“He’s handsome, popular, and rich. Of course they all want to sleep with him.” Not for the first time, I wonder if she is also sleeping with him. I hate to think that of my friend, but she disappears randomly and doesn’t tell me where she’s been. She sometimes shows up places with him, and he’s always giving her looks.
Honestly, I don’t want to know.
I focus on my food, but I don’t feel like eating. My stomach feels like it’s been encased in ice.
“Well, I don’t want to sleep with him,” I murmur, putting my fork down as anxiety prickles across my skin. I’d like to get out of here before anyone else shows up for dinner. Frankly, I feel like I’ve been wrung dry, my last reserves of strength bled out along with the words to my essay. I’m dreading getting my phone back tomorrow. What if Creed posts my essay online? That’d really be the end of me.
Besides, I’m afraid to hear what my dad has to say to me. There’s no apology in the world that can make up for what he did. I’m desperate to know what this ‘news’ is that he received that supposedly upset him so much, and damn Zack for not telling me what it was.
“Is there anyone you do want to sleep with?” Miranda asks, putting her fork aside and scrambling to stand up and follow me out the door. “Like … maybe Zack?”
“Would you let the Zack thing go?” I turn a glare on her, but Miranda just smiles back at me. “He used to bully me, you know? That, and he said some weird stuff to Tristan when he confronted me about my grades.”
“What sort of weird stuff?” Miranda asks, her shoulders stiffening up. Yet again, a single mention of Tristan and she gets all cryptic.
“It was pretty clear the two of them have met before. Zack challenged Tristan to come at him during fall break, and Tristan insinuated that Zack applied to Burberry Prep and didn’t get in.” Miranda’s chewing on her lower lip, a habit that’s usually left to me. She doesn’t look at me, just attempts a half-hearted hair flip.
“Well, I’ve never seen Zack before,” she adds with a shrug of her shoulders. She twirls around to face me, her red-pleated skirt spinning. “Maybe they met during summer break or something? Tristan’s family always goes to the Hamptons.”
I have no idea where Zack goes for summer breaks, only that he’s rich enough to go to a private school like this one, but had gotten kicked out of so many before he was relegated to Lower Banks Middle School. No clue where he’s going to school this year. If he were here now, I wonder if we’d be friends?
“Your family doesn’t go to the Hamptons, too?” I ask, and Miranda flushes, like she’s been caught in a lie.
“Sometimes, but not for the whole summer like some people. We have a cabin in Lake Tahoe …” she trails off, and then switches up our conversation with a rapid change of subject. “Are you sure you’re not going to the Halloween party on Saturday?”
“Positively not,” I tell her, shivering as we pass the smiling faces of Harper and Becky, their arms linked, their eyes on me. Harper purposely elbows me in the side, and I stumble. Anger fills me up, white-hot and pulsing, but there’s no point in acknowledging it. If I punch Harper, then I guarantee I’m the one who will be in trouble. “But I want you to go and have fun. Take pics for me, okay?”
Miranda gives me a look, but lets me go at the chapel, veering off with a wave.
I don’t even remember getting back to my room or falling asleep.
Actually, the next thing I remember is waking up with a hangover.
My eyes are sticky, lids heavy, as I struggle to sit up in my bed. I’ve got a serious case of dry mouth, and a massive migraine.
“What the … hell?” I groan as I reach up and run my fingers through my hair.
My hair.
Scrambling out of bed, I skid across the floor and into the bathroom, gaping at myself in the mirror above the sink. When I touched my hair, something felt wrong. But oh my god. Something is really, really wrong.
My long, brunette waves are gone, replaced with a red pixie cut. And when I say red, I mean as red as blood. A scream lodges in my throat, but I choke it back, leaning forward and staring at the ragged ends of my hair. It’s so short, I’m not even sure that I could style it.
For several long moments, I just stand there and stare, my brown eyes wide, my lips parted, my hair … a hot freaking mess. Stumbling back into my room, I check my bedroom door, and find the bottom lock in place. The chain lock however is undone, and I always, always hook it—because I was scared of something like this happening.
In a daze, I sit down hard on the edge of my bed, mind whirling with possibilities.
“I slept through it,” I murmur, running a palm over my new do. But then my head throbs and I cringe. No, no, I was drugged. Fucking drugged. There’s no other explanation. A normal person doesn’t sleep through a full bleach, dye, and cut job. That’s just not possible.
I’m still wearing my uniform from the day before, but when I pinch the white shirt and glance down at it, I can see red stains that look like blood.
This is the work of women, for sure. No way one of those asshole Idol dudes would realize how much this would hurt me. My hair, my hair, my freaking hair … I’ve been growing it out since before I can even remember. It was damn near to my ass, and now it’s all gone, and it’s not something I can get back.
My bones feel like jelly, so I flop down on the edge of my bed and stare at the floor. I’d cry, but my eyes are so sticky, and I feel so drained. The length of my hair, the slight wave, the fullness … it was one of the few things I truly liked about myself. Years and years of work, of brushing out tangles, braiding it before bed, spending a hundred dollars I didn’t have to get some gum removed during my middle school bullying years …
An exhale escapes me that sounds like a cry, and I put my hands over my face.
My first instinct is to run. Combined with the pain of having my essay read aloud, this is almost too much. I’m shaking; my defenses are crumbling.
What good would running do? I ask myself instead. Mom thought her life with dad and a young daughter was too hard, and she took off. The last person in the world I want to be like is her. Dropping my hands to my lap, I force myself up and into the bathroom, splashing my cheeks and forehead with cool water.
I can’t run.
And I’m never going to let myself slip into that dark place again. The first time, with the pills, I was so out of it, all I remember is throwing up and then crying into Zack’s chest. The second time, it was agonizing, sitting there and bleeding and hurting, wondering what was waiting in the incoming darkness. I don’t want to see that darkness again, not until I’m old and wrinkled and have lived a good life. Not yet. Not yet.
And my best chance at a good life is this school, stellar grades, orchestra.
I can do this.
Pushing up from the sink, I change out of my stained uniform and shower. The red dye runs out of my hair, staining the bottom of the shower as red as my blood did that day I cut my wrists. It’s bad. It’s so bad. My stomach churns, and I almost break down again.
Instead, I somehow find the strength to dress in a clean uniform, and head down the hall to where Miranda waits for me every morning. She’s there with Andrew, and the two of them gape at me as I step into the crowd.
All eyes are on me.
“Marnye,” she whispers, putting her hand over her mouth. Andrew just stares at me in shock, his mouth in a thin line. The laughter starts slowly, but spreads like wildfire, until everyone’s looking at me, pointing, cracking Working Girl jibes. “What did you do to your hair?”
I give her a look, and whatever she sees in my expression makes her tear up. She throws her arms around me in a hug, but it doesn’t escape my notice that she was the only person with me at dinner last night. She could’ve easily drugged me. I might’ve only known her for a few months, but I trust her. Was that my mistake?
“Are you going to report this?” Andrew asks, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. His tie is crooked, and I see the distinct print of a hickey on his neck. Oh. I sort of … well, I thought maybe he liked me. Not that I care. There was no spark between us, but … it’s just another small blow to add to the overwhelming load on my shoulders.
“What am I going to say? That some master plan was executed involving drugs and beauty supplies? Who’s going to believe me?”
“Hey Hester!” Harper calls out, her face lighting up with supercilious joy. “Nice scarlet letter!” She chortles, and Becky follows suit. But the way they’re looking at me … I have no doubt in my mind who the main perpetrators are. Zayd strolls up a few seconds later, glances my direction, and his eyes widen. He flashes a grin that would be charming if it wasn’t being used to destroy me, and laughter roars from his throat as he throws an arm around the two Idol girls.
“Let’s go,” I grind out, leading Miranda away, and heading for Tower One, and homeroom with Ms. Felton. She’s pretty straight-laced, and colored hair is most decidedly against the school dress code—with the exception of Zayd Kaiser because, you know, his agent’s screwing the vice principal.
We hit the top floor and head into the classroom. As soon as Ms. Felton’s eyes fall on me, they widen, and I see her cheeks redden.
“Miss Reed,” she says, and the class bursts into sneers and giggles. Tristan watches me carefully, but it’s impossible to read that stony expression of his. “Can I speak to you in private a moment?” I nod and follow her into the adjoining room that makes up her office. She’s barely got the door closed before she’s turning to me. “Miss Reed, what’s going on here?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, choking as I struggle to hold back the tears. From her office window, Ms. Felton has a spectacular view of the beach, and the harbor with its bobbing boats. Burberry Prep has a splendid student-run yacht club, didn’t you know? I hope all their boats capsize, and they drown in drunken stupors. My hands curl into fists.