful to even look at me.”

  She hadn't even meant to quote Shakespeare then, but Ambrose had been too beautiful to even look at her.

  Fern wondered at Ambrose's choice in quotes until she saw the display cases in front of the bakery. She shrieked like an excited little girl seeing her favorite pop star, and then began laughing out loud. The cases were filled with dozens of round sugar cookies iced in cheerful pastels. Each cookie had a simple face. Squiggles and lines in black icing created a different expression on each one–frowns and smiles and scowls, edible emoticons.

  Fern bought a dozen of her favorite ones and wondered how in the world she would ever be able to eat them, or let anyone else eat them. She wanted to save them forever and remember the night she made Ambrose Young laugh. Maybe having a funny face wasn't such a bad thing after all.

  Fern found a marker and wrote Making cookies or Making faces beneath Ambrose’s message on the board. Then she circled Making cookies, so he would know she had seen his offering. And she added a little smiley face.

  The next night when Ambrose came to work there was another message on the board: Pancakes or Waffles?

  Ambrose circled pancakes. About an hour later, Fern stood in the doorway of the bakery. Her hair hung in curly disarray down her back and she was wearing a pale pink T-shirt with white jeans and sandals. She'd taken off her bright blue Jolley's Supermarket apron and had slicked some gloss on her lips. Ambrose wondered if it was the flavored kind and looked away.

  “Hi. So . . . I like pancakes too.” Fern grimaced like she had said something incredibly embarrassing or stupid. He realized she was still a little afraid to talk to him. He didn't blame her. He hadn't been terribly friendly, and he was pretty scary looking.

  “You aren't working tomorrow night, right? Doesn't Mrs. Luebke come in on Saturday and Sunday nights?” she rushed, the words tumbling out as if she had practiced them.

  He nodded, waiting.

  ??
?Would you want to come with me and Bailey for pancakes? We go to Larry's at midnight sometimes. It makes us feel like grown-ups to have pancakes past our bedtimes.” Fern smiled winsomely, that part obviously wasn't rehearsed, and Ambrose realized she had a dimple in her right cheek. He couldn't look away from that little dent in her creamy skin. It disappeared as her smile faltered.

  “Uh, sure,” Ambrose said hastily, realizing he'd waited too long to respond. He instantly regretted his words. He didn't want to go to Larry's. Someone would see him and it would be awkward.

  The dimple was back. Fern beamed and rocked back and forth onto her toes. “Okay. Um, I'll pick you up at midnight, okay? We have to take Bailey's mom's van because, well, you know . . . the wheelchair. Okay, bye.” Fern turned and stumbled out the door and Ambrose smiled at her retreating form. She was extremely cute. And he felt like he was thirteen, going on his first date to the bowling alley.

  There is something so comforting about pancakes at midnight. The smell of warm butter, maple syrup, and blueberries hit him like a gale force wind and Ambrose moaned at the simple pleasure of unhealthy food at an ungodly hour. It was almost enough to take away his fear of curious stares and the attempts people made to act like there was nothing wrong with his appearance. Bailey led the way into the sleepy dining room and motored to a booth in the corner that obviously worked for his wheelchair. Fern followed him and Ambrose brought up the rear, refusing to look left or right or count the number of patrons in the place. The tables around them were empty at least. Fern paused, letting Ambrose choose his seat and he slid gratefully onto the bench that allowed his left side to face the room. Fern slid across from him and bounced a little, the way a kid automatically does when sitting on something with some spring in it. His legs were too long and crowded hers beneath the table, and he shifted, feeling the warmth of her slim calf against his. She didn't move away.

  Bailey maneuvered his chair right up to the end of the table. It hit him at chest level, which he claimed was perfect. Fern carefully propped his arms on the table so that when his food came he could lean forward against the edge and kind of shovel the food into his mouth. She ordered for the two of them, Bailey obviously trusting her to know what he wanted.

  The waitress seemed to take the three of them in stride. They were definitely an odd trio, Ambrose realized. It was midnight and the joint was almost empty, just as Fern had promised, but he could see their reflection in the windows that surrounded their booth, and the picture they made was comical.

  Ambrose had covered his head with a black, knit stocking cap. His T-shirt was also black. Combined with his size and his messed up face, he looked more than a little scary, and if he hadn't been accompanied by a kid in a wheelchair and a little redhead in pigtails, he could have passed as someone from a slasher movie.

  Bailey's wheelchair sat lower than the benches of the booth, and it made him look small and hunched, younger than his twenty-one years. He wore a Hoosiers jersey and a backwards baseball cap over his light brown hair. Fern was wearing her hair in two loose ponytails that hung over her shoulders and curled against her breasts. Her lemon-yellow T-shirt was snug and claimed that she wasn't short, she was fun-sized. Ambrose found himself agreeing wholeheartedly with the T-shirt, and wondered briefly just how fun it would be to kiss her smiling mouth and wrap his arms around her little body. She looked like MaryAnne on Gilligan's Island, except with Ginger's hair color. It was a very appealing combination. Ambrose gave himself a mental slap and pushed the thought away. They were eating pancakes with Bailey. This was not a date. There would be no goodnight kiss at the end of it. Not now. Not ever.

  “I can't wait to eat.” Fern sighed, smiling happily after the waitress left with their orders. I'm starving.” The soft lighting swinging above his head wasn't going to allow him to hide anything from Fern, who now faced him, but there was nothing he could do about that. He could spend the meal staring out the window, giving her a view of his unscathed cheek. But he was hungry too . . . and he was weary of giving a damn.

  Ambrose hadn't been to Larry's since the night after he'd taken state, senior year. That night he'd been surrounded by his friends and they had eaten themselves sick. Any wrestler knows that nothing feels as good as eating without fear of the morning scales. The season was officially over and most of them would never weigh in again. The reality of the end would hit soon enough, but that night they celebrated. Like Bailey, he didn't need to look at the menu.

  When his pancakes came he toasted his friends silently, letting the thick syrup baptize the memory. The butter followed the syrup over the side, and he scooped it up and placed it back on top of the stack, watching it lose its shape and cascade down the sides once more. He ate without contributing to the conversation, but Bailey spoke enough for the three of them, and Fern seemed content to carry her end when Bailey had to swallow. Bailey did pretty well feeding himself, although his arms would slip now and again and Fern would have to prop them back up. When he was finished, Fern helped him place his hands back on the armrests of his chair, only to be informed of a new problem.

  “Fern, my nose itches something fierce.” Bailey was trying to wiggle his nose to alleviate his discomfort.

  Fern lifted Bailey's arm, supporting his elbow and placing his hand on his nose so that he could scratch to his heart's content. Then she placed his hand back in his lap.

  She caught Ambrose watching and explained needlessly, “If I scratch it for him, I never seem to get it. It's better if I just help him do it himself.”

  “Yep. It's our version of 'a hand up not a hand out,'“ Bailey said.

  “I must have had syrup on my fingers. Now my nose is sticky!” Bailey laughed and Fern rolled her eyes. She wetted the tip of her napkin in her water glass and dabbed at his nose. “Better?”

  Bailey wiggled it, testing for syrup residue. “I think you got it. Ambrose, I've been trying for many years to lick my nose, but I was not blessed with a particularly long tongue.” Bailey proceeded to show Ambrose how close he could come to sticking the tip of his tongue in his left nostril. Ambrose found himself smiling at Bailey's efforts and the way his eyes crossed as he focused his attention on his nose.

  “So Ambrose, you coming with us tomorrow? We're going to head over to Seely to hit the double-feature at the drive in. Fern will bring the lawn chairs and snacks and I'll bring my adorable self. Whaddaya say?”

  Seely had an old drive-in movie theater that was still a main attraction in the summertime. People drove a couple of hours just to enjoy a movie lying in the backs of their trucks or sitting in the front seats of their cars.

  It would be dark. Nobody would see him. It sounded . . . fun. He could just hear the guys laughing at him. He was hanging out with Bailey and Fern. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

  Ambrose found he couldn't keep his attention on the screen. The sound was tinny and the speaker was closer to his bad ear, making it hard for him to tell what was being said. He should have spoken up when they'd arranged the chairs, but he had wanted to sit to Fern's right so his left side would be facing her, and he'd said nothing. She sat between him and Bailey and made sure Bailey had everything he needed, holding his drink up to his mouth so he could sip through the straw, and keeping a steady stream of popcorn coming. Ambrose finally gave up on the movie and just focused on the way it felt to sit outside, the wind ruffling Fern's hair, the smell of popcorn wafting around him, summer in the air. Last summer he'd been in the hospital. The summer before that, Iraq. He didn't want to think about Iraq. Not now. He pushed the thought away and focused on the pair beside him.

  Bailey and Fern enjoyed themselves thoroughly, laughing and listening intently. Ambrose marveled at their innocence and their simple appreciation of the littlest things. Fern got laughing so hard at one part that she snorted. Bailey howled, snorting every once in a while throughout the rest of the film just to tease her. She turned to Ambrose and grimaced, rolling her eyes as if she needed moral support to combat the lunatic to her left.
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  The clouds rolled in toward the end of the first show and the second feature was canceled due to the gathering storm. Fern rushed around picking up chairs and trash, pushing Bailey up the ramp into the vehicle as the thunder cracked and the first drops plopped heavily against the windshield.

  They pulled into a gas station on the outskirts of Hannah Lake after midnight, and before Ambrose could offer, Fern was jumping out of the van and slamming the door against the driving rain, running inside to pay for the gas. She was a bundle of efficiency, and Ambrose wondered if Fern thought she needed to take care of him like she took care of Bailey. The thought made him feel sick. Was that the image he projected?

  “Fern has Ugly Girl Syndrome.” Bailey said, out of the blue. “Also known as UGS.”

  “Fern's not ugly,” Ambrose said, his eyebrows sinking low over his dark eyes, distracted momentarily from his depressing thoughts.

  “Not now. But she was.” Bailey said matter-of-factly. “She had those gnarly teeth and those inch-thick glasses. And she was always so skinny and pasty. Not good looking. At all.”

  Ambrose shot a look of disgust over his shoulder at Fern's cousin and Bailey surprised him by laughing.

  “You can't punch a man in a wheel-chair, Ambrose. And I'm kidding. I just wanted to see what you'd say. She wasn't that bad. But she grew up thinking she was ugly. She doesn't realize that she shed the ugly a long time ago. She's beautiful now. And she's just as pretty on the inside, which is a side benny of UGS. See, ugly girls actually have to work on their personalities and their brains because they can't get by on their looks, not like you and me, you know, the beautiful people.” Bailey smiled impishly and waggled his eyebrows.

  “Fern doesn't have a clue how pretty she is. That makes her priceless. Make sure you snatch her up before she clues in to her good looks, Brosey.”