Fern tried not to think about Ambrose's abs or the fact that Rita was intimately acquainted with them. About three weeks after the very first love note, she walked around the corner between classes, needing to retrieve an assignment from her locker only to see Rita pushed up against said locker, her arms wrapped around Ambrose. He was kissing her like they had just discovered they had lips . . . and tongues. Fern had gasped and turned immediately, retreating in the direction she had come. For a moment she thought she would be sick, and she swallowed the nausea rising in her throat. But it wasn't an upset stomach that made her ill, it was an upset heart. And she really had only herself to blame. She wondered if her letters simply made Ambrose love Rita more, making a mockery out of everything she revealed about herself.
It only took a little more than a month before the ruse was uncovered. Rita was acting funny. She wouldn't meet Fern's gaze when Fern handed her the love note for Ambrose that she had thoroughly enjoyed composing. Rita's eyes shot to Fern's outstretched hand, eyeballing the carefully folded paper like it was something to fear. She made no move to take it from Fern's hand.
“Um. I actually don't need it, Fern. We broke up. We're done.”
“You broke up?” Fern asked, aghast. “What happened? Are you . . . okay?”
“Yeah. No big deal. I mean, really. He was getting weird.”
“Weird? How?” Fern suddenly felt like she was going to cry, like she'd been dumped as well, and she worked at making her voice steady. Rita must have heard something though, because her eyebrows shot up beneath her swoopy bangs.
“It's really okay, Fern. He was kind of boring. Hot, but boring.”
“Boring or weird? Usually weird isn't boring, Rita.” Fern was thoroughly confused and growing a little angry that Rita had let Ambrose get away from them.
Rita sighed and shrugged, but this time she met Fern's eyes, apology in her gaze. “He figured out I wasn't writing the notes, Fern. The notes really didn't sound like me.” It was Rita's turn to look accusing. “I'm not as smart as you are, Fern.”
“Did you tell him it was me?” Fern squeaked, alarmed.
“Well . . .” Rita hedged, looking away again.
“Oh, my gosh! You did.” Fern thought she was going to pass out right there in the crowded hallway. She pressed her forehead into the cool metal of her locker and willed herself to be calm.
“He wouldn't let it go, Fern. He was so pissed! He was kind of scary.”
“You have to tell me everything. What did his face look like when you told him it was me?” Fern felt the bile rise.
“He looked a little . . . surprised.” Rita bit her lip and played with the ring on her finger uncomfortably. Fern guessed “surprised” was an understatement. “I'm sorry, Fern. He wanted me to give him all the notes that he wrote you–um, me–whatever. But I don't have them, Fern. I gave them to you.”
“Did you tell him that too?” Fern wailed, her hands hovering around her mouth in horror.
“Uh, yeah.” Rita was shaking now, her misery evident on her pretty face. The altercation with Ambrose must have upset her more than she was willing to admit. “I didn't know what else to do.”
Fern turned and ran straight for the girl's room, closing herself in a bathroom stall, her backpack in her lap, her head on her backpack. She squeezed her eyes closed, willing the tears away, chastising herself for getting in this situation. She was eighteen years old! Too old to hide in a bathroom stall. But she couldn't face pre-calculus right now. Ambrose would be there, and she didn't think she would be quite as invisible anymore.
The worst part was that every word had been real. Every word had been the truth. But she'd written the letters as if she had a face like Rita's and a body like hers too, like she was a woman who could woo a man with her figure and her smile and back it up with a brain to match. And that part was a lie. She was small and homely. Ugly. Ambrose would feel like a fool for the words he'd given her. His words had been words for a beautiful girl. Not Fern.
Fern waited outside the wrestling room. She had placed the notes Ambrose had written Rita in a big, Manila envelope. Bailey had offered to return all the notes at practice. Bailey knew all along about the game Fern and Rita had played. He said he would be discreet and just give them to Ambrose after practice was over. Bailey was an honorary member of the team, the statistician, and the coach's sidekick, and he attended wrestling practice every day. But Bailey had a hard time with discreet, and Fern didn't want to make matters worse and embarrass Ambrose in front of his teammates. So she waited, cowering in a nearby hallway, watching the wrestling room door, waiting for practice to dismiss.
One by one, the boys trickled out in different states of dress or undress, wrestling shoes slung over their shoulders, shirts off even though it was ten below outside. They didn't really notice Fern. And for once she was glad to suffer from invisibility. Then Ambrose walked out, obviously freshly showered because his long hair was wet, though he'd combed it back from his face. Thankfully, he walked alongside Paul Kimball and Grant Nielson. Paulie was sweet and had always been nice to Fern, and Grant was in several of her classes and was a little nerdier than his friends. He wouldn't make a big deal about her wanting to talk to Ambrose.
Ambrose froze when he saw her standing there, and the smile that had been playing around his lips dissolved into a stiff line. His friends halted when he did, looking around in confusion, obviously not believing, even for a second, that it was Fern he had stopped for.
“Ambrose? Can I talk to you for a minute?” Fern asked, her voice faint, even to her own ears. She hoped she wouldn't have to repeat herself.
All it took was a brief jut of his chin and Ambrose's friends got the message, walking on without him, eyeing Fern curiously.
“I'll get a ride with Grant then, Brosey,” Paulie called. “See you tomorrow.”
Ambrose waved his friends off, but his eyes skimmed just above Fern's head as if he was eager to be away from her. Fern found herself wishing this confrontation had come even a week later. She was getting her braces off on Monday. She'd worn them for three long years. If she'd known this was going to happen, she might have tried to tame her hair. And she would have put her contacts in. As it was, she stood with her curly hair springing out in every direction, her glasses perched on her nose, wearing a sweater she'd worn for years, not because it was flattering but because it was cozy. It was thick wool in a pale shade of blue that did nothing for Fern's complexion or her slight frame. All this flashed through her mind as she took a deep breath and held the big envelope out in front of her.
“Here. All the notes you sent Rita. Here they are.”
Ambrose reached out and took them, anger flashing across his face. And his eyes found hers then, pinning her back against the wall.
“So you had a good laugh, huh?”
“No.” Fern winced at the child-like sound of her voice. It matched her childish figure and her bowed head.
“Why did you do it?”
“I made a suggestion. That was all. I thought I was helping Rita. She liked you. Then it got out of hand, I guess. I'm . . . sorry.” And she was. Desperately sorry. Sorry that it was over. Sorry that she would never see his handwriting on paper again, read his thoughts, know him better with each line.
“Yeah. Whatever,” he said. She and Rita had hurt and embarrassed him. And Fern's heart ached. She hadn't meant to hurt him. She hadn’t meant to embarrass him. Ambrose walked toward the exit without another word.
“Did you like them?” she blurted.
Ambrose turned back, his face incredulous.
“I mean, until you found out I wrote them. Did you like them? The notes?” He despised her already. She might as well go for broke. And she needed to know.
Ambrose shook his head, dumbfounded, as if he couldn't believe she had the gall to ask. He ran one hand through his wet hair and shifted his weight in discomfort.
“I loved your notes,” Fern rushed on, the words tumbling out like a dam had burst. “
I know they weren't meant for me. But I loved them. You're funny. And smart. And you made me laugh. You even made me cry once. I wish they had been for me. So I was just wondering if you liked the things I wrote.”
There was a softening around his eyes, the tight, embarrassed look he'd worn since he'd seen her standing in the hallway easing slightly.
“Why does it matter?” he asked softly.
Fern struggled to find the words. It did matter. Whether or not he knew it was her, if he liked her letters it meant he liked her. On some level. Didn't it?
“Because . . . I wrote them. And I meant them.” And there it was. Her words filled the empty hallway, bouncing off the empty lockers and linoleum floors like a hundred bouncy balls, impossible to ignore or avoid. Fern felt naked and faint, completely exposed in front of the boy she had fallen in love with.
His expression was as stunned as her own must be.
“Ambrose! Brosey! Man, you still here?” Beans sidled around the corner as if he'd just happened upon them. But Fern knew instantly that he'd heard every word. She could see it in his smirk. He must think he was saving his friend from being assaulted, or worse, asked to a girl's choice dance by an ugly girl.
“Hey, Fern.” Beans acted surprised to see her there. She was surprised he knew her name. “I need a jump, Brose. My truck won't start.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Ambrose nodded, and Beans grasped him by his sleeve ushering him out the door. Fern's face flamed in embarrassment. She might be homely. But she wasn't stupid.
Ambrose let himself be pulled away, but then paused. Suddenly, he walked back to her and handed her the envelope that she'd given him only minutes before. Beans waited, curiosity flitting across his face.
“Here. They're yours. Just . . . don't share them. Okay?” Ambrose smiled briefly, just a sheepish twist of his well-formed lips. And then he turned and pushed out of the building, Beans on his heels. And Fern held the envelope close and wondered what it all meant.
“Get a net over that hair, son,” Elliott Young reminded patiently as Ambrose dropped his gear by the back door of the bakery and headed to the sink to wash up.
Ambrose pulled his hair back with two hands and wrapped an elastic band around it so that it was out of his face and less likely to fall into a vat of cake batter or cookie dough. His hair was still damp from his shower after practice. He pulled a net over the dark ponytail and pulled on an apron, wrapping it around his torso the way Elliott had taught him long ago.
“Where do you want me, Dad?”
“Get started on the rolls. The dough is ready to go. I've got to finish decorating this cake. I told Daphne Nielson I'd have it ready at six-thirty, and it's six now.”
“Grant said something about cake at practice. He said he thought he was close enough to weight he would be able to steal a slice.”
The cake was for Grant's little brother, Charlie, a birthday cake with characters from the animated Hercules on the top of three chocolate layers. It was cute and fanciful, with just enough color and chaos to appeal to a six-year-old boy. Elliott Young was good with details. His cakes always looked better than the pictures people could look at in the big cake book positioned in front of the bakery on a pedestal. Even the kids liked to peruse the laminated pages, pointing at the cake they wanted for their next big day.
Ambrose had tried his hand at decorating a few times, but his hands were big and the tools were small, and though Elliott was a patient teacher, Ambrose just didn't have the touch. He could do very basic decorating, but he was much better at baking, his strength and size more suited to labor than finesse.
He attacked the rising dough with competence, kneading and rolling and tucking each mound into a perfect roll without thought and with considerable speed. In the bigger bakeries there were machines that did what he was doing, but he didn't mind the rhythm of the operation, filling the huge sheets with hand-made rolls. The smell of the first batch of rolls in the oven was killing him though. Working in the bakery during wrestling season sucked.
“Done.” Elliott stepped back from the cake and checked the clock.
“Looks good,” Ambrose said, his eyes on the bulging muscles of the mythical hero standing atop the cake with his arms raised. “The real Hercules wore a lion skin, though.”
“Oh, yeah?” Elliott laughed. “How'd you know that?”
Ambrose shrugged. “Bailey Sheen told me once. He used to have a thing for Hercules.”
Bailey had a book propped on his lap. When Ambrose peered over his shoulder to see what it was, he saw various pictures of a naked warrior fighting what looked to be mythical monsters. A few of those pictures could have been framed and put in the wrestling room. The warrior looked like he was wrestling a lion in one and a boar in another. That was probably why Sheen was reading it; Ambrose didn't know anyone who knew more about wrestling than Bailey Sheen.
Ambrose sat down on the mats beside Bailey's chair and started lacing up his wrestling shoes.
“Whatcha reading, Sheen?”
Bailey looked up, startled. He was so absorbed in his book that he hadn't even noticed Ambrose. He stared at Ambrose for a minute, his eyes lingering on his long hair and the T-shirt that was inside out. Fourteen-year-old boys were notorious for not caring about clothes and hair, but Bailey's mom wouldn't have let him leave the house like that. Then Bailey remembered that Lily Young didn't live with Ambrose anymore, and Bailey realized it was the first time he'd seen Ambrose all summer. But Ambrose had still shown up for Coach Sheen's wrestling camp, just like he did every summer.
“I'm reading a book about Hercules,” Bailey said belatedly.
“I've heard of him.” Ambrose finished tying his shoes and stood as Bailey turned the page.
“Hercules was the son of the Greek God, Zeus,” Bailey said. “But his mother was a human. He was known for his incredible strength. He was sent on a bunch of quests to kill all these different monsters. He defeated the bull of Crete. He killed a golden lion whose fur was impervious to mortal weapons. He slayed a nine-headed hydra, captured flesh-eating horses, and destroyed man-eating birds with bronze beaks, metallic feathers, and toxic poop.” Ambrose chortled and Bailey beamed.
“That's what the story says! Hercules was awesome, man! Half God, half mortal, all hero. His favorite weapon was a club, and he always wore the skin from the lion, the golden lion that he killed on his very first quest.” Bailey narrowed his eyes, studying Ambrose. “You kinda look like him, now that your hair is growing out. You should keep it like that, grow it even longer. Maybe it will make you even stronger, like Hercules. Plus, it makes you look meaner. The guys you wrestle will pee their pants when they see you coming.”
Ambrose tugged on the hair that he'd neglected since last spring. With his mom gone now and two bachelors in the house, he had gone without a lot of things he used to take for granted. His hair was the least of his concerns.
“You know a lot, don't you, Sheen?”
“Yeah. I do. When you can't do much but read and study, you learn a few things, and I like reading about guys who knew a thing or two about wrestling. See this one?” Bailey pointed at the page. “Hercules on his first quest. Looks like he's working his tilt on that lion, doesn't it?”
Ambrose nodded, but his eyes were drawn to another image. It was a picture of another statue, but this one showed just the face and chest of the hero. Hercules looked serious, sad even, and his hand touched his heart, almost as if it hurt him.
“What's that picture about?”
Bailey screwed up his face and contemplated the image as if he wasn't sure.
“It's called 'Face of a Hero,'“ Bailey read the caption. He looked up at Ambrose. “Guess it wasn't all fun and games being a champion.”
Ambrose read aloud over Bailey's shoulder. “Hercules was the most famous of all the ancient heroes, and the most beloved, but many forget that his twelve labors were performed as penance. The goddess Hera caused him to lose his mind, and in his crazed state, he killed his wife and ch
ildren. Grief-stricken and filled with guilt, Hercules sought out ways to balance the scales and ease his tormented soul.”
Bailey groaned, “That's stupid. If I made a sculpture called 'Face of a Hero' I wouldn't make him sad. I'd give him a face like this.” Bailey bared his teeth and gave Ambrose the crazy eye. With his tufty, light brown curls, blue eyes, and ruddy cheeks, Bailey didn't pull off the mean face very well. Ambrose snorted and with a quick wave to Bailey, hurried to join the other wrestlers already stretching out on the mats. But he couldn't get the bronzed face of the mourning Hercules out of his head.
“Well, It's too late to make a lion skin out of fondant, but I think it'll pass muster.” Elliott smiled. “I've got another cake to finish, and then we'll head out. You need to get home. Don't want you getting burned out.”
“You're the one who has to come back tonight,” Ambrose said amiably. Elliott Young staggered his hours so he could be at home in the evenings, which meant he was back at the bakery at around two in the morning. He would leave at seven when Mrs. Luebke came on shift and be back again around three in the afternoon when her shift ended, working until seven or eight again in the evening. Most days, Ambrose would join him after practice, making the work go a little quicker.
“Yeah. But I'm not trying to keep my grades up and going to wrestling practice before and after school. You don't even have any time for that pretty girlfriend.”
“Pretty girlfriend is gone,” Ambrose muttered.
“Oh yeah?” Elliott Young searched his son's face for signs of distress and found none. “What happened?”
Ambrose shrugged. “Let’s just say she wasn’t the girl I thought I knew.”