Guy Wire Read Online Free PDF Page B

cutting Guy’s hair ever since he was a little boy,” my mom told Fennimore. “And I cut his father’s hair too. If I say so myself, I’m pretty darned good at it. Do you want a cookie?”
    My mother handed Fennimore a cookie out of the cookie jar. He bit into it and moaned.
    “What’s the matter? Sore tooth?” she asked.
    “Uh-uh.” Fennimore shook his head. “ Sweet tooth. My mom gives me rice cakes after school on account of all the fillings I’ve had to get. Do they have rice cakes in Cedar Springs?”
    “Of course,” she said.
    “I was afraid of that.” Fennimore took another bite of cookie.
    “Okay, Guy, show Fennimore where the phone in the den is so he can call his mamain private. I’ll find my scissors, and if she gives us the go-ahead, we can get started.” She held up her hands and made a little frame out of her index fingers and thumbs and squinted at Fennimore through it like an artist looks at a bowl of fruit before she paints it. “I love a challenge,” she said.
    Fennimore called home and spoke to his mother. After he hung up, he came back into the kitchen, where my mom and I were waiting.
    “Is she going to join us?” my mother asked him.
    “No, Mrs. Strang. She’s making a stew, but she says to thank you kindly for the offer and that it’s okay for you to cut my hair so long as it’s just a little trim.”
    “Good! A little trim it is then,” my mother said, going and pulling some towels out of the hall closet. “Guy, drag that stool over, will you?”
    I pulled the stepstool out into the center of the room.
    “Before we get started, do you think I might trouble you for another one of those delicious cookies, Mrs. Strang?” Fennimore asked politely.
    “Oh, those manners! Good gravy, have as many cookies as you want, you angel boy!” she said, handing him the whole jar.
    It was true that my mother had cut my hair for years, and she’d never done anything weird to it, so I was pretty sure that whatever she had in mind for Fennimore would be fine. Besides, his hair was already weird, so she couldn’t possibly make it any worse.
    “Okay, Fennimore,” she said cheerfully. “First of all we’ll need to wash your hair.”
    My mother took Fennimore over to the kitchen sink and made him bend over with his head under the faucet. It took three washings to get out whatever he’d put in there to hold it down flat. Then she wrapped the towel around his head.
    “Lawrence of Suburbia!” She laughed.
    Fennimore sat on the kitchen stool happilymunching cookies while my mother wrapped a beach towel around his shoulders and began to comb his hair.
    “How long do you think this is gonna take?” he asked.
    “A little trim takes two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” she answered.
    “Mom, speak English, will you? It’s three thirty right now, and all he wants to know is—oh my gosh, oh my gosh!”
    “What’s the matter?” my mother asked.
    “I’ve got soccer practice. Right now! I completely forgot. I was supposed to be there at three thirty. My coach is gonna kill me. Quick, Mom, where’s my uniform?”
    I started running around trying to pull my jeans off over my sneakers without sitting down. My shoes got jammed in the legs of the pants, and I tripped and fell down on the floor.
    “Relax, Guysie. Nobody’s going to kill you. I’ll write you a note.”
    “A note? What are you, nuts? ” I said, finallymanaging to yank my pants off. “Mothers don’t write notes to soccer coaches. Please, just tell me where my uniform is.”
    “I washed it last night. It’s probably still in the dryer.”
    I stopped dead in my tracks.
    “You put it in the dryer?”
    “Yes.”
    “Remember I told you not to do that because it might shrink and it was already too small to begin with?”
    “Oh, I’m sorry. You did tell me that, didn’t you, sweetie?”
    I ran down into the basement in my underwear and yanked open the dryer. Crossing my fingers, I reached into the warm, dark drum.
    “How is