Plenty of times over the years, I’ve considered telling Shawn the truth about our father. How the man has never done anything for my mom or me and doesn’t plan to. But what would Shawn knowing that even accomplish?
If he takes my side and is furious with his dad, then I’ve just destroyed what was previously a healthy relationship for my brother. The idea of tearing a rift in his family holds no appeal.
Or maybe Shawn would listen to Karl’s side of the story. He might be swayed to believe my mother used the pregnancy to make a grab for money. After so many people have done the same to Shawn, he might commiserate with Karl wanting to distance himself.
Where would that leave us? As much as I love my brother, Icouldn’t take him disparaging my mom. I would have destroyedourrelationship.
Destruction either way.
The problem is, we’re barreling toward the harsh truth, and I don’t know if there’s a way to soften the reveal. When I asked Darla for her advice, she was zero help.
“So what if his feelings get hurt?”she’d said with an eye roll.“The guy is too soft. He needs a few hard truths.”
But she doesn’t get it. Doesn’t understand that I’m a fascinating oddity in Shawn’s life that he can set aside if I bother him. We’re not like her and Billy, who could say the worst insults to each other one minute and share a beer the next.
They need each other.
I need Shawn.
But he doesn’t need me.
—
A few hourslater, after the gutter is repaired, the toilet is fixed, and Mom has returned home with another all clear from her doctor, I sit on a stool in the downstairs bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror as bits of red hair flutter to the floor.
Darla is a wizard with scissors and the only person I will allow to cut my hair. She’s been in charge of my textured, shoulder-length cut since we were both sixteen years old and has never given me a reason to regret placing my trust in her.
Until today.
“I refuse to trim the other side unless you agree to the flight lessons.”
My best friend stares into my eyes in the mirror, undaunted by my glare.
“No. You cannot blackmail me into this.”
She crosses her arms, scissors dangling loose from her forefinger. “Care to lay down a wager on that?” She pops up a shoulder. “Or you could always have Sally finish you up.”
I grit my teeth and try to glare harder, but Darla is made of stone. Of iron. Of some impenetrable material from space that humans haven’t even discovered yet.
She knows that the best day of my hair’s life was when her mom passed the scissors over. Sally is overflowing with love and has mastered twisting Sam’s locs, but she cannot trim layers to save her life.
I hear her out in the living room, laughing and drinking with Sam, my mom, and Marge. Billy is in the kitchen, visible from the stool I sit on in front of the bathroom mirror, waiting for his sister to be finished with me.
Darla is the best with scissors.
I’m the master of the electric trimmer.
Every few months, our two families gather for a haircut night, a tradition started when we were ten, soon after Sally and Sam began fostering Darla and Billy. I know the twins had a rough start to life from the handful of stories my friend has shared. What’s worse is I’m sure she’s shielded me from the truly dark stuff.
The first time the Cornfields tried to take the siblings to a salon for a haircut, Darla screamed as if her head was being torn from her body. They never went back, and eventually my friend trusted her foster moms enough to let them close to her with scissors. Meanwhile, my mom was cutting my hair to save us money.
It wasn’t long before the four friends made salon night into a regular, joint event.
One that we still do years later, only with much better results.
That is, if the barbers actually do their jobs.
“Darla,” I whine, changing tactics to garner pity. It’s much easierto play on my friend’s protective instincts rather than battle her head-to-head. “George is part of BnB. His offer was just a guilt thing. He doesn’t even like me.”
