Summer 1986
By their fourth summer together, Rosa and Alex had fallen into a routine. From mid-June until Labor Day, they were best friends. Mrs. Montgomery objected, but as usual, Alex knew how to handle her. He had all these long arguments about how being with someone his own age helped him manage his illness, because being alone was stressful and made his lungs twitchy.
Rosa couldn’t believe his mother bought that. Maybe a mother’s love made her putty in his hands. She was a severe woman but she adored Alex. She used to try to get him to invite other boys over, “other” meaning boys like him, summer people. Alex pitched such a fit that eventually his mother stopped trying. Rosa was just as glad about that. With the exception of Alex, summer people were snooty, and they seemed to have nothing better to do than work on their tans or shop. Pop said they were his bread and butter so she’d better be polite to them.
Each year at summer’s end, Alex went away, and Rosa felt bereft after he was gone. They always said they’d write to stay in touch, but somehow, neither of them got around to it. Rosa got busy with school and sports, and the year would speed past. When the next summer rolled around, they fell effortlessly back into their friendship. Getting together with Alex was like putting on a comfortable old sweater you’d forgotten you had.
That fourth summer, they were both going into the seventh grade, and they didn’t ease back into the friendship as effortlessly as before. For some strange reason, she felt a little bashful around him that year. He was just plain old Alex, skinny and fair-skinned and funny. And she was just Rosa, loud and bossy. Yet there was a subtle difference between them that hadn’t been there before. It was that stupid boy-girl thing, Rosa knew, because even the nuns were required to show kids those dumb videos, Girl into Woman and Boy into Man.
According to the videos, Rosa was still at least ninety percent girl, and Alex was definitely a boy. He had the same scrawny chest and piping boyish voice. She was pretty scrawny herself, and even though she sometimes yearned for boobs like Linda Lipschitz’s, she also dreaded the transformation. Maybe if her mother was still alive, she’d feel differently, but on her own, she was more than happy for nature to take its time.
Mrs. Montgomery hadn’t changed one bit, either. The whole first week of summer, Alex was confined to the house because his mother said he had a head cold. Fine, thought Rosa, trying not to feel frustrated about missing out on perfect weather. They’d find indoor things to do.
One day in June she showed up with an idea. She found Alex in the library, reading one of his zillions of books. Before she could lose her nerve, she took out a folded flyer and handed it to him.
“What’s this?” he asked, adjusting his glasses.
With great solemnity, she indicated the flyer. “Just read it.”
“‘Locks for Love,’” he read. “‘A non-profit organization that provides hairpieces at no charge to patients across the U.S. suffering from long-term medical hair loss.’ And there’s a donation form.” He touched his pale hair. “Who would want this?”
She sniffed. “Very funny. Get the scissors.”
He eyed her thick, curly hair, which swung clear down to her waist. “Are you sure?”
She nodded, thinking of her mother, the baby-bird baldness that had afflicted her after the chemo kicked in. She’d worn scarves and hats, and someone at the hospital gave her a wig, but she said it didn’t look like real hair and never wore it. If only Rosa had known about Locks for Love then, she could have given Mamma her hair.
“Do it, Alex.” She blew upward at the springy curls that fell down over her forehead. Her hair was always a mess. There was never a hair tie or barrette to be found in the house. Pop never thought to buy them, and she never remembered to tell him.
She looked up to see Alex watching her. “What?”
“You really want me to cut off your hair?”
“I need a haircut, anyway.”
He grew solemn. “There are salons. My mother takes me to Ritchie’s in the city.”
“I don’t think I would like a salon. Mamma used to cut my hair when I was little.” Suddenly it was there again in her throat, that hurtful feeling of wanting. She blinked fast and tried to swallow, but it wouldn’t go away. That was another thing about this girl-into-woman business. Sometimes she cried like a baby. Her emotions were as unpredictable as the weather.
Alex watched her for a moment longer. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose—a nervous habit. She looked him straight in the eye and conquered her tears. “Go get the scissors. And a hair tie.”
“A what?”
She rolled her eyes. “You know, like a rubber band with cloth on it for making a ponytail. Or just a rubber band will do. The instructions say I have to send my hair in a ponytail. Do it, Alex.”
“Can’t we maybe get Mrs. Carmichael to—”
“Alex.”
Like a condemned man walking to the gallows, he went upstairs, where she could hear him rummaging around. Then he returned with a rubber band and a pair of scissors. That was the thing about Alex. As her best friend, he did what she wanted him to do, even when he didn’t agree with her.
It felt like another adventure. She grabbed a towel and they went outside, Alex grumbling the whole way.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “I have to brush my hair and make a ponytail.”
He shook his head. “Have at it.”
Her thick, coarse hair was hopelessly tangled. She’d washed it that morning in anticipation of the shearing, but during the bike ride over, the wind had whipped it into a snarled mass. Alex watched her struggle for a few minutes. Finally he said, “Give me the brush.”
She felt that funny wave of bashfulness again as she handed it over. “Have at it,” she said, echoing him.
“Turn around.” His strokes were tentative at first, barely touching. “Jeez, you’ve got a lot of hair.”
“So sue me.”
“I’m just saying—Hold still. And be quiet for once.”
She decided to cooperate, since he hadn’t wanted to do this in the first place. She stood very still, and all on his own Alex figured out how to brush through the tangles without tugging or hurting. He started at the bottom and worked upward until the brush glided easily through her hair. His patience and the gentleness of his touch did something to her. Something strange and wonderful. When his fingers brushed her nape, she shut her eyes and bit her lip to stifle a startled gasp.
She could hear him breathing, and he sounded all right. She was always leery of setting off an asthma attack. But he was on some new medication that controlled his condition better than ever.
“Okay,” he said softly. “I think that’s got it pretty good.” He smoothed both hands down the length of her hair, gathering it into a ponytail. Then he stepped out from behind her. “Rosa.”
Her eyes flew open. “What?”
“You look weird. Are you sure you want me to do this?”
“Absolutely.”
“Your funeral.” A moment later he stood behind her, snipping away. It was nothing like the way Mamma used to do this, but she didn’t care. She was happy to get rid of all the long, thick hair. It took a mother to look after hair like this, and without one she might as well get rid of it. Besides, there was someone out there who needed it more than Rosa did.
She felt lighter with each decisive snip. The fat ponytail fell to the ground and Alex stared down at it. “I’m not too good at this,” he said.
She fluffed her hand at her bare neck. Her head felt absolutely weightless. “How does it look?”
He regarded her with solemn contemplation. “I don’t know.”
“Of course you know. You’re looking right at me.”
“You just look…like Rosa. But with less hair.”
What did a boy know, anyway? With the exception of her friend Vince, no boy ever had a clue about hair and clothes. She’d have to get Vince and Linda to tell her.
She picked up the long ponytail and held it out at arm’s length. Alex stepped back, as though it were roadkill.
“Well,” she said. “They ought to be able to make a wig out of this.”
“A really good wig,” he said, edging closer. “Maybe two.”
She put the hair into a large Ziploc bag, like the instructions said to do. At that moment, Pop rolled a wheelbarrow around the corner from the front yard. He was whistling a tune, but it turned to a strangled gasp when he saw Rosa.
“Che cosa nel nome del dio stai facendo?” he yelled, dropping the handles of the barrow and rushing to her side. Then he rounded on Alex, spotted the scissors in his hand and raised a fist in the air. “You. Raggazzo stupid. What in the name of God have you done?”
Alex turned even paler than usual and dropped the scissors into the grass. “I…I…I…”
“I made him do it,” Rosa piped up.
“Do what?” Mrs. Montgomery came out to see what all the ruckus was about. She took one look at Rosa and said, “Dear God.”
“It is the boy’s fault,” Pop sputtered. “He—he—”
“I said, I made him do it,” Rosa repeated, more loudly. She held out the clear plastic bag. “I’m donating my hair to…” Suddenly it was all too much—Alex’s sheepish expression, the horror on Pop’s face, Mrs. Montgomery’s disapproval, the bag of roadkill hair. The explanation that had made such perfect sense a few minutes ago suddenly stuck in her throat.
And then she did the unthinkable. Right in front of them all, she burst into tears. Her only thought was to get away as fast as possible, so she dropped the bag and ran, all but blinded by tears. She raced as though they were chasing her, but of course they weren’t. They were probably standing around shaking their heads saying, Poor Rosa and What would her mother think.
She ran instinctively toward the ocean, where she could be alone on the empty beach. Breathless, she flopped down and leaned against the weatherbeaten sand fence and hugged her knees up to her chest. Then she lost it for good, the sobs ripping from a place deep inside her she had foolishly thought had healed over. It would never heal, she knew that now. She would always be broken inside, a motherless daughter, a girl forced to raise herself all on her own, with no one to stop her from doing stupid things, or to tell her everything was going to be okay after she did them.
Her chest hurt with violent sobs, yet once she started, she couldn’t stop. It was as if she had to get out all the sadness she usually kept bottled up inside. The crashing surf eclipsed her voice, which was a good thing, because she was gasping and hiccupping like a drowning victim. After a few minutes of this, she felt weak and drained. The wind blew her chopped-off hair, and she brushed at it impatiently.