Bernice

A Story by Simon Eckman

A few days in the life and thoughts of a 17 year old girl who lives in a small town.

Saturday and it's bomb pops in the park with Dee. The original. Crimson and Eggshell and Azure patriots on sticks. We are sitting on our bikes, leaning over them, slumping, semi-soaked by the muggy air. Sweat. She is 17. I am 17 and a half. I see beads of sweat forming on her dark brown skin, her brow. She is black. Her lips are an unidentifiable color right now, combined lip-gloss and the nectar of the bomb pops. Her bike has a wicker basket, holding the box, probably bomb pops inside melting now, white plastic full of sugar water and a tongue depressor. Hospital sterile hummingbird feeders with no beak hole.

"Are you ready to go home now?" She asked me exhaustedly, "Eating popsicles outside in this heat was a great idea."

Sarcastic.

"Yeah I 'spose," I said. "Anyways, I have an idea."

"Well, what's that?" Dee asked me.

"I was thinking we could dye my hair or something. Something pretty. I'm getting real tired of this dishwater blonde. Something different like neon colors or something."

I wasn't really tired of the color. I was tired of me. Tired of the same old me in the mirror everyday. Anyway, there were loads of blondes and they could take care of their hair better than I could and keep it bright and not dull at all, golden. The world could stand to lose a few blonde. It wouldn't miss one temporarily.

"How are we gonna do that?" Dee asked me, "You don't have money for hair dye and anyways, they don't even sell that kind of color here in town."

"We can use Kool-Aid colors. I heard you could use the powder to dye it."

Dee lives in the house and few houses down from me. She was adopted. Her parents are white. She is black. We have been best friends since she moved to town when we were in 6th grade. Dee is short for Denise. And her name and mine rhyme. Denis and Bernice. I was named after my aunt that I never knew that died in a fire. I never go for any shorter name though. I was never one of those people who got a nickname stuck on them anyway. Never did anything worthy for it, not nickname worthy things anyways.

We live in the crappy part of town pretty near to where the trailer park is, basically trailers but not exactly. The houses are run down, wood visible, old houses, I like them though.

"So let's go back to your house and dye it. I've got nothing better to do anyways."

"Alright. I've got Kool-Aid," I said. I was thinking that too.

The bike home was better than sitting in one place in the muggy air. It's July. It was heavy in my lungs. Dee rode ahead of me, but not too far ahead to talk and she didn't say anything. I knew what she'd say anyway. I need to stop smoking. Dee told me always that smoking was going to kill me, that's why she was faster than me, and also most boys don't like it. Not that there's any boys in town anyway. It's almost all girls and some little kids like ten or so. I always tell her I don't see how cigarettes are different from pot. We both do that. Anyways, I don't even smoke that much cigarettes either.

I lit up a cigarette. I look cool doing it. Intellectual. Like I know about art or something

Mom isn't home, she's at work, and Dad never was.

I picked purple grape flavor Kool-Aid. I had looked up how to do this at the library. I told Dee what to do. She did it. As she did my hair I felt those nice tingles you get when someone plays with your hair or talks to you kind. When someone who barely talks above a whisper speaks gently. The feeling you get you thought was gone when kids would ask you to come and play too when you were a kid too and they let you be Princess-So-Pretty or something. She kept asking me to hold still. Unless I wanted to have purple skin. I held still. Dee is a very gentle girl.

"Okay you're all done. Looks great." Dee told me.

I looked in the mirror. I looked new. The same old feeling of being the same old person was not there. I looked from my shoulder length purple royal hair. I looked to my eyes, blue azure antifreeze pupils large curious interested intrigued. I looked to my nose. Looked to my bull ring, the single adornment I wore, reminded of pain. Sharp. Wince at the memory how you do. No longer bored. I was happy with this. It looked good with the faded black sleeveless dress I put on today. Burial shroud for the girl whose betrothed never returned from the Civil War. Remembered to tell Dee to put the bomb pops in the freezer, I was indebted to them. Sweeping joyous feelings as I gazed into the mirror. I gazed back towards myself.

The next day I put on my other black dress after I took a shower. I had a dream. The colors were vivid. I was in a field or something. I never hear much in my dreams. No one tells me anything. I like my showers sort of cold. I pretend I'm in a waterfall. I put on my other black dress and went barefoot and went into my room. Then I looked in the mirror some more and I was waiting for Dee to call me to hang out.

This is my best idea I got from bomb pops anyway.