Read an Excerpt
Pretty is as Pretty Does
The Class Reunion Series Book 1
By Debby Mayne
Abingdon PressCopyright © 2013 Debby Mayne
All rights reserved.
We are thrilled to announce Piney Point High School's 10-year reunion on June 7, 2003, at 7:30 PM in Piney Point High's newly renovated gymnasium. Attire: Sunday best RSVP: Laura Moss 601-555-1515 PS: There will be a preparty at Shenanigan's in Hattiesburg starting at about 5:00 PM.
Wow. Ten years. As I read my high school reunion invitation a second time, I can't help smiling. Although I own one of the most successful businesses in my hometown of Piney Point, Mississippi, I've lost track of most of the people I graduated with.
Knowing the people I went to high school with, this is going to be one crazy event—that is, if everyone attends. I'm not surprised Laura added a preparty to the invitation. Her husband has never attended any social event before prepartying his face off—even in high school. Pete Moss graduated with the distinct honor of high school lush, and as far as I know, he continues to hold that honor, which is ironic since I don't remember ever seeing Laura touching a drop of anything stronger than her mama's two-day-old sweet tea.
I pin the invitation to the bulletin board beside the fridge. And for extra measure, I jot the date on my calendar. In pencil, just in case ... well, in case something comes up.
As I kick off my killer high-heels, I wonder if Maurice will be there. I sigh as I remember the guy who, in my mind, almost became my boyfriend. I used to stand in front of my bedroom mirror, practicing "looks." I think back and realize things weren't as they seemed, but I still wonder if he'll see me differently now that I've made something of myself. Not that I'm trying to impress anyone.
And I sure haven't impressed my parents. Quite the opposite. Still, I've taken a small-town beauty shop and turned it into a fabulous business—one of the most successful in Piney Point. And I'm not ready to stop there. I already have three shops—the original, which used to be called Dolly's Cut 'n Curl, one in Hattiesburg that formerly held the title Goldy's Locks, and the salon where my current office is located in Jackson. In honor of the first, they are all called Prissy's Cut 'n Curl, although I'm seriously considering changing the name to something a little trendier since I'm planning to expand. I mean, really, can you imagine anyone in New York City telling her friends she gets her hair done at the Cut 'n Curl? Besides, I hate being called Prissy.
I'll never forget Mother's reaction when she found out I'd dropped out of my first semester of college and enrolled at the Pretty and Proud School of Cosmetology. You'd have thought I announced I wanted to pledge Phi Mu or something. No offense to anyone in Phi Mu. It's just that Mother was a Chi Omega, and that makes me a legacy, which carries even more clout than being Miss Piney Point, something I never was. Mother would have had a fit if I'd even suggested entering a beauty contest. So when I met some of the Chi Omegas at Ole Miss, I was surprised by how many of them were beauty queens—something Mother never mentioned. Makes me wonder what happened to her between her Chi O heydays and now.
My parents are academics and proud of it. Mother is a professor of English, and Dad is head of the history department at the Piney Point Community College, but you'd think they had tenure at an Ivy League school the way they carry on.
I missed lunch today and my stomach's grumbling. But when the noise turns to hissing, I relent and pull a Lean Cuisine from the freezer. I know how to cook, but it seems pointless to do that for one. I also know that one Lean Cuisine isn't enough, so while it heats in the microwave, I grab a bag of salad and dump the contents into a bowl. Then I chop a tomato, grab a few olives, and pour a tablespoon of ranch dressing on top. I step back and study the salad before I squirt another tablespoon or two. The salad's full of fiber and the Lean Cuisine is low-fat, so I figure that balances out the extra calories.
Just as I'm about to sit down and enjoy dinner, the phone rings. It has to be Mother, I think. She's the only one who ever calls my house phone. I hesitate, but my daughterly duties overcome me. What if she needs something? I'd never be able to live with the guilt if I didn't answer an important call from the woman who gave birth to me after twenty hours of labor—or so she tells folks when they ask why I'm an only child.
"Did you get your invitation yet?" she asks without letting me finish my hello. "Are you planning on going?"
Leave it to Mother to know about the reunion before me. "Yes ... well, probably."
"There's really no point, Priscilla. After all, it's all about showing off all your accomplishments, and it's not like you've made all that much of your life."
I bite my tongue, as I always have. I want to let Mother know how I really feel, but talking back has never gotten me anywhere with her, so I somehow manage to keep my yap shut. She takes that as encouragement to keep going.
"That silly-frilly little job of yours will get old one of these days, and then what will you do?"
"Mother, you know it's more than a job to me."
She laughs. "All you do is decorate the outside of women—"
"Some of our clients are men," I remind her.
"Okay, so you work on the outer appearance of women ... and men. How does that really make any difference in the world? You could have been so much more than that, Priscilla. Your father and I—"
"My business makes a huge difference in a lot of people's lives. Our clients feel better about themselves, and I keep a couple dozen people employed so they can feed their families."
"Well, there is that." Mother pauses as she reloads. "At any rate, why would you even want to go?"
"Because I want to?" I can't help the fact that I'm starting to sound like an adolescent.
"That's a shock. Your father and I were wondering why you haven't shown your face in town in the past year. Then it dawned on me that you didn't want folks to see you wearing braces. I'm surprised you even have a salon left. You know what the mice do when the cat's away."
"I hire people I can trust," I tell her through gritted teeth.
"So are you going to the reunion or not?"
"Like I said, I'm not sure."
"Do you want your old classmates to see you in braces? After all, since you're so into appearances, I would think—"
"I'm getting them off soon, so that's not an issue." I suspect she's annoyed that I got braces for cosmetic reasons. I begged Mother to let me have braces when I was a kid, but after the dentist assured her it wasn't necessary for good dental care, she told me I was just being shallow. Throughout high school, I smiled with my mouth closed so people wouldn't notice my overlapping front teeth.
Mother lets out one of her long-suffering sighs. "Okay, well, if you do decide to go, give us plenty of notice so we can clear our schedule for your visit. Your father and I have social obligations, since he's the head of his department."
"Yes, I know." Ever since Dad's promotion, Mother likes to remind me of his position. And it's been at least three years. "Whatever I decide, there's no need to clear your schedule."
"You know you're always welcome to stay here at the house," she adds.
I wish I really did feel welcome. "Thank you, Mother." But I've learned to live with the tension.
"And don't forget to bring your church clothes. We're not like your church in the city. We still show our respect by dressing nicely."
"Yes, I know."
I hear Dad calling out to her, so I'm relieved when she tells me she needs to run. After I hang up, I lean against the wall and slide to the floor. Talking to my mother is exhausting.
* * *
On my way to the office the next morning, Mother's voice rings through my head. "Someday you'll thank me for this," she'd said when she dropped me off on the steps of my dorm at Ole Miss, her alma mater. She reminded me it's always good to start out away from home to get a taste of being on my own but with a safety net—as if I was arguing about where I was going to college. The real argument happened when I dropped out.
See, ever since I entered my teenage years, I dreamed of doing something with clothes and hair and eventually turn it into my own business. I never minded studying in high school if it meant making my parents happy, but college wasn't the path that would lead me to where I wanted the rest of my life to go. Just do it, right? Some of the most successful young entrepreneurs either skipped or dropped out of college. Look at Steve Jobs and Mark Zuckerberg.
I pull into the parking lot of my Jackson shop and open the car door. And pause. I sit there and stare at the two-story, redbrick building with an upscale salon on the ground level and my office upstairs. This is the first salon I built from the ground up, and I'm mighty proud of its success in the two short years since I've been there. The Jackson newspaper did a story on me once and claimed I'm lucky in business. I might not have finished my first semester of college, but I'm a logical thinker and planner. I did a year-long study and determined this location had the most potential for growth. The old mansions in the neighborhood are being bought for a song, divided up and renovated into apartments, and sold for a fortune. Then there's all the twenty-something, fresh-out-of-college hipsters moving into those apartments. My success isn't luck—it's knowing what I want and being willing to work hard for it.
Finally, I get out of the car, grab my briefcase, and head up the side staircase to my office. Before I open the door, I know Tim is here by the fresh scent of Abercrombie and Fitch's latest cologne for men.
"Looky what the cat drug in."
"What are you doing here so early?" I toss my briefcase into the tiny office behind my assistant, Mandy, who is too busy opening mail and acting like she's minding her own business for me to think she's not getting a kick out of my annoyance. "Any messages?"
"Just got here, Prissy. You got a ton of mail from yesterday."
"I need to talk to the mailman. It's just not right for all our mail to get here after we leave."
"I know, right?" Mandy cuts a glance over at Tim then rolls her eyes toward me.
"So are you here for my order?" I ask Tim. He's still in one of the three chairs across from Mandy's desk.
Tim is a sales rep for his uncle's beauty supply company, and he covers most of the center of the state. If he gave all his customers the attention he gives me, he'd never have time to sleep. Even Mandy has noticed.
"I thought I'd take you to breakfast."
I fold my arms and arch an eyebrow as I study him. "What's the occasion?"
He shrugs. "I dunno. I thought maybe we could talk about your reunion."
"Are you kidding me?" I shriek. "You know about the reunion?"
"Um ..." He glances over at Mandy who shrugs and busies herself with some paperwork that's been sitting on her desk for a week. Finally, he turns to me and meets my gaze with challenge. "Yeah. I talked to Sheila last week when I stopped by your salon in Piney Point."
Sheila's the hairdresser I put in charge of the Piney Point salon when I left to open the Jackson office. "Why did you stop by there? I do all my ordering here."
If Tim doesn't stop shrugging so much, his shoulders will get stuck. "Old time's sake, and all that." He stands. "So if you don't have a date, I'm available."
Tim has a crush on me. We dated for a while, but after he started getting serious, I resisted all his advances. I have a business to run, and I don't have time for romantic distractions. Besides, the chemistry isn't there for me. "It's almost two months away. I have no idea what I'm doing that night."
He follows me into my office. "At least think about it. We've been friends for a long time, and you can totally be yourself with me." He holds both hands out to his sides and makes one of his goofy faces. "My mama taught me good manners, so I won't embarrass you. I know which fork to use for the salad, and I even have my own tux."
I can't help laughing. "You're kidding, right?"
"Yeah, you start with the outside silverware and work your way toward the plate."
"No, Tim," I say slowly. "I'm talking about the tux. You seriously own one?"
"But why?" I leave out the part about how he has always fancied himself a redneck, and even if he hadn't come out and said that, I would've known the instant he told me he owns every single book Lewis Grizzard and Jeff Foxworthy ever wrote.
All satisfied and full of himself, he replies, "It's from my stand-up comic days, back before I came to work for Uncle Hugh."
That explains a lot. "That might be rather ostentatious."
Oops. "Showy." He looks so eager to please, I can't tell him no right now. "I'll have to let you know, but first, tell me why my last hair color order is taking so long."
"I take it you don't want to go to breakfast?"CHAPTER 2
If I get one more invitation back for being undeliverable, I'll croak. Everyone assumes that I don't mind taking on all these "special" jobs, just because I always have, but come on! People move, and they don't even bother letting the class committee know. When I say class committee, I mean me. That's it. I'm the one person who cares enough to keep track of the whereabouts of everyone who graduated with me. Why do I care? That's the billion-dollar question of the year. After putting up with all kinds of abuse from so-called friends for thirteen years—from kindergarten to our senior year of high school—you'd think I would've learned my lesson.
Somehow I thought when I was elected vice-president of our senior class right before twelfth grade, people finally saw me as an important person. No. It just meant no one else wanted to do the job. I knew I wasn't popular enough to be president, good enough with numbers to be treasurer, or smart enough to be secretary. But with an Army sergeant daddy, I know how to be organized.
My mama decided she'd had enough organization, and ran off with a weasel named Randy "Save-a-Lot" Elmore, the man who gave her a double-digit discount on a five-year-old Town Car. Now he's her weasel-in-shining-armor. And they live in the nicest mobile home park in town where every home has a skirt and all utilities are underground. Theirs is a double-wide, so when I lived with them, they had plenty of room for me and my meager possessions. Life wasn't easy with a stepdad though.
At least I had Pete. We were on-again-off-again boyfriend and girlfriend ever since fourth grade when we were paired off in our P.E. square dance class. That was the only time either of us ever did good at anything, and we wallowed in the attention we got from our faultless do-si-dos.
Pete has other good qualities too—one of them being loyalty. He stood by me through all the problems I had with my parents, even during the stickiest situations.
As time passed, Pete and I became inseparable, except for a couple times, like the time we had a fight and he spent two weeks being Celeste's boyfriend. And when Daddy caught us makin' out in the back of Pete's mama's car and threatened him with his service revolver. It's been ten years and four kids since that night.
"Honey!" I hear Pete blasting his way through the house, slamming doors and letting out some bodily sounds other women might find disgusting. "I just left the Chili Hut, and they said we can use the back room before the reunion."
I frown. "I've already sent out the invitations with Shenanigan's for the preparty."
He comes up to me, massages my neck, and lets out a loud belch. "This is for before the preparty. You don't want me to show up without warming up first, do you?"
"Maybe you don't need to warm up as much as you think you do."
Pete opens the fridge, and I hear the familiar sound of a pop-top before he closes the door. "This is a class reunion, Hon. Everyone has certain expectations. I don't want to disappoint." He belts out one of those laughs that annoy me—the kind that sounds like a cross between a snore and a snort.
Excerpted from Pretty is as Pretty Does by Debby Mayne. Copyright © 2013 Debby Mayne. Excerpted by permission of Abingdon Press.
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