Page 6 of Mr. Picture Perfect
“It’s been lovely catchin’ up, Irma, but we’re here on a mission and there’re only so many hours in the day. Why, have you done somethin’ with your hair? I love that look for you!”
Ms. Ducasse beams at once. “It’s bangs! I have them now!”
The women give a quick hug, then part ways. My Nan hooks her arm into mine, and under her breath she whispers, “I love you, Cole, but you’ve gotta set your bar higher than theMyers.”
I bite my lip and suppress a few possible responses, settling with: “Thanks, Nan.”
Despite what most of the population of Spruce apparently believes, I’ve never seen myself as an attractive person. I’m always staring into mirrors wondering what the heck others see. Maybe I’m seen as handsome on the outside, but inside, I am nothing but a tangled knot of insecurities and second-guessing. Should I wear a white shirt today or will I be eating something that can stain it? Should I plan my lunch ahead of time so I know? How should I fix my hair? Will the wind sabotage my efforts anyway? But isn’t it important to look my best for my job at the gym? Will my bosses Jimmy and Bobby think less of me if I relax my efforts just a little, if even one strand of hair is out of place or my pants aren’t ironed?
It’s a lot of pressure, to be forced to uphold such a standard—especially one I never wanted in the first place. I can’t say whether I’ve always been like this, or if it’s others’ expectations of me that made me so neurotic inside. A classic chicken-or-the-egg question. Even my Nan started calling me by that cheeky nickname that somehow got around and stuck to me: Mr. Perfection.
Some days, I wish I could just leave my house with my natural bedhead and twenty cowlicks. Shirt untucked. Mismatched socks. Face greasy and unshaven.
Honestly, that sounds like heaven.
A kid races past us, nearly knocking over my grandma. “Sorry, sorry!” he shouts over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd ahead. He’s pursued by a couple of other kids, who scurry right on by to catch him, playing a game of tag to amuse their bored and restless selves, I have to guess.
“Goodness … kids these days. Where are the parents?” My Nan lets out a breathless laugh. “Cole, my dear, while I do appreciate you taking me out today, I could have come here by myself just as easily, you know. I’m sure you have more important things to do with your day than walk an old lady around town.”
“Wouldn’t trade my time with you for the world,” I assure her as we turn the corner onto Main Street, passing Biggie’s Bites, everyone’s favorite burger joint. On the curb, a guy named Mick is wearing a sandwich board promoting festival specials. “Nothing’s needed on the cousins’ farm, and I’m off from work today.”
“But you know, Cole, Ms. Ducasse had a point. I justhatewhat you went through this past Christmas, bein’ pushed at a boy who already had his heart set on another. And ithasbeen an age and a half since you’ve had anyone knockin’ on your door.”
“Nan, you don’t have to worry about me one bit.”
“You could be walkin’ arm-in-arm with some sweet handsome fellow instead of an old bag like me.”
I give her a harsh look. “Please don’t call yourself that.”
“Fine. An old Louis Vuitton handbag. My point’s the same no matter what kind of bag I am. You know, if I had a dying wish, it’d be for you to findyourMr. Perfection and go to this festival with him instead.”
I can only imagine the impossibly long list of prerequisites my grandma has for what signifies a suitable enough partner for me. “Maybe someday,” I decide to answer vaguely.
“Goodness, that’s Dorothy Shannon!” sings my Nan. “I haven’t seen her since she came back from visiting family in Louisiana over the winter. Her husband, too. Tell you what, I’ll catch up with you later, Cole, just go along and do your own thing. I’ll be a while, our conversation will be mighty boring. Hey, Dorothy!” she calls out, bee-lining through the crowd to the other side of the street.
I watch her hurry off, a smile on my face. I love to see her out and about, in her element, her happiness bubbling over. I wish we could have a festival every day, if just to make all her days as light and happy as this one. The weather is simply perfect, too, which is only possible this time of year before the unforgiving summer season takes hold. I thrust my hands into my pockets and smile up at the bright sky, feeling indescribably good.
When I bring my eyes back down from the heavens, they land on a couple standing by a table full of wood carvings—all of them miniature horses, from the looks of it. It’s a couple I know from my high school days, Jeff and Kim. The two are picking out a wood carving together, smiles on their faces. Kim chuckles and whispers something to Jeff, which makes him put a big kiss on her cheek, surprising her. He draws a leaf out of her hair, she smiles, and the two gaze adoringly into each other’s eyes, tiny horses forgotten.
I watch them a bit too long.
What my Nan mentioned earlier isn’t difficult to imagine. Me with a sweet guy by my side, looking over little wooden figurines, bickering playfully over where we can put it in our house or why we need one at all. “Because it’s cute,” my boyfriend would say with a little laugh. “You’ll put it on a shelf or use it as a bookend and won’t even remember where you got it,” I’ll tease him back, because I know him so well. We finish each other’s sentences. And sandwiches. I’ll get him the horse anyway, and he’ll cherish it with all his heart, hugging it to his chest as we continue strolling down the street, our hearts as light as butterflies, our eyes happy.
I don’t even know what he looks like. I don’t know his name. I just know we’re joyfully sharing the world with each other, and there will never be an unhappy day for either of us ever again.
It’s easier to imagine than it is to believe.
“Take the shot!” shouts someone right next to me.
I turn to find another bright soul I went to school with, a girl who I remember could always be found around the auditorium or the costume department by the theater storage room. She backs up to the curb, appearing to be communicating to someone across the street with mounting urgency, her hands cupped around her mouth as she repeats: “Take the shot!”
I glance over my shoulder, curious who she’s talking to.
The crowd seems to part before my eyes, creating a path to the other curb, where I see a young guy with a camera in front of his face. He seems preoccupied somehow, camera slowly lowering, appearing to be in some kind of a daze. Sunlight shines over the lenses of his glasses. His lips hang slightly, parted.
A trio of kids dart behind him, chasing each other—the same ones who nearly knocked my grandma over.
But it isn’t my poor grandma they bump into this time.
