“Also, you have to decide on your dress for the dance. It’s tomorrow night! You can’t keep putting it off.”
“Okay,” I mumble.
“Oh, and one more thing.”
“What?” I ask, opening one eye to peer at her.
“Mario called and he wants you in the Gap ad!”
“Why me?”
“Well, it seems all of us models have children now, so they decided to do some family shots. And you cannot say no! This is a perfect opportunity for you—you’ll get great exposure! Just think, a national Gap ad on your very first shoot! I had to do a year of catalog work before I got something like that. What do you think?” she asks excitedly.
“Whatever,” I say. But I say it just to placate her because there’s no way I’m doing it. I’ve had about all the “exposure” I can handle thank you.
“Great. I can’t wait to tell Mario! Oh, and we’ll just be having salad tonight, since we need to slim down for the shoot. And you might try to join me for yogalates, you know, just to tighten up a little beforehand.”
“Whatever.”
“Great! I’ll call you when it’s ready,” she singsongs.
And the second she’s gone, and my door is closed, I grab some scissors.
Then I go into my bathroom, and cut off all my hair.
Well, most of it. I mean, I’m not bald or anything.
And it’s not like it was easy since it was all the way down to my waist. But now it’s up to my ears. And there’s a big heap of honey-blond on the floor, and on the counter, and even in the sink. So I scoop it all up and throw it in the trash. Then I look at myself in the mirror and trim up the front and sides.
And when I’m finished, I smile at my reflection.
Because I really do feel better.
That hair was becoming a burden.
Forty-one
When my mom calls me for dinner I put on some lip gloss, run my fingers through my two-inch strands, and go down the stairs, two at a time.
I grab my usual seat, and when she walks in carrying the big wood salad bowl she looks at me and screams.
And I mean screams. Like a scary movie scream.
“What. Did. You. Do. To. Your. Hair?” she asks, standing there all stiff, with her mouth wide-open.
“I cut it,” I say, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious.
“Why? I don’t understand! Why would you do this to yourself?” she asks, carefully setting the bowl on the table, while maintaining a safe distance from the newly shorn crazy person.
“I wanted a change.” I reach for the salad tongs, wishing she would just sit down and stop gaping at me. I mean, it’s rude.
“Now?” she asks, while her right hand searches in vain for her non-existent hip, eventually settling for the back of her chair. “Now, you want a change? Oh, I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the Gap ad then does it?”
She’s glaring at me, but what she doesn’t understand is that I’m used to being glared at and it just washes right over me. So I reach for the olive oil, extra-virgin (like me!), and drizzle it over my greens.
“Answer me!” she says, barely controlling her rage.
But I don’t answer her. “Please just sit down,” I say.
“Not until you tell me what’s going on!”
“You really want to know?” I look right at her.
“Yes.”
But I can hear the hesitation in her voice, like maybe part of her really doesn’t want to know. Well, that’s just too bad, because now I’m finally ready to talk. “If you’ll sit down and stop yelling, I’ll tell you.”
She slips slowly onto the seat across from me and takes a sip of her chardonnay, and I play with the salad tongs, wondering where I should start. Finally, I take a deep breath and say, “I just wish you would stop putting so much pressure on me.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She sounds really defensive.
“You’re always interfering with what I wear, what I eat, who I hang with. It’s like nothing I do is ever good enough. I can never live up to your expectations,” I tell her.
“That’s not true! You always look beautiful, and you know how wonderful I think your friends are.”
“But that’s just it. They’re not wonderful. And they’re not my friends, not anymore. They all hate me.” I look down at my salad, determined not to cry. “I haven’t told you what’s going on, because I didn’t want you to know. But I’m tired of lying all the time just to keep you happy.”
“Rio, what’s going on?” she asks, and she almost looks scared when she says it.
“Okay.” I force myself to face her. “The truth is I’m not trying out for cheerleader, and I’m not going to the dance this weekend. Tyler and I broke up, and he’s going with Kristi, so it’s fine if you want to return all the dresses. Also, no one will drive me to school anymore, so I walk.”
“You. Walk. To. School?” She looks even more shocked and horrified than when she first saw my hair.
“It’s not that bad.” I shrug.
“Rio, how did this happen? Why haven’t you said anything?”
“Because I didn’t want you to know what a total loser I am. And I didn’t want you to judge me.”
“Going through a rough patch does not make you a loser,” she says. “I’m sure whatever happened between you and your friends will work itself out, and everyone will get back together.” She’s actually smiling now.
“It’s not a rough patch! You can’t sugarcoat it like that! And I don’t want to get back together! And I don’t want to be a cheerleader! And I don’t want to be a model! I just want to be me, whoever that is, and I want it to be good enough for you!”
“But you are good enough.”
“Then why are you always trying to make me into someone I’m not? Why can’t you just let me be a big geek who likes photography? What’s so wrong with that?”
“But you can be so much more! You have so much potential,” she says.
“Those are your dreams, not mine.”
“Well, you should have just said something, you didn’t have to cut off all your hair!” She shakes her head.
“I have told you, like a million times, but you refuse to listen. You just go on and on about my friends, and boyfriends, and school, and how it’s all so great. But you have no idea what you’re talking about. You have no idea what anyone is really like. And I’m so tired of having to pretend that I’m happy and that my life is perfect. It’s like you put the same pressures on me at home that I have at school. And being at school is a total nightmare.”
“Why is school a nightmare? Rio, what’s going on?”
“I told you, everyone hates me.”
“But why?”
And then I tell her everything. About the party, about the drugs, about the hooking up, about the dog shit, about the principal’s office, about all the girls calling me a stuck-up bitch. I leave nothing out.
And by the time I’m done she’s sitting next to me, and she’s hugging me, and she’s crying, too. And it feels so good to finally tell the truth again.
After a while she goes, “I know I’ve told you all about growing up poor. But I never told you about all the teasing I suffered because of it. How all the kids made fun of my secondhand clothes, and the way I looked in them all gangly and skinny. Skinny Bones Jones they called me.” She stops and looks at me. “And much worse. Well, when I was going off to model in Paris, nobody believed me. People said I was pregnant and going to a home for unwed mothers. And when I returned a year later, I couldn’t wait to show everybody what I had become. I thought wearing designer clothes and having my face in magazines would make them sorry for treating me so badly. Well, it didn’t. And believe me the rumors just got nastier. Then my career took off, I moved to New York, and I never looked back. But I never forgot what that felt like.” She looks at me and runs her thumb lightly across my cheek. “All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. And I honestly thought if you got in with
the popular crowd you would be safe from that kind of bullying.” She shakes her head and sighs. “Rio, I think you’re so beautiful, and talented, and smart, that it kills me to think I made you feel otherwise.”
I wipe my nose on my sleeve, but it’s worse than I thought. So I reach for my napkin and blow.
“But what’s happening to you at school is unacceptable and I won’t allow it. I think we should call your father and file a lawsuit against them for failing to provide a safe environment.”
“Mom, no! Please don’t do that,” I beg. “You’ll only make it worse!”
“I won’t stand for this! That principal has no right treating you like that!”
“I know. You’re right. But Mom, please. Just give me a chance to work it out by myself.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I have an idea. And if it fails, then you can step in, okay?”
“Promise?” she says.
“Promise.”
“And one more thing.”
“What?”
“Let’s see if we can get you into my hairdresser’s tomorrow. I think if we even it out, and lighten up the tips, you’ll have a very chic pixie cut.” She smiles.
“Deal.”
Forty-two
Monday morning when my mom drops me off at school she gives me one last chance to chicken out.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to march into the principal’s office and strangle him?” she asks, mostly joking, but partly serious.
I shake my head. “Thanks for the offer, but no. I can handle this.” Then I grab my backpack and close the door between us.
And right when I turn to leave she says, “Rio, I’m proud of you.”
So I smile and wave good-bye and as I head toward the quad I think about how lucky I am to have her as my mom. Okay, I know, a week ago I would have never said that, but it’s different now I mean, before when she was acting like my “friend” it was no different than hanging out with Kristi, because it was all based on a lot of stuff I don’t really care about, but pretended I did. But now I finally feel like it’s okay to just be myself, and that I actually have her approval. Maybe it’s not always gonna be so great because the truth is she’s still a former almost-supermodel, and that’s bound to get on my nerves, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy this moment of truce.
As I walk across the quad I’m totally scanning for Kristi, Kayla, and Jen Jen, but I don’t see them anywhere so I head for my locker. And as I pass this group of girls one of them looks at me and goes, “Oh, my god, did you see her hair?”
Oh, I totally forgot about my hair.
I lift my hand and pat my head, running my fingers through the short, spiky strands, and it feels kind of weird since I’ve had long hair my whole entire life (except for maybe when I was born, and then a year or two following that), so it’s like every time I look in the mirror I’m still shocked.
On Saturday when my mom took me to her hip L.A. salon I was feeling pretty nervous and totally dreading the nasty lecture I was sure I would get about the perils of the self-inflicted haircut.
But instead Laurence (pronounced like he’s French, even though he’s from the Valley), just stood behind me, lifted a few pieces and said, “This is fabulous, but we’re going to make it even better. We’re going to make it magnificent!”
So after two and a half hours that involved:
1. Two shampoos
2. One protective conditioner
3. A paintbrush dipped in bleach
4. A pair of scissors
5. A razor (kind of a scary moment for me)
6. A blow-dryer
7. A straight iron
8. Molding wax
9. A complimentary makeup application
My hair was shorter, spikier, platinum blond, and totally cool and edgy-looking. And as I was staring in the mirror I was starting to feel really excited about it, like maybe cutting it all off wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Then Laurence totally wrecked it by saying, “You know, you look just like your mother. Are you a model, too?”
My mom was right beside me and she must have seen my expression, because she quickly said, “No, she likes to be on the other side of the camera. She’s a very talented photographer.”
Kristi wasn’t in English, and I didn’t see her at her locker, so I guess my big moment will have to wait until lunch. And I’m feeling kind of anxious as I head for my art class since I was hoping the whole confrontation would’ve been over by now.
I’m thinking about all this as I walk into the classroom and smack into Jas.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, bending down to retrieve the papers I knocked out of his hand. But when I try to hand them over, he just stands there gaping at me.
“Oh, my god, Rio. Your hair,” he says.
And just like that I’m feeling all nervous and self-conscious about it. Which is like the lamest thing in the world, because if I like it what do I care what he thinks? So I thrust the papers at him and make a beeline for my desk. Then I start going through my bag like I’m looking for something, even though I’m not. But it keeps me busy until I calm down. Then I grab my camera, place it on my desk, and sit there wandering what the hell I’m gonna do for a project, since I’ve no idea what happened to the good photos I took all those months ago before I became popular.
I’m walking toward the darkroom, when Mason looks up from her easel and goes, “I like your hair.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Who did it?”
“Me.” I shrug.
“You did it?” She looks totally shocked.
“Well, I did the first cut. Then it took this guy in L.A. about two hours to fix it.”
“You just, cut it?”
“Yeah, I was ready for a change, you know?”
“It really suits you.” She smiles.
And I don’t know why, but right when she says that I look over at Jas. But he’s staring at me, so I look away.
I spend the rest of class in the darkroom looking through hundreds of photographs, and negatives, and proof sheets hoping to find my long-lost photos, and secretly wondering why Jas was staring at me. Is it because of my hair? Or is it something else?
Forty-three
By lunch, I’m on a mission. So I head straight for my former lunch table ‘cause I know if I hesitate for even one second I’ll totally lose my nerve. I walk right up to the edge and stand there. But they just sip their Diet Cokes and talk about the Moondance like I’m invisible or something.
“I so didn’t expect to get Moon Princess,” Kristi says, refusing to acknowledge me. “Just being nominated is an honor.”
Is she kidding?
I clear my throat, and go, “Hey.”
They all turn and look at me.
“Nice hair,” Kristi says, and they all start laughing.
But I just continue to stand there, so she looks at me all annoyed, and goes, “Can I help you?”
“Yes, you can,” I say. “I want you to leave me alone.” My voice is a little shaky.
“Uh, hel-lo? You’re the one standing at my table, it’s not like I’m following you around.” She rolls her eyes and they all start laughing again.
“Look,” I say, anxious to get to the point before I lose my nerve completely. “I don’t know what I did to make you guys hate me so much, but I’m asking you to stop. Stop spreading rumors, stop sending me nasty e-mails and text messages, stop throwing stuff at me, stop calling me names, and stop writing stuff on my locker and filling it with dog shit.” There I said it, now I can breathe again.
“Excuse me, but I think we all know that you’re the one dealing in dog crap.”
“Why would I do that?” I set my bag on the edge of the table, and look at her.
“Because you’re pathetic? Because you’re attention-starved? Because you always have to be the center of everything?” She flips her long dark hair behind her shoulder, mocking me.
But I don??
?t react. Instead, I look at Kayla and Jen Jen, just sitting there as usual, refusing to get involved. But by not saying or doing anything, they are involved, and by laughing at her mean jokes they’re taking sides. And I just don’t get it. I mean, I know Kristi hates me, but what did I ever do to them?
I look right at Kristi and say, “I’m not asking for us to be friends, I’m just asking you to back off, that’s all.”
“Well, guess what, Brazil? I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, because I’m not the one bothering you. I can’t help it if the whole school thinks you’re a nasty, stuck-up skank. You brought that on yourself. So why don’t you just crawl back to your loser friends, and quit infecting our lunch table.”
I look at Kayla and Jen Jen staring at their Diet Cokes. And it reminds me of me, and how I used to sit there doing nothing while Kristi tortured some poor, unfortunate dork. But now I have to do something to stop it. And I have nothing to lose. I mean, how much worse can it really get for me?
So I look right at Kristi and go, “I’m so sick of the way you call everyone who’s not part of your little group a loser. Because if anyone’s a loser it’s you! People aren’t nice to you because they like you. They’re nice to you because they fear you. You intimidate, manipulate, and control everyone around you. But you couldn’t scare Mason so you call her a lesbo. And you were totally into Jas, but he didn’t like you back so you have your jock friends throw stuff at him.”
Okay, I’m going out on a limb here because I have no evidence to back up that Jas part. It’s just an idea that came to me recently, but I know I hit it when Kayla looks at me and goes, “Who told you?”
And Kristi looks at her and yells, “Shut up, Kayla!”
I stand at the edge of the table smiling.
Then Kristi narrows her eyes and goes, “Oh, and you should talk. Like you never say anything bad about anyone. Remember how you said Kayla and Jen are stupid, limited, and stuck on themselves?”
I continue to stand there, but I’m no longer smiling. Because she’s right, I did say something kinda like that.