I wasn't entirely at fault. That daredevil cat certainly had something do with it, but of course Ms. Pempsky would never admit that. Which left the finger of blame pointing at me.
"Grace ___ ___." She was enraged.
I was annoyed. How did she even know my full name?
"You have completely humiliated me."
My apologies. Perhaps you should order a tighter wig?
Her eyes narrowed as if she could read my thoughts. I wouldn't be surprised if she could. Ms. Pempsky could tell truths from the smallest of fibs. She knew when you were sleeping, and when you were awake. Her abilities were uncannier than those of St. Nicolas. Mind-reading wasn't that far of a stretch.
I rocked back and forth on my heels, trying to look anywhere other than into her cold green eyes. If only those eyes would soften, and her lips turn upward. Ms. Pempsky could be quite pretty then....with her hair, that is.
But no part of her--eyes or mouth--was smiling. Any fantasy I might have had of Ms. Pempsky as Old St. Nick vanished. I ducked my head, offering my own small smile in apology. My eyes couldn't help but be drawn to her shiny head.
Please send me away. Just send me away.
I knew she wouldn't. She was searching for some way to restore her dignity. Even I could tell that she was dreadfully embarassed to be de-wigged in front of her guests. Ms. Pempsky and I weren't alone. My handsome, eligible father and I had paid the call together. He was standing off the side trying not to laugh, and a lot of good that did me.
I stood still, awaiting my punishment, knowing that my father wouldn't do anything to prevent whatever she deemed fit. The lady sat as regally as she had before the...um...recent events. Chin up. Posture perfect. Very queenly.
Your baldness.
I nearly snorted.
She sighed. “Grace. If you would.” She inclined her head towards the next room, where the cat had scurried off to with her hair. “Fetch it, please.” She folded her hands in her lap and gave another frustrated sigh. “I'll have you know that wig was imported all the way from Brazil.”
She glared at me again. Oh, right. I was supposed to make like a good little girl and fetch her hair.
I couldn't get out of there fast enough, and I nearly tripped over the armchair Father had been sitting in before he sprang out of it in surprise. A sigh of relief escaped me as I slipped through the doorway.
There.
That devil cat. He rested atop the piano, happily chewing on Ms. Pempsky's blonde wig. For a moment I wondered, why blonde? I would have pegged her for an auburn.
Slowly, I reached out a hand. Palm up, just like Father taught me. But the cat only hissed at me and went back to slobbering all over his new chew toy.
Now, now. We aren't going to repeat your earlier episode, are we?
It was a funny story, really.
Politeness required that both my father and I pay a visit to Ms. Pempsky, as she had blatantly expressed a wish for us to do so. We went, albeit begrudgingly, and found that she had acquired a new pet. I would have danced for joy had my spirits not already been dampened by just having to listen to our hostess.
A cat. A beautiful cat with soft fur as pure as the snow that blanketed the ground this morning.
When we entered the parlor Ms. Pempsky took straight to my father, ignoring me completely. Not minding at all, I did the same. And went straight for the cat.
Filthy, no-good, mean-spirited demon.
I picked him up, wanting to stroke his fur while the adults talked idle nonsense, as most adults are prone to do. Ms. Pempsky was laughing prettily at one of my father's “when I was young” stories(they always put me to sleep) when the animal let out a loud screech and jumped from my arms.
His aim was quite perfect(or rather the opposite, depending on how you looked at it) for he landed squarely on the lady's head.
She didn't shreak as her pet did. She was quite calm about it, although her eyes nearly bulged out of her head.
This was about the moment my father sprang out of his chair. After that, we all seemed to be frozen in place.
Except for the cat.
The feline hissed and pawed and scratched at his owner's head. I snapped out of it, rushed towards the lady in need, and picked up the cat from her head, effectively rescuing her from probable injury. But not mortification.
I picked up the cat, the cat picked up Ms. Pempsky's wig, and Ms. Pempsky's wig picked up...well, I'm not sure, but I think head lice. Then, I dropped the cat, and the cat did not drop the wig, but shot its way to the room next door.
It was a funny story, now that I thought about it.
Here, Devil.
I reached out my hand again. I didn't actually know what he was called, but “Devil” seemed as good a name as any.
He ignored me, and it was just as well because it let me hear Ms. Pempsky and Father. My hand froze at the former's voice.
“Charles, you simply must do something to control that girl of yours. She'll never marry the way she keeps on.”
Father laughed. “Now, Evelyn, she's only 14.”
I made a face. Charles. She called him Charles. And he called her Evelyn.
I shook my head. It didn't matter.
Devil was looking at me again, on the verge of a hiss.
Oh, come off it.
In one swoop of my hand I grabbed the wig, tearing it away from the cat. I could have sworn he glared at me, but instead of putting up a fight he simply licked his paws and slinked away like the proud little devil he was.
I glared at his retreating form. And I had thought he was cute. Big mistake on my part.
I went to stand in the entrance of the parlor with the slimed hairpiece in my hands. The adults were still talking.
Talk, talk, talk. It was overrated if you asked me.
“Well, Charles. I-I'm sorry you had to see me like this.” Her eyelashes fluttered. She was flirting. With my father. And she was bald.
Father chuckled softly. “Don't be. You always look lovely, with your wig or without.”
I would have been insulted by such a comment, but Ms. Pempsky actually blushed. I think it was the gagging noises I made that alerted them to my presence.
Father smiled. “Grace! Do you have--”
I nodded, holding up the wig.
“Ah. Good,” he said. Ms. Pempsky sat up even straighter, which I didn't think was possible. Slowly, awkwardly, I held out the hairpiece to her. But she shook her head. I blinked, not knowing what to do.
“Put it on.” Her eyes bore through mine. I didn't move.
“You heard me, child. Put it on me.”
My hands twitched. Did I let her know that her wig had been in Devil's mouth for the past few minutes? Surely she could have guessed as much.
As I stood frozen in indecision a thought came to me. Ms. Pempsky knew her hairpiece wasn't fit to wear. But she would still have me put it on her. Was this her twisted way of restoring her dignity? Having me bow to her command, fixing every strand of hair to her liking?
The thought made me scowl, but I stepped closer. Whatever got the nasty thing out of my hands.
So I put in on her. A bit lopsided, perhaps, but she snatched her head away before I could straighten it. At least that was over with. But she bent her head towards me again.
Really, lady?
“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” The bitterness in her tone made me flinch. She smirked, eyes flashing with contempt. “Cat got a hold of your tongue, Grace?”
How dare she? She knew. She knew and purposefullly—
“Ah, Evelyn.” My father stepped in, laying his hand on my shoulder. “I'm sorry; I thought you knew. Grace is...” I braced for it. “Well, you see, Grace is mute.”
