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“The first-! I don’t believe it!”
“It’s true.” Pam leaned across the table, and when she spoke it was in a throaty, conspiratorial whisper:
“It’s happened, hasn’t it?”
“What are you talking about? What’s happened?”
“You’ve met someone interesting? Rosie opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again without the slightest idea of what she intended to say. It turned out to be nothing; what came out instead of words was laughter. She laughed until she cried, and before she was done, Pam had joined in.
Rosie didn’t need her key to open the street door at 897 Trenton Street-that one was left unlocked until eight or so on weeknights-but she needed the small one to open her mailbox (R. MCCLENDON taped to the front of it, boldly asserting that she belonged here, yes she did), which was empty except for a Wal-Mart circular. As she started up the stairs to the second floor, she shook out another key. This one opened the door to her room, and except for the building super, she had the only one. Like the mailbox, it was hers. Her feet were tired-she had walked the entire three miles from downtown, feeling too restless and too happy to sit on a bus, also wanting more time than a bus would give her to think and dream. She was hungry in spite of two Hot Pot pastries, but her stomach’s low growling added to rather than detracted from her happiness. Had she ever in her life felt such gladness? She thought not. It had spilled over from her mind into her entire body, and although her feet were tired, they still felt light. And her kidneys didn’t hurt a bit, in spite of the long walk. Now, letting herself into her room (and remembering to lock the door behind her this time), Rosie began to giggle again. Pam and her someone interestings. She had been forced to admit a few things-she was, after all, pla
“These are good,” Elaine had told her.
“Of course you should always get your hair done by a professional, that’s my view, but if you can’t afford it every week, timewise or moneywise, and the thought of actually dialing the 800 number and ordering the Topsy Tail makes you feel like shooting yourself, this is a decent compromise. Just for Jesus” sake promise me that if some guy invites you to a country club dance in Westwood, you’ll come see me first.” Rosie sat down and turned to Style No. 3, the Classic Plait… which, the opening paragraph informed her, was also known as the Classic French Braid. She went through the black-and-white photographs which showed a woman first separating and then plaiting her hair, and when she reached the end, she began to work her way backward, undoing the plait. Unmaking in the evening turned out to be a lot simpler than making it in the morning; it had taken her forty-five minutes and one good round of cursing to get it looking more or less the way it had when she’d left Elaine’s Dreams the night before. It had been worth it, however; Pam’s unabashed shriek of amazement in the Hot Pot was worth all of that and more. As she finished her work, her mind turned to Bill Steiner (it had never been very far away from him), and she wondered if he would like her hair plaited. If he would like her hair blonde. Or if he would, in fact, notice either of these changes at all. She wondered if she would be unhappy if he didn’t notice, then sighed and wrinkled her nose. Of course she would be. On the other hand, what if he not only noticed but reacted as Pam had (minus the squeal, of course)? He might even sweep her into his arms, as they said in the romance novels… She was reaching for her bag, wanting the comb inside, and begi