A Fate Totally Worse Than Death by Paul Fleischman Page B

answered out of the blue, praying it was located in that state. The woman eyed her. Waiting for judgment, Tiffany suddenly realized that she was beginning to pee.
    â€œNice town,” said the clerk, approving her answer. “I’ve been there two or three times.”
    Tiffany had trouble maintaining eye contact. A Nirvana-like bliss passed over her face, followed by deep worry.
    â€œThat’ll be nineteen dollars and sixty-eight cents,” said the clerk.
    Tiffany paid, requested a brown bag, and furtively eyed her small puddle. Her jeans and left shoe held most of the urine. She took a trial step, getting used to the feel, then remembered the storm with relief.
    â€œFloor’s a little wet,” she remarked offhandedly. “From the rain.”
    The clerk bent over the counter to look.
    Tiffany peered in panic at her bright yellow urine. “They say this storm has a lot of acid rain in it,” she added and vanished out the door.
    Tiffany awoke the next morning wondering how she would get out of bed. Each joint in her body felt swollen twice its size. She glanced out the window. It was still drizzling. Vaguely, she recollected a commercial in which an old lady complained of wet weather worsening her arthritis. She winced as she slowly sat up in bed, vowed to move immediately to the Sahara, then staggered gingerly to the bathroom. She picked up a bottle of aspirin and squinted, hoping to see the word “arthritis.” For the past two days she’d found it increasingly hard to focus on nearby objects. She gave up reading the miniscule type, took two pills anyway, then stood under a scalding shower. Combing her hair afterwards, she noticed the comb felt heavy in her hand. She glanced at it. Then, in a frenzy, she wiped the condensation from the mirror. Ragged gaps showed in what had been her body’s prize attraction: Her gorgeous brown hair was falling out.
    â€œDamn that Helga!” she swore aloud. She blinked back tears while surveying the damage. She would have no choice but to wear her hair up. Then she set eyes on her ravaged bangs. She couldn’t let them show either. After dressing and pinning up her hair, heaping curses on Helga all the while, she covered her scalp with a red bandana, as she’d seen her mother attired in photos taken back in the ’60s. She hoped her peers would find the look cool. Then she searched her magazines for advice, flipped to page twenty in April’s
Foxy
, and skimmed in disappointment the article titled “Your Balding Boyfriend: What To Do, What Not To (and Ten Remarks To Keep
Under
Your Hat!).” She looked at her clock. She had to be at school early. She dragged her body to the kitchen, washed down a croissant with a Diet Coke, trudged out to her car, lurched back to the house, distastefully put her diaper in place, then shuffled back out and drove to school.
    Brooke pulled into the lot right behind her. The rain had stopped. They parked and got out.
    â€œWhat’s that?” asked Brooke, pointing at Tiffany’s bandana.
    â€œA bandana, idiot. What do you think?”
    â€œSorry,”
said Brooke. “I was just wondering why you came to school disguised as a Russian cabbage farmer.”
    This was not precisely the response that Tiffany had hoped for. She lowered her voice to a deathbed whisper. “My hair is falling out.”
    Brooke’s eyes expanded. The pair set off, Brooke slowing her steps to match Tiffany’s hobble. She scoured her brain for a change of topic. “So why are you here so early today?”
    â€œMr. Yancy,” answered Tiffany. “I have to help the old lecher twice a week to pay off the camera I broke. Today he’ll be taking more pictures of me.”
    â€œWith or without clothes?”
    â€œWith
. Are you crazy?” Then she imagined him arranging her pose, carefully adjusting her buttocks with his hands—something that seemed to need doing