Page 2 of One Wrong Step
Her eyes sparkle. “Hal was very appreciative.”
“As he should be.” At seventy-five, Hal is her much-younger boyfriend. I catch her eyes again. “The works today, doll?”
Calling her Greta leaves an itch under my skin. But pet names? My fucked-up brain is apparently fine with that.
“Give me the Vivian Beauchesne special.” Her pronunciation of my last name, boh-shen, is perfect. Unlike every teacher in high school—except the French teacher—who butchered it. Unlike the kids in school who preferred to call me blue cheese. Or worse. “Hal and I are going to the dance at the senior center tonight.”
“The stunning goddess look will be perfect then. Your beau won’t know what to do with himself.”
She grins. “Oh, he knows. He just needs a nap or two to work up to it.”
I laugh, drawing looks from the other patrons. I don’t need to know what he’s working up to, but Mrs. Landers enjoys shocking people. This is why she’s my favorite client and resident in Hopeview.
When I started at Cassandra’s Cut and Curl a year ago, the only clients I had were those who didn’t want to wait for another stylist to finish. And those curious about Jonah Baker’s weird stepbrother, fresh from cosmetology school. But less than two months later, I was booked solid. My sudden popularity—a word not often used in connection with me—was a combination of my courage to try different things and my fellow stylists’ utter lack of imagination.
I wash and curl Mrs. Landers’s hair, making sure she looks fabulous for her date. Mr. Landers—God rest his soul—passed twenty years ago. She married young. “We all did back then,” she’d told me several times. Now she’s enjoying her single life.
My next clients, Mrs. Walsh and her daughter Janie, arrived early. Now they’re whispering to each other and darting glances at the clock on the wall.
But I refuse to rush. Snapping at the Walshes would be satisfying, but I do actually need this job. I ignore them and focus on getting Mrs. Landers’s hair perfect.
When I hold up the mirror so she can see the back, she pats her hair and sighs. “Your talent is wasted on this town, Vivie.” She jumps from the chair with a spryness not often found in women her age. Her small hands have a worn softness about them as she slips me a wad of cash. “Thank you, dear.”
I smile—not the haughty smile I give Cassandra and most people in this backward town—but a real one. I swallow theemotion tickling the back of my throat and discreetly pocket the money. It’s too generous for a simple wash-and-curl, but this is her way of showing she appreciates me. At least, that’s what she said the first time I tried to give it back. “Thank you…Greta.”
She pats my cheek in a way that only someone giving off serious grandma vibes can get away with. “Ignore Cassandra and the rest of those stupid cows. They’re just jealous that you’re prettier than they are.” She winks and struts away. It isn’t easy to strut while using a cane, but Mrs. Landers pulls it off. She nods to Cassandra and ignores the Walshes. Or, at least, she tries to ignore them.
“Finally,” Mrs. Walsh huffs, and Mrs. Landers gives her the finger. “Classy, Greta. Real classy.”
I hide my smile as I sweep my area. Mrs. Walsh isn’t pleasant on a good day. And all signs point to this not being anywhere near a good day. But I’m used to her superior attitude since it’s the same treatment I got from her daughter during our senior year of high school. And from most of the town. They don’t like outsiders.
Does it matter that I’ve lived in Hopeview for the last six years? No. My mom had the audacity to snatch up one of the town’s few eligible men who didn’t spend all his time and money at the local bar. The final insult? She was—gasp—from New York.
I didn’t join her right away. I lived in Manhattan with my father with the intent of finishing school there. A diploma from a private school in New York was more impressive than one from a public school in Nebraska.
My father, with his rules, wasn’t the easiest to live with, but I had my friends. Everything else I loved…music, art, fashion, and anything else that fed my overactive imagination and thirst for knowledge was easily within reach. Until my father decided Iwas “hellbent” on destroying my life and sent me to live with my mother.
According to my father, getting aBwas tantamount to failing. It didn’t matter that it was in speech and that I froze when I had to speak in front of the class. All that mattered was that I dared to be imperfect. To this day, I’m not sure if Nebraska was a punishment or a way to get me out of his sight.
As I work, Mrs. Walsh and her daughter talk incessantly about said daughter’s beautiful family. I hold my tongue and imagine adding Mrs. Landers’s hefty tip to my get-the-hell-out-of-Nebraska jar. It’s not nearly enough, even with Mrs. Landers’s generous contributions, but I don’t focus on that. I still need to get through this day.
But later, after I retreat to my room, avoiding dinner and the concerned looks from my mother and stepfather, I add the tips to the still half-empty jar.
My dreams of living in California with my best friend Frankie, or at least somewhere other than Nebraska, all hinge on saving enough money to make it out of this town and start somewhere new.
