“When are you gonna let me give you some highlights?” She asks this often.
This time, however, I say, “Tonight, if you have time.”
Grace gets excited. “Mildred, get the camera. I’ll do it free if you let me take a picture for the before-and-after wall.”
I eye the wall, not sure I want to be immortalized up there, along with all the eighties hair and prom refugees, but eventually I shrug. “Why not?”
My hair is a dark blond, mousy and forgettable. I mean, it’s decent hair, neither straight, nor curly. Left to its own devices, it falls in messy waves. That’s why I wear a lot of ponytails and braids. Aunt Gabby has similar problems, only she gets it lightened and highlighted so it looks bright and flirty, and she spends forty-five minutes a day straightening hers, so it’s sleek and smooth by the time she goes to the shop. UPS Joe seems to like the results anyway.
Grace fastens me into the plastic smock, then snaps a Polaroid. I still don’t care that much how I look; I mean, it’s so superficial, but a small part of me would like to be prettier, at least maximize what I’m working with. I tell myself this is more of a social experiment, and I can evaluate how people react to the new me. But that’s not it.
I’m totally doing this to see if Shane notices. Sometimes I hate being a girl.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It’s dumb to be so nervous.
This is a Tuesday. Nothing earth shattering ever happens on a Tuesday. It doesn’t even have a catchy nickname, unlike Wednesday, aka Hump Day. Still, I can’t shake the butterflies in my stomach. Instead of my usual leggings and skirt, I’m wearing jeans, an old pair that miraculously still fits; and I try not to think about how much of my butt they reveal. I didn’t discard my sweater shrug for unavoidable reasons, but instead of wearing an ordinary cotton tank, I borrowed a lace-trimmed cami from Aunt Gabby. Why all the effort? I want to be worthy of my new hair.
This morning, when she saw the highlights, my aunt insisted I let her use the straightener on me. It only took fifteen minutes, but I admit it was worth it. My hair’s never looked this sleek and glossy, and the delicate golden streaks brighten the darker part until it’s positively pretty. I don’t know that I’ve ever thought that about myself before. It’s kinda nice.
Lila waves as I come down the hall toward her. “Wow. You look fab.”
“Thanks. I let one of the stylists work on me last night.” I dial my combo and pop open my locker, getting the stuff I’ll need for first period.
“Trying to show him what he’s missing? Good plan.” She cuts her eyes toward Ryan, who is standing with one hand on his locker. He can’t seem to look away.
This time last year, I would’ve given a kidney to see him look at me like that, but he was oblivious. And no wonder, I think with a touch of bitterness. He was sleeping with somebody else. At this point, however, that’s not why I changed things up. My reason isn’t here yet.
“I’ve got to admit,” Lila says, still studying Ry. “I’m surprised. I would’ve thought he was fundamentally decent. He seems like a good guy.”
Crap, I don’t want her to think he’s a cheater. Technically we weren’t together, so the mess with Cassie isn’t that. “He is. He just … made a mistake. Lied to me. And I can’t handle it.”
“Oh. So we don’t hate him?”
I shake my head. “Mostly, I’m sad. I wish he hadn’t done it, but some lies change everything.”
“Absolutely, they do.” From the ferocity of her tone, I’m guessing Lila has some personal experience with this, but I don’t pry.
Privately I wonder if Dylan lied, and that’s why they broke up. Once we get to know each other better, maybe she’ll tell me. It’s pretty cool to have somebody who wants to hang out with me, not because of Ryan or because we’re in the same club. Just … because. Since moving here, I’ve avoided that kind of closeness, mostly because the more friends you have, the harder it is to keep secrets. More people mean more questions. And I wasn’t ready. My first year here, I was barely functional, so it’s no surprise I imprinted on Ryan and let him drive my social life.
“I have to get to class,” I say then.
“Sucks we don’t have any together. See you at lunch, though?” It’s a question, not an assumption.
“I brought mine, so I’ll get a table.”
Lila acknowledges the plan with a jerk of her chin, then she dives into the stream of students, letting them carry her toward her class on the opposite side of school. I haven’t seen Shane this morning, but maybe he’s running late. I wander through my morning classes hoping for a glimpse of him, but still, nothing. Geometry confirms it; he’s not in today. The desk diagonal, one up from mine, seems more than usually empty; I’m so disappointed, and I hate that I am. To put the cherry on the crap cake, I get my quiz back. As expected, it’s another circled red F. That clinches it—I have to tell Aunt Gabby. It’s not that she’ll be mad at me; I can’t stand her disappointed look. Maybe the news that I have a tutor lined up will help. Kind of, I see there’s a problem and I’m working to solve it.
“Miss Czinski, I need to see you after class.” Mackiewicz levels a serious business stare on me while the rest of the class goes “ooooooooooooh” in that super-annoying way.
“Yes, sir.”
As anticipated, he lectures me on how poorly I’m doing and tells me how he expects better from someone of my academic stature. Seriously, that’s verbatim. I listen meekly until he’s finished, and then offer, “I’m definitely struggling, but I’m taking steps and getting help. My performance will improve.”