"Come on." Lucy urged, "let's go look at the new nail polish."

I shook my head, remaining seated in one of the deep black leather chairs in the waiting area. I was too dumbstruck to say a word. I knew Bowie's was the most wonderful place I had ever been to. Later I would explore, but for the time being I wanted to sit still and take it all in. I watched the stylists at work, razor-cutting, blow-drying, deftly wrapping tiny portions of hair around pastel-colored perm rods. Tall wood-and-chrome display racks contained intriguing pots and tubes of cosmetics, and medicinal-looking bottles of soap, lotion, balms, and perfumes.

It seemed every woman in the place was being transformed right before my eyes, submitting to the combing, painting, filing, processing, until they had achieved a well-tended glossiness I had never seen except in magazines. While Lucy's mom sat at a manicure table and had her acrylic nails filled, and Lucy dabbled in the cosmetics area, a woman dressed in black and white came to show me to Bowie's station. "First you'll have a consultation," she told me. "My advice is to let Bowie do whatever he wants. He's a genius."

"My mother said not to let anyone cut it all off..." I began, but she had already walked away.

Then Bowie appeared before me, charismatic and handsome and a little artificial-looking. As we shook hands, I felt the clatter of multiple rings, his fingers loaded with stacks of silver and gold bands adorned with turquoise and diamonds.

An assistant draped me in a shiny black robe and washed my hair with expensive-smelling potions. I was rinsed, combed out, and led back to the cutting station, where I was greeted with the vaguely unnerving sight of Bowie standing there with a straight razor. For the next half hour I let him position my head at every imaginable angle, while he exerted tension on strategic locks and sheared off inches at a time with the razor. He was quiet as he worked, frowning in concentration. By the time he finished, my head had been pushed back and forth so many times, I felt like a Pez dispenser. And long swirls of hair were heaped on the floor.

The hair was quickly swept away, and then Bowie did the blow-dry in an exercise of dazzling showmanship. He lifted pieces of hair over the long tip of the blow-dryer and twirled them around a round brush as if he were collectine strands of cotton candy. He

showed me how to apply a few spritzes of hair spray at the roots, and then he pushed my chair around to face the mirror.

I couldn't believe it. Instead of a frizzy skein of black hair. I had long bangs and shoulder-length layers, shining and bouncing with every movement of my head. "Oh," was all I could say.

Bowie wore the smile of a Cheshire cat. "Beautiful." he said, scrubbing his fingers over the back of my head, flicking the layers upward. "It's a transformation, isn't it? I'll have Shirlene show you how to do your makeup. I usually charge for that, but it's my present to you."

Before I could find the words to thank him, Shirlene appeared and guided me to a tall chrome stool beside the glass-fronted makeup counter. "You've got good skin, lucky girl," she pronounced after taking one look at my face. "I'll teach you the five-minute face."

When I asked her how to make my lips look smaller, she reacted with shocked concern. "Oh, honey, you don't want your lips to look smaller. Ethnic is in now. Like Kimora."

"Who's Kimora?"

A dog-eared fashion magazine was tossed into my lap. The cover featured a gorgeous honey-skinned young woman, long limbs arranged in an artless jumble. Her eyes were dark and tip-tilted, and her lips were even fuller than mine. "The new Chanel model," Shirlene said. "Fourteen years old—can you believe that? They say she's going to be the face of the nineties."

This was a new concept, that an ethnic-looking girl with jet-black hair and a real nose and big lips could be chosen as a model for a design house I had always associated with skinny white women. I studied the photo while Shirlene lined my lips with a rosy-brown pencil. She applied a matte pink lipstick, dusted my cheeks with powdered blush, and applied two coats of mascara to my lashes.

A hand mirror was pressed into my palm, and I inspected the final results. I had to admit, I was startled by the difference the new hair and makeup had made. It wasn't the kind of beauty I had wished for—I would never be the classic American blue-eyed blonde. But this was my own look, a glimpse of what I might someday become, and for the first time in my life I felt a stirring of pride in my own appearance.

Lucy and her mother appeared beside me. They studied me with an intensity that made me duck my head in embarrassment.

"Oh...my...God," Lucy exclaimed. "No. don't hide your face, let me see. You're so..." She shook her head as if the right word eluded her. "You're going to be the most beautiful girl in school."

"Don't go overboard." I said mildly, but I could feel a flush rising to my hairline. This was a vision of myself I had never dared to imagine, but I felt awkward rather than excited. I touched Lucy's wrist, and looked into her glowing eyes. "Thank you," I whispered.

"Enjoy it," she said fondly, while her mother chattered to Shirlene. "Don't look so nervous. It's still you, dummy. It's just you."

CHAPTER 5

The surprising thing about a makeover is not how you feel afterward but how differently other people treat you. I was accustomed to walking through the school hallways without being noticed. It threw me off balance when I walked through those same hallways and boys stared at me, remembered my name, fell into step beside me. They stood at my locker while I fiddled with the combination lock, and took the chair beside mine in open-seating classes or during lunch. The banter that came so easily to my lips when I was with my girlfriends seemed to dry up when I was in the company of those eager boys. My shyness should have discouraged them from asking me out, but it didn't.

I accepted a date with the least threatening of them all, a freckled boy named Gill Mincey, a fellow sophomore who wasn't much taller than me. We were in earth science together. When we were assigned as partners to write a paper on phytoextraction—the use of plants to remove metal contamination from soils—Gill invited me over to his house to

study. The Minceys' house was a cool old tin-roof Victorian, freshly painted and refurbished, with all kinds of interesting-shaped rooms.

As we sat surrounded by piles of books on gardening, chemistry, and bioengineering. Gill leaned over and kissed me, his lips warm and light. Drawing back, he waited to see if I would object. "An experiment," he said as if to explain, and when I laughed, he kissed me again. Lured by the undemanding kisses. I pushed aside the science books and put my arms around his narrow shoulders.

More study dates ensued, involving pizza, conversation, and more kissing. I knew right off I was never going to fall in love with him. Gill must have sensed it, because he never tried to push it further. I wished I could have felt passionately about him. I wished this shy. friendly boy could be the one to reach inside the part of my heart that was held so tightly in reserve.

Later that year, I discovered life sometimes has a way of giving you what you need, but not in the form you expect.

If Mama's pregnancy was an example of what I might go through one day, I decided having children wasn't worth it. She swore when she'd carried me, she'd never felt better in her life. This one must be a boy, she said, because it was an entirely different experience. Or maybe it was just that she was so much older. Whatever the reason, her body seemed to revolt against the child in her belly as if it were some toxic growth. She felt sick all the time.

She could hardly force herself to eat. and when she did. she retained water until the lightest touch of your finger would leave a visible depression in her skin.

Feeling so bad all the time and having great washes of hormones in her system made Mama peevish. It seemed nearly everything I did was an unholy irritation. In an effort to reassure her, I checked out a number of pregnancy books from the library and read helpful quotes to her. "According to the Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology, morning sickness is good for the baby. Are you listening, Mama? Morning sickness helps regulate insulin levels and slows your fat metabolism, which ensures more nutrients for the baby. Isn't that great?"

Mama said if I didn't stop reading helpful quotes, she was going to come after me with a switch. I said I'd have to help her up from the sofa first.

She returned from each doctor visit with worrisome words like "preeclampsia" and "hypertension." There was no anticipation in her tone when she spoke about the baby, when it would come, the May due date, the maternity leave from work. The revelation that the baby was a girl sent me over the moon, but my excitement felt inappropriate in light of Mama's resignation.

The only times Mama seemed like her old self were when Miss Marva came to visit. The doctor had commanded Miss Marva to stop smoking or she would eventually drop dead from lung cancer, and his warnings worried her so much, she actually obeyed. Dotted with nicotine patches, her pockets filled with teaberry gum, Miss Marva walked around in a constant low-level temper, saying most of the time she felt like skinning small animals.

"I'm not fit for company," Miss Marva pronounced, walking in with a pie or plate of something good, and sitting next to Mama on the couch. And she and Mama would bitch to each other about anyone and anything that had stepped on their last nerves that day, until they both started laughing.

In the evenings after I'd finished my homework. I would sit with Mama and rub her feet. and bring her cups of soda water. We watched TV together, mostly evening soaps about rich people with interesting problems, like being approached by the long-lost son they never knew they had, or getting amnesia and sleeping with the wrong person, or going to a fancy party and falling into the swimming pool in an evening gown. I would steal glances at Mama's absorbed face, and her mouth always looked a little sad, and I comprehended she was lonely in a way I could never ease. She was going through this experience by herself, no matter how much I wanted to be a part of it.

I returned a glass pie plate to Miss Marva on a cold November day. There was a frosty snap in the air. My cheeks stung from the occasional whip of a breeze unimpeded by walls, buildings, or trees of appreciable size. Winter often brought rain and flash floods that were referred to as "turd-floaters" by exasperated residents of Welcome, who had long protested the town's badly managed drainage system. Today was a dry day, however, and I made a game of avoiding the cracks in the parched pavement.

As I neared Miss Marva's trailer I saw the Cates pickup parked alongside it. Hardy was loading boxes of artwork into the truck bed, to cart it to the gallery in town. Miss Marva had been doing brisk business of late, which was proof that Texans' appetite for bluebonnet paraphernalia should never be underestimated.

I savored the strong lines of Hardy's profile, the tilt of his dark head. A flush of desire and adoration swept over me. It was that way every time our paths crossed. For me, at least. My tentative experiments with Gill Mincey had brought to life a sexual awareness I had no idea how to satisfy. All I knew was that I didn't want Gill, or any of the other boys I knew. I wanted Hardy. I wanted him more than air and food and water.

"Hey, you," he said easily.

"Hey yourself."

I passed him without stopping, carrying the pie plate up to Miss Marva's door. Marva was busy cooking and greeted me with an unintelligible grunt, too involved in her task to bother with conversation.

I went back outside and found Hardy waiting for me. His eyes were such a fathomless blue I could have drowned in them. "How's basketball?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Still terrible."

"You need more practice?"

"With you?" I asked stupidly, caught off guard.

He smiled. "Yeah, with me."

"When?"

"Now. Right after I change clothes."

"What about Miss Marva's artwork?"

"I'm going to take it to town later. I'm meeting someone."

Someone. A girlfriend?

I hesitated, smarting with jealousy and uncertainty. I wondered what had prompted him to offer to practice with me, if he had some misbegotten idea we could be friends. Some shadow of despair must have crossed my expression. Hardy took a step closer, his forehead scored with a frown beneath the rumpled silk of his hair.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing, I...I was just trying to remember if I had any homework." I filled my lungs with the biting air. "Yes, I need more practice."

Hardy gave a businesslike nod. "Bring the ball. I'll meet you in ten minutes."

He was already there by the time I made it to the basketball hoop. We were both dressed in sweatpants, long-sleeved tees, and ragged sneakers. I dribbled the ball and passed it to him, and he executed a flawless free throw. Jogging to the basket, he retrieved the ball and passed it to me. "Don't let it bounce so high," he advised. "And try not to watch the ball while you're dribbling. You're supposed to keep an eye on the guys around you."

"If I don't watch the ball while I dribble, I'll lose it."

"Try it anyway."

I did. and the basketball bounced out of my control. "See?"

Hardy was patient and relaxed as he taught me the basics, moving like a big cat across the pavement. My size allowed me to move around him easily, but he used his height and long reach to block most of my shots. Breathing fast from exertion, he grinned at my frustrated exclamation when he obstructed yet another jump shot.

"Take a break for a minute." he said, "and then I'll teach you a pump fake."

"A what'1"

"It'll throw your opponent off long enough to give you a clear shot."

"Great." Although the air was chilled by the approach of nightfall, the exercise had made me warm and damp. I pushed up the sleeves of my tee and pressed a palm against a stitch in my side.

"Heard you were going out with someone," Hardy said casually, working the ball into a spin on the blunt tip of his forefinger.

I shot a glance at him. "Who told you that?"

"Bob Mincey. He says you're going with his little brother Gill. Nice family, the Minceys. You could do a lot worse."

"I'm not 'going out' with Gill." I made little quotation marks in the air with my fingers. "Not officially. We're just sort of..." I paused, at a loss to explain my relationship with Gill.

"You like him, though?" he asked with the kindly concern of a bie older brother. His

tone made me feel as irritable as a cat being dragged backward through a hedge.