All Adults Here(75)

After the fight, Cecelia had asked August what she should call him. In public, in private, in front of her parents, in front of the idiots at school. The answers were clear: Alone, she was Robin. In public, he was August. Not forever, just for now. Cecelia’s brain toggled inexpertly, but she understood that it was one thing for her to try to get it right and another, much harder thing for Robin to have to figure out. Mostly they talked about other things, like how cute Mr. Davidson was, and whether Shawn Mendes was beautiful and talented or just plain beautiful, and whether Cecelia’s parents were the very worst parents who had ever lived, if cheese fries were better than regular fries all the time or only sometimes.

The salon closed at eight P.M. on Fridays, which meant that Birdie would make sure they had dinner before they went home. Her last client was usually out the door by 7:30, and then they just had to sweep one last time and clean all the brushes and make sure all three stations were well stocked and that the electric teakettle was unplugged and that all the lights were turned off before they locked the door. Spiro’s and Sal’s Pizzeria stayed open late, but otherwise, downtown Clapham was dark and empty by nightfall.

August was sitting on the chair nearest the window—Birdie’s chair—while Cecelia rotated shampoo bottles so that all the labels faced in the same direction.

“What do you guys want for dinner?” Birdie called from the back.

“Mustache pizza!” Cecelia yelled.

August shrugged, swiveling the chair back and forth with his foot.

“Do you think I should cut my hair?” Cecelia asked, coming and standing behind August. She picked up a clump of her hair on each side of her head and held them out to the sides, Pippi Longstocking. “My hair is so dumb. It’s dumb hair. You have great hair.”

“It’s not dumb,” August said. “It’s classic. I do have good hair, though.” August blew a kiss into the mirror.

“What do you think, Birdie? Give me your professional opinion.” Cecelia tapped August, and they swapped places. Birdie made her way out from the back. She was wearing her reading glasses on a chain around her neck.

“Hmm,” Birdie said. “Let’s see.” She fluffed Cecelia’s hair, scratching here and there. Birdie tilted her head to the side. “You know, I think you could have an angle. Or some color. Have you ever thought about some color?”

Cecelia had never considered doing anything to her hair that would make other people notice it. Her hair was a color that no one would ever describe, like a dun-colored female peacock, as drab as mouse droppings and the straw bristles of a broom.

Birdie wasn’t finished. “Okay,” she said, raising Cecelia’s chair with the foot pedal and spinning it around so that Cecelia was facing her. “Okay, I see it. A bit of a chop—chin length. Then, we go for flames. Bright red. Run Lola Run. Have you seen that? I think it came out before you were born.”

“Oh, yes!” August said. “I have! Cecelia, do it. Why not?”

Birdie picked up a pair of scissors and put her hands on her hips. “August, want to run across the street and order us a pizza? I’ll get started.” She slid her wallet out of her back pocket and handed it to him.

Cecelia reached for August’s arm, pretending to be scared. It felt like she should ask someone for permission, but there was no one to ask. “Don’t leave me! Or, no, I want pizza! Do leave me but come back soon!” August nodded.

“Lock the door behind you, will you?” Birdie asked. “My keys are on the desk.”

August scooped them up and went out the door, pulling it shut behind himself. Main Street was dark—it was fully fall now and already cool enough to need a sweater. August was only in a T-shirt and thought about going back inside, but the pizzeria was warm. He sat and waited for a few minutes and then, carrying the pizza box out of Sal’s, he saw two men walk out of the corner building.

August’s parents had a theory: Someone was sitting on it, waiting for big money to come to town. A few years ago, Rite Aid had bought an old grocery store just outside the village line, and everyone lost their minds, as if Clapham would transform into a soulless shopping mall in the blink of an eye. August’s parents started a petition, Keep Local, Shop Small. They still refused to shop at the Rite Aid. Ruth and John talked about the place on the roundabout all the time—if someone local had bought it, and was just waiting to have enough money to renovate, Ruth would have known from the town committee. If it were some corporate giant, she would have known that too. Ruth and John were hoping for a really good ice-cream parlor or a great sandwich shop.

The street was mostly dark, but there were streetlamps every so often, tall shapely ones that made August think of Paris, though he’d never been, wrought iron with a delicate bend that made you forget it was made of something so impossibly hard. There was one puddle of lamplight right on the corner, and August watched as Cecelia’s uncle Elliot stepped into the center of the yellow circle, shook hands with another man, and then stood there on the sidewalk as the other man walked away. He then turned toward Shear Beauty, and both August and Elliot looked through the window at Cecelia and Birdie. Cecelia was laughing, and Birdie was, too, and August—Robin, in her head she was always Robin—started to think about what she’d like to do to her hair, someday. She was thinking mermaid hair, like her mother’s, the kind of hair she’d accidentally sit on.