Absolutely Maybe Read online

  Lisa Yee - Absolutely Maybe

  CHAPTER ONE

  The day I turned six, we went to the Magic Kingdom to celebrate, just my mom and me. We wore matching yellow sundresses trimmed with lace and straw hats with blue silk ribbons. Everyone told us we looked lovely. On Cinderella’s Carousel, my horse was the only one with a golden bow on his tail. We went on It’s a Small World three times, because I loved it so much. And when Captain Hook frightened me, my mother held me tight and sent him on his way.

  At dinner, the waitress brought a slice of chocolate cake with six candles, and Belle, from Beauty and the Beast, sang “Happy Birthday” to me. Even though we were exhausted, we stayed at the theme park until after dark to watch the fireworks. When Tinkerbell appeared, I shut my eyes tight and wished that every day could be like this.

  That night as my mother tucked me into bed, she brushed the hair out of my face and kissed me gently on the forehead.

  “I love you, Mommy,” I said.

  “I love you too,” she whispered. “We’ll always have each other, Maybelline.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  You’re not going to wear that to school, are you?” my mother asks as she takes another drag on her Virginia Slims. In this house there are two things you can count on:

  That Chessy will hog the bathroom, and

  She will say, “You’re not going to wear that to school, are you?”

  I don’t answer her. We both know I’m not going to change. As usual, I have on baggy jeans, a men’s black Beefy Hanes T-shirt (XL), Converse so old they’re held together with electrical tape, and Upton Sinclair’s Army jacket. (He was husband number five of Chessy’s six.) “Sit down, Maybelline. It’s time we had a little talk.”

  I check the clock. I’m late for school again.

  “I have big news.”

  I frown. I know what “big news” means.

  “Jake asked me to marry him!”

  “Chessy, you just divorced Carlos and you’re getting married again already?”

  She ignores me. “You’re going to be part of the wedding, so I want you to clean up your act. You will come out of your cocoon and turn into a beautiful butterfly if it kills us both. You will learn and adhere to Chessy’s Seven Select Rules for Young Ladies. You will let your hair turn back to its natural color and then, if necessary, we will dye it blonde. And you will stop being a Goth person and start being a girl.

  “I expect all this to start immediately. The wedding will be at the end of summer.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because that’s when I could book Chalet Suzanne. They have a gazebo.”

  “No, I mean, why are you doing this? You’re just going to divorce him too.”

  “Maybelline,” my mother says sharply, “your negativity will give both you and me premature wrinkles. This time’s for real. I can tell. Jake’s a good man. He’ll take care of us.”

  “Oh, I get it. We’re not capable of taking care of ourselves, is that it?” I lower my voice. “Honestly, Chessy, we don’t need Jake or any man.”

  My mother puts on her beauty queen smile. “Maybelline, every belle needs a beau.”

  “Gram didn’t have a man around the house.”

  Chessy flinches and then shifts to her sweetest Southern drawl—the one she uses when she wants something. “I’d like you to be my maid of honor. I would have no one else but you, Maybelline.”

  She means no one else will do it. All Chessy’s friends are men. Women don’t trust her. I don’t trust her. Last summer she went to the grocery store to get a cake for my sixteenth birthday but came home with Jake instead. He’s the assistant manager at the Piggly Wiggly.

  I never did get my cake.

  “We’ll do a super sized makeover and by the time I’m done, you’ll look so good that no one will recognize you!” My mother returns to her normal voice. “Oh, and one more thing. You will not give me any more of your attitude. Is that clear?”

  I flip her off.

  “Come back here this instant,” she yells. “Maybelline, come back!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I like to be called Maybe, but my real name is Maybelline Mary Katherine Mary Ann Chestnut. Maybelline, after my mother’s favorite brand of mascara. Mary Katherine, after Mary Katherine Campbell, the only person to be crowned Miss America twice. Mary Ann, after Mary Ann Mobley, an actress and a favorite Miss America of my mother’s. And Chestnut, after Chessy’s maiden name. I don’t know my father’s last name, or his first name either. I’ve asked, but my mother refuses to discuss it.

  Ted is waiting for me at the corner. He’s always waiting for me.

  “Late again!”

  “Drop it, Ted,” I growl.

  “I see,” he says, shaking his head. “Princess didn’t get enough of her beauty sleep. Am I right? Tell me I’m right. I’m always right.”

  “You’re wrong.” I start to tell him about my mother’s latest engagement but stop mid sentence. It’s too early in the morning to talk about depressing stuff. Instead I snort, “Chessy thinks I’m Goth.”

  Ted bursts out laughing. “You? Goth?” he says as he repeatedly punches the walk button. “What kind of Goth watches Nelson’s Neighborhood?”

  “Shut up!” I push him into the street.

  As Ted and I near the high school, kids race past us. Still, we walk, even slowing our pace. I’m a library aide first period and Ms. Hodor doesn’t care what time I get in as long as all the books get shelved. Ted works in the attendance office in the morning. They let him show up late because he can do the job of five students—six if he’s had a Mountain Dew before school. He’s so organized it’s scary. Only, his grades suck. “That’s because school bores me,” Ted claims. “It’s not challenging enough for someone as smart as me.”

  Ted and I have been best friends since the second week of our freshman year when he saw the Fantastic Five torment me. That’s what they call themselves. How stupid is that? They are the prettiest, meanest, most popular girls, and if that’s not bad enough, they all attend my mother’s charm school. “You are my favorite girls in the entire world!” she’s always telling them.

  Where does that leave me?

  So, flash back to freshman year. One of the Fantastic Five didn’t even try to lower her voice when she said, “That Maybelline Chestnut, how is it that her mother’s such a beauty and she’s a beast?”

  I hugged my backpack to my chest.

  Out of nowhere, Ted charged up to them like a bull and boomed, “Farang!”

  The girls just laughed, but you could tell they were confused. Plus this other geeky kid started filming the whole thing.

  “Farang!” Ted shouted again and again. “Farang! FARANG!” Slowly, the Fantastic Five backed away and then started running and screaming and waving their arms in the air like you see people do in horror movies. It was awesome.

  Later, I asked Ted what farang meant. “Foreigner,” he told me. “I don’t know any dirty words in Thai, but I’m working on it.”

  Ted’s real name is Thammasat Tantipinichwong Schneider. He’s adopted, which is instantly clear if you look at his family, who are all big and fat and freckly with carrot-colored hair. He’s more than a head shorter than me, tanned, and so lightweight that I can carry him around on my back. Ted has obscenely long eyelashes, huge brown eyes that don’t miss anything, and a mess of black hair that can’t decide whether to lie flat or be curly. On Saturdays his parents drive him all the way over to Tampa, where there’s a Thai Culture Club. There’s not much Thai culture here in Kissimmee. There’s not much culture, period.

  Even though the second bell has rung, there are still students scurrying all over campus. Ms. Hodor nods to me when I finally walk into the library. I toss my backpack into the corner
and head to the workroom, where the return bin is overflowing. If you don’t return your library books by the end of the school year, you don’t graduate. Hollywood has already started sorting. He’s a senior and really tall and skinny. When he’s bent over the library cart, his body looks like a question mark with an Afro, even though he’s white. He straightens up when he sees me.

  “Hi Maybe!”

  “Hey Hollywood.”

  Hollywood pulls something out of his pocket. “Look!” It’s his acceptance letter from the University of Southern California in Los Angeles. It has been Hollywood’s life ambition to get into the USC film school. We’ve talked about it for hours. I even helped him write his essay. “I can’t believe it’s really happening,” he says. “So I’ve decided not to let this letter out of my sight until I get there. John Carpenter, Sam Peckinpah, George Lucas, they all went to USC.”

  He breaks into an imitation of R2-D2 and I laugh, more at him acting all spazzed out than his imitation. Then he picks up his ancient Super 8 camera. “Maybe, smile!” Hollywood says. “I’m making a farewell film for myself.”

  I stare straight at the lens. Hollywood’s always filming me and Ted. “Even though you’re a major pain in the ass,” I tell him, “I’m really going to miss you.”

  Hollywood lowers his camera. His voice cracks. “Really, Maybe?” He comes toward me with a funny look on his face. “Are you really going to miss me?”

  “Whoa, cowboy,” I say, holding up my hands. “I’m going to miss your weirdness, that’s all.”

  Hollywood smiles. He has a crazy, crooked smile that makes him look like he’s a little kid who’s just done something wrong. “I’ll take what I can get.” Suddenly he’s all twitchy. “Hey, want to go get dinner tonight?”

  “Naw,” I tell him. “I gotta head right home to help Chessy. There’s a pageant coming up.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He folds the letter carefully and puts it in his back pocket. “Some other time, then.”

  “Yeah, some other time.”

  I finish shelving the books and then head to Mr. Santat’s art class, where I draw my hand, only it looks more like a claw. For English we are assigned to read The Member of the Wedding by Carson McCullers. Ironic that Mrs. Nese would assign that book, considering the bombshell my mother has dropped this morning. When lunchtime rolls around, I ignore the Fantastic Five, then I zone out all through biology and most of the rest of my classes too.

  Finally, school’s over. It is sweltering outside, the temperature over one hundred degrees. Welcome to Florida in the summertime. As I head home, the clouds crack open—just on my side of the street. After fifteen minutes, it stops. Steam rises from the sidewalk.

  There’s no outside entrance to our apartment, so I am forced to walk through the charm school on the ground floor. One of the photos of old movie stars on Chessy’s Wall of Beauty is crooked. I don’t bother to straighten it. Chessy is in her office surrounded by newspaper clippings, crowns, and other relics from her beauty queen days.

  “My God, Maybelline!” My mother stares at me. “You look like something from a horror movie. Move it before my girls see you. You’re bad for business.”

  “Love you too,” I say.

  “Wait, what do you think of this?” she says as I turn to leave. Chessy holds up a sketch of a kimono and a swatch of blue silk. “This is for the Miss Greater Osceola Area Outstanding Teen Pageant—isn’t it spectacular? And look at these!” She holds up even more drawings.

  “They look like Halloween costumes.”

  “High ethnical standards are thirty-five percent of this pageant,” my mother informs me.

  “Ethnical standards?”

  “It’s a new category. I’ve commissioned Ridgeway to create special ethnically-correct dresses, but with rhinestones and sequins. It was hard talking the mothers into spending the extra money, but once I explained how it would give my girls an edge, everyone was all for it.”

  One of the services Chessy offers her students is beauty pageant coaching. She will do one-on-one training sessions and even accompany her girls to the contests. Chessy’s got a reputation for training winners. For the past six years, the Fantastic Five have dominated every pageant they’ve entered.

  My mother examines the blue silk and without looking up says, “Maybelline, we could start your makeover this weekend.”

  “Drop it,” I moan.

  She lets out a sigh. “What about a little diet? Jake could get us a case of Slim Away shakes. Then you wouldn’t have to wear those men’s T-shirts all the time to hide your fat. When I was your age . . .”

  I can still hear Chessy blathering as I clomp up the stairs. When my mother was my age she was Miss Teen Dream. Chessy’s always had this thing for crowns and goes royal on me all the time. She’s the sole proprietor of Chessy Chestnut’s Charm School for Young Ladies, aka CC’s Charm School. Her slogan was “Be all that you can be!” until Upton Sinclair snorted, “That’s a laugh! Don’t you know that’s the line the Army uses to recruit soldiers?” (He ought to know, he was an Army deserter.) Chessy had already had the slogan painted on the side of the building, so she made Carlos, soon-to-be husband number six, add, “And so much more!!!”

  My mother was really somebody during her pageant circuit days. Some of her bigger titles include: Miss Silver Spurs Rodeo, Miss Zellwood Corn Festival, Miss Plant City Strawberry Fest, Miss Kissimmee, Miss Osceola County, Miss Central Florida, Miss Florida. They say she could have been Miss America, except that when the time came for her to fly to Atlantic City for the pageant, she wigged out. It even made the newspaper: “Miss Florida Misses the Plane.”

  Upstairs, I stare into the mirror. I do look like a monster. My makeup is smudged, and the orange from my hair is dripping down my forehead. I wash everything off. My face looks blank without makeup, like nobody’s home. I reapply my kohl eyeliner and deep purple lipstick, then change into a fresh black T-shirt.

  I go back downstairs. “I’m eating at Ted’s tonight,” I tell Chessy.

  “Good,” she yells after me. “Jake’s taking me bowling, so be sure to call before you come home.”

  I love it at Ted’s house. Everyone there is normal. No one wears a crown and Ted’s mom is never “on.” His parents dote on Ted, like he’s Baby Jesus or something. Maybe he is. Paww found him at the base of the statue of St. Anthony tucked into a shoebox with a book called My Thai Baby beside him. Two months later, in the presence of God, an adoption advocate, and a judge, the Schneiders swore to raise him, love him, and make sure he was in touch with his cultural heritage. His parents take this so seriously, they insist on being called Maah and Paww, the Thai equivalent of mother and father.

  Maah hands me the chopsticks. “Can I spend the night?” I ask as I set the table. We’re having pad Thai, my favorite. “Jake’s taking my mother bowling.”

  “Chessy bowls?”

  “Well, he bowls and she watches. She can’t bowl on account of her acrylic nails.”

  “Of course you can stay here, Maybe. I even emptied one of the dresser drawers in the spare room for you.” Maah gives me a hug. “You are welcome here anytime, darling. You’re family.”

  Sure enough, on the second dresser drawer is a label that reads: maybe’s only. I open it and smile when I see a brand-new tooth-brush and a tube of toothpaste waiting for me. Next, I wander down the hall. Ted’s walls are plastered with photos of Thailand. A poster touting Sunthorn Phu Day is on his closet door. There’s a Thai flag above his bed, near the autographed photo of Yo-Yo Ma, the cellist. On his dresser rests a small shrine to Buddha with fresh flowers around it.

  “Maybe—supper’s on!” Paww calls out.

  Maah’s cooking is divine. We never have home-cooked meals at my house. Chessy and I are both pretty good at the electric can opener, though.

  After dinner, Paww and Maah snuggle on the couch. I claim the love seat and Ted curls up in the rocking chair. He tosses the remote to his dad, then we all settle in for another Friday night of te
levision.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Chessy and Jake are probably back from bowling. I can only imagine what they’re doing. The walls at home are pretty thin.

  Jake Himmler. Chessy’s really scraping the bottom of the barrel this time. He likes to brag that he started working at Piggly Wiggly when he was in high school and never left. Jake wooed my mother with cases of toilet paper, boxes of oranges, and tubs of margarine—things he stole from the grocery store. Once, when I called him on it, Jake said, “Perks, Maybelline. Perks of the job.” He looked me up and down and added, “I work hard, so why shouldn’t I get a little something extra?”

  You’ve heard of serial murderers? My mother’s a serial marryer. It’s a disease. The husbands get blinded by the big blonde hair and big boobs and big personality. There’s so much big stuff that they never notice the little cracks in the marriage until it’s too late. She married, in order:

  1) Mark Abajian—full-time mechanic and part-time bodybuilder, honeymoon: Gainesville, Florida, divorced after sixteen months, “He came between me and my dreams” (he wanted her to give up the Charm School) Sammy Wing—photographer, honeymoon: Miami, Florida, divorced after eight months, “He didn’t love me for who I was” (he wanted her to give up drinking) Jim Marshall—banker, honeymoon: Amelia Island, Florida, divorced after three months, “He was boring” (he wouldn’t go dancing with her) 4) Sammy Wing—photographer, honeymoon: St. Augustine, Florida, divorced after three years, “He was selfish” (his career took him to California and she refused to move) Upton Sinclair—U. S. military, retired, honeymoon: Clearwater, Florida, divorced after eight months, “He wasn’t who he said he was” (that’s true) Carlos Alvarez—sign painter, honeymoon: Key West, Florida, divorced after fifty-four hours, “He was trying to ruin my life” (he wanted a baby).

  My favorite of all her husbands was Sammy Wing. He took the only picture of me that I don’t hate. In it, I don’t look angry or mad. I just look, I dunno. I don’t look like me. I look normal. Like a normal girl. If you didn’t know it was me, you’d think, “Oh, she’s a regular person. Probably has nice parents, lots of friends, a good life.”