The Pearl Inside of Anything

8:20 p.m., Wednesday, at home on sofa with Mum

8:20 p.m., Wednesday, at home on sofa with Mum

Patrick is in bed and Mum and I are sitting on the sofa, sharing the quilt and watching Little House on the Prairie. We started watching Little House when I was about eight and it's the one time of the week when I can count on Mum to be awake and sitting down for an hour. She's clipping coupons from the Penny Saver but at least she's here and more or less sitting still. Mum is a pretty quiet person and she's usually either working or sleeping, so sometimes I feel outnumbered by Patrick, Dad and G.I. Joe. But Dad has a way of vanishing when we turn Little House on so it's only Mum and me.

I'm not really paying attention, because I've seen this episode anyway (it's the one where Laura and Almanzo get married) but then the commercial comes on and its Farrah and she's swinging her hair around to sell shampoo, so logically it's the moment to bring up my big break, before we're back in Walnut Grove.

One thing about Little House its very boring in the hair department, all tight braids and buns. I think I got my Mum's hair genes, for sure (my short genes, are Mum and Dad equally — thanks very much guys — at 5' 5" Dad is the family giant). Hers is not so long as mine, but long enough she can paste and wrap it into a bun on her head for work. Five mornings a week she plasters it down so tight it looks like it hurts and that's her shift style. One more reason I don't want to get stuck in a hospital laundry the rest of my life. I asked her once if it gave her headaches, but she said it's better than getting it caught in a machine, and anyway the laundry is so damp and humid that it would just turn into a big frizz fest. Besides, nobody wants a laundry lady's loose strays on their clean sheets, especially if they're lying in traction and are a naturally fussy person who would get grossed out by these sorts of things. I so get that.

Mum and I both shed a lot around the apartment. When I wash my hair, it's like I leave a kitten curled up in the drain strainer every time I rinse. I wonder if Farrah has this problem.

"Mum, did you ever want to be a model? Like when you were my age?"

"A model? Maybe, I don't remember." She goes back to sorting her coupons. Mostly she is looking for grocery bargains. It's not like she's clipping for $10 off a pair of boots, or a Diane von Furstenberg dress sale. A pair of sneakers for Patrick on sale at K-Mart is as close as she gets to a fashion find. If she saves three dollars at the Safeway checkout, she's happy. Sometimes I wonder if this is in my genes too, that I got the hair and sooner or later I'll have a habit for finding the best price on sausages in the city.

You would not know from her clipping habit that Mum is only 32. Instead of finishing Grade 12, she had me. She's the same age now as Mrs. Novotny was when she had Yammy. And she was the same age as Laura Ingalls when she got married, except Laura didn't have a bun in the oven first.

"Modelling, well, let's see, when I was your age, Twiggy was the thing. Maybe I never saw myself as ever fitting into a dress the size of a tube sock. Besides," she says, contentedly clipping out a 25-cents-off coupon for a can of tomato soup, "I like food too much."

My parents are masters of the commercial conversation, what more do you need to say that you can't get out in 60 seconds? So it's a start, and I can always bring it up next week. Almanzo and Laura are back on.

3:10 p.m., Thursday, June 11th, Templeton lawn

"So I'm thinking that we'll all dress like Di and my grandma is going to lend me her commemorative Chuck and Di china for dinner. Do you think Royals eat lasagne?"

Yammy's going over details on her new project, she's planning a Royal Wedding sleepover for this summer. Her house is the perfect place for sleepovers. In addition to a phone, she has a TV in her room. It's just a black and white, her parents say she has to earn a colour one (I guess they have to draw the line somewhere). Also Yammy's bedroom is like a double room, half of it is set up like a living room with pink upholstered couches, a table and an antique writing desk in one corner.

I'm only half paying attention when I say I am sure that has got to be on the wedding menu. I can't believe how white my legs are. Mum got me new walking shorts and a ruffle neck t-shirt from the Sweet Sixteen two-for-one-table. Note to self: add tanning to modeling prep regimen.

Somebody whose legs are not white, but a light golden tan, is running the track. Ben. This time with shoes on. There's a soccer game starting in the field but Ben is the only one running in any of the lanes. Ten hurdles are set up and he runs round the bend and towards where we are. I pretend not to be watching.

Note also to self: show interest in friend's party. "Who else is coming?"

"I'm thinking just the Rumbergers. Four is good. Any more of us and somebody will talk through the vows," she frowns. Whenever we do something that's more than the two of us, Lizzie and Linda Rumberger are in on it.

Even from here, I can see Ben's forehead crease with concentration as he nears the hurdles. He picks up his step and takes each hurdle faster than I can count, folding his body each time at the waist as tight as a closed book. One, two, three... faster than I could even snap my fingers. Or breathe. Just like that he's done all ten standing still and neat behind him. He bends over, his hands on his knees. Then, looking up, he sees me and smiles, raises his hand in a half wave. I look down and pick at the little daisies that grow in the grass.

"Wendy? Are you listening? What about the TV? Should we get my parents to roll the colour set into my room?"

Yammy doesn't want to miss a minute of The Royal Wedding. I thought maybe she would talk her parents into flying her to London, but she says that way she wouldn't see what goes on inside St. Paul's, so it's better to stay home for the televised version. I bet she's already got her alarm clock set for 3 a.m. And it's still more than a month away.

"Uh, huh. Has to be in colour." I say looking sideways across the field in Ben's direction. But not at him. Not exactly.

"So anyway, what happened yesterday?"

I tell her about Yvonne, how she was the kind of skinny that looks like it can't take a hug without getting hurt. "But she made an appointment for me at Mirabella's hair salon. I'm going to be a hair model!"

"Hair model?" Yammy looks a little puzzled. "Don't tell me they let students practice on you. Kids can do bad things with scissors."

I think of the mullet Patrick gave one of my Barbies. For someone with no sibs, Yammy knows kids.

"No, no, it's okay, she said this is for a pro. That there are hair shows and competitions, that sort of thing."

"What about the catwalk?"

"Oh yeah, well, I think that's on hold. At least until I grow a few inches."

Yammy nods.

"Here's the thing, I meet him tomorrow."

"Meet who?"

"Tommy, the stylist,"

"And I need you to come with me. Tomorrow after school. Please?"

"Sure!" Yammy starts bouncing her head side to side to a beat in her head and starts a little Carol King: "Where you lead, I will follow you, anywhere-air-air that you want me to..."

Quelle relief! The doubt cloud lifts, and I flop back on the grass and join in:

"If you need, youneed me to follow, I will follow where you lead."