Page 94 of Love at Teamsgiving
She winces, chastised.
“What is going on?”
“I asked for your brother’s help with the salon.”
Still not computing, I say, “As far as I know, he does not have a cosmetology license or business experience or much of anything other than running off to Thailand withHerand leaving us behind.”
It’s his turn to look apologetic and he presses his lips together as if trying not to blurt something out. His mouth loses the battle, and he says, “Catagen, Ionic, Alopecia.”
“So you are studying to be a hairdresser?”
Asher repeats, “Catagen, Ionic, Alopecia.”
I blink a few times because I stayed up late, um, baking pie, and other things with Mikey, and it’s early.
He says the three words from my state board exam one more time.
My jaw falls open. “C?—”
Mama interrupts. “Don’t say it. You never know who’s listening.”
My brother is a CIA officer? “Yeah, I need espresso for this.”
No more is said about the nature of my twin’s employment, but I do glean that Mama was concerned about my dream salon being ruined, so she called in the big guns, literally. How did she know about his job? Why didn’t he tell me?
My phone beeps from where it’s plugged in to charge, but it’s not a text.
Asher opens it, apparently knowing the password because he’s a sneak—and a professional, as it turns out. “It’s the security camera. We have to move out. Now.”
Mama, dressed in black, even though she recently went back to her non-mourning clothes, grabs a cast-iron skillet. “In case I need to defend myself or knock some sense into the perp.”
“The perp? What’s going on?” I ask as I pour a shot of espresso.
Asher says, “I’ll explain on the way. Put on some shoes.”
I do better than that and tug on a Knights hoodie and leggings, then race to the car as Asher backs out of the driveway.
The horizon is barely gray and the moon still shines overhead as my brother navigates the streets of Cobbiton as if he’s been here before. The day of Erica’s wedding filters back and his surprise visit. Did he wiretap the salon? Booby trap it? Do some other kind of spy craft?
“Okay, guys. Explain.”
“We have reason to believe that not one but two people have been involved in the strange occurrences at the salon—the ceiling, the smoke machine, the tow truck, the plastic wrap, the eggs, the pudding, oh, and the insurance adjuster visit.”
“Are we talking about the pranks someone was playing because I didn’t hear about all of those?”
They’re both quiet.
It takes me a moment to realize that Mama, my salon assistant, must’ve kept them from me.
“You’ve been working so hard, we didn’t want you to be upset.”
“That’s sweet, but you’d better believe I’m upset. We should’ve contacted the police. Do you even have jurisdiction here, Asher? What if we all get thrown in jail?”
While driving, he cranes over the seat and says, “Mama wanted to keep it in the family.”
Maybe she just wanted him to come home. All the same, I sulk in the backseat like a sullen child.
Asher cuts the headlights as we turn onto Fourth Street. I notice a stream of vehicles lined up on the incoming side of Main.
