“I did taunt him. I don't think I've ever taunted anyone before. It was . . . fun,” Fern said seriously, honestly.
Ambrose burst out laughing and set down his rolling pin, looking at her and shaking his head. And this time he didn't duck his head and turn away.
“Never taunted anyone, huh? I seem to remember you making faces at Bailey Sheen at a big wrestling tournament. He was supposed to be taking stats, but you were making him laugh. Coach Sheen got after him, which hardly ever happened. I think that qualifies as taunting.”
“I remember that tournament! Bailey and I were playing a game we made up. You saw that?”
“Yeah. You two looked like you were having fun . . . and I remember wishing I could trade places with the two of you . . . just for an afternoon. I was jealous.”
“Jealous? Why?”
“The coach from Iowa was at that tournament. I was so nervous I was sick. I was throwing up between matches.”
“You were nervous? You won every match. I never saw you lose. What did you have to be nervous about?”
“Being undefeated was a lot of pressure. I didn't want to disappoint anybody.” Ambrose shrugged. “So tell me about this game.” Ambrose smoothly moved the conversation away from himself. Fern tucked away the information he had revealed for later perusal.
“It's a game Bailey and I play. It's our version of Charades. Bailey can't really act anything out, for obvious reasons, so we play this game we call Making Faces. It's stupid, but . . . fun. The idea is to communicate strictly through facial expressions. Here. I'll show you. I'll make a face and you tell me what I'm feeling.”
Fern dropped her jaw and widened her eyes theatrically.
“Surprise?”
Fern nodded, smiling. Then she flared her nostrils and wrinkled her forehead, screwing her mouth up in disgust. Ambrose chortled.
“Something smells bad?”
Fern giggled and immediately changed faces. Her lower lip quivered and her chin puckered and shook and her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh man, you are way too good at that!” Ambrose was laughing full out now, the dough forgotten as she entertained him.
“Do you want to try?” Fern was laughing too, wiping away the tears she had manufactured to create her “sad” face.
“Nah. I don't know if my face would cooperate,” Ambrose said quietly, but there was no self-consciousness in his voice, no defensiveness, and Fern let it go with a quiet “okay.”
They visited for a few minutes more and then Fern thanked him again and said good night. And it had been a good night, in spite of Becker Garth. Ambrose had talked to her. He'd even laughed with her. And Fern felt a glimmer of hope flicker in her heart.
The following day when Fern arrived at work there was a quote on the whiteboard.
“God has given you one face and you make yourself another.” - Hamlet
Shakespeare again. Hamlet again. Ambrose seemed to have a thing for the tortured character. Maybe because he was a tortured character. But she had made him laugh. Fern smiled, remembering the invention of the Making Faces game.
2001
“Why are you making that face, Fern?” Bailey asked.
“What face?”
“That face that looks like you can't figure something out. Your eyebrows are pushed down and your forehead is wrinkled. And you're frowning.”
Fern smoothed out her face, realizing she was doing exactly what Bailey said she was doing. “I was thinking about a story I've been writing. I can't figure out how to end it. What do you think this face means?” Fern gave herself an underbite and crossed her eyes.
“You look like a brain-dead cartoon character,” Bailey answered, snickering.
“What about this one?” Fern pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows while wincing.
“You're eating something super sour!” Bailey cried. “Let me try one.” Bailey thought for a minute and then he made his mouth go slack and opened his eyes as wide as they could go. His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth like a big dog.
“You're looking at something delicious,” Fern guessed.
“Be more specific,” Bailey said and made the face once more.
“Hmm. You're looking at a huge ice cream sundae,” Fern tried again. Bailey pulled his tongue back into his mouth and grinned cheekily.
“Nope. That's the face you make every time you see Ambrose Young.”
Fern swatted Bailey with the cheap stuffed bear she'd won at the school carnival in fourth grade. The arm flew off and ratty stuffing flew in all directions. Fern tossed it aside.
“Oh yeah? What about you? This is the face you make whenever Rita comes over.” Fern lowered one eyebrow and smirked, trying to replicate Rhett Butler's smolder in Gone with the Wind.
“I look constipated whenever I see Rita?” Bailey asked, dumbfounded.
Fern snorted, laughter exploding from her nose, making her grab for a tissue so she didn't gross herself out too much.
“I don't blame you for liking Ambrose,” Bailey said, suddenly serious. “He is the coolest guy I know. If I could be anyone in the whole world, I'd be Ambrose Young. Who would you be?”
Fern shrugged, wondering as she always did what it would be like to be beautiful. “I wouldn't mind looking like Rita,” she answered honestly. “But I think I would still like to be me on the inside. Wouldn't you?”
Bailey thought for a minute. “Yeah. I am pretty awesome. But so is Ambrose. I'd still trade places.”
“I'd just trade faces,” Fern said.
“But God gave you that face,” Rachel Taylor said from the kitchen. Fern rolled her eyes. Her mother had the hearing of a bat; even at sixty-two years old she didn't miss trick.