I bite my lip. I know she’s right. I know my dad’s right—I should call my mom. But just the thought of talking to her makes my throat close up. “I choose later.”
I hear a knock on Laila’s door. “Hey, hold on.” In the background her dad asks her if he can borrow some money. “I don’t have any, used the last of it on lunch today,” she tells him. I can’t hear his exact response, but I can tell he’s not happy. She finally gets back on the phone. I can practically hear the eye roll in her voice when she says, “My dad is killing me.”
“What did he say?”
“He owes some guy money. What’s new?”
“I’m sorry.”
“No feeling sorry for me.” She lets out a long sigh and then yells, “Dad! Doorbell.” To me she mumbles, “It’s probably Mr. Debt Collector.” There’s a pause and another grunt from Laila. “Hey, I gotta go get the stupid door. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay. Be careful and don’t do anything stupid,” I say, but she’s already gone.
CHAPTER 11
PAR-A-li-a-tion: n. beyond the average humiliation I stare in the mirror, trying to ignore the nervous pattering of my heart. The strip turned out more electric blue than I thought it would. Plus it covers a larger section than I had intended. I could tell it was bad when even Laila’s eyes got wide after we dried and straightened my hair.
Laila fluffs it. “Maybe you should wear it curly after all. Straightened probably brings it out more.”
“No,” I insist. “Rebellion requires commitment.”
“I think it looks hot,” Duke says. “But that’s just coming from the guy who hopes to play another role in your rebellion.”
Laila looks between us. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I’d better get home.”
“Hey, Duke, can you take her? I need to check on my dad.”
I throw Laila a look, but she sings, “Thanks” as she runs out of the bathroom and disappears down the hall.
Duke laughs. “I should be the one thanking her.”
“I’m kicking her butt tomorrow. Come on, let’s go.” We walk out the door and Duke says, “I’d put my money on her in a fight.”
I gasp and backhand him across the stomach. Then I blush when I realize that counts as flirting in Laila’s Flirting 101 crash course she’s tried to give me many times over the years. “Sorry,” I say, shoving my hand in my pocket.
“It didn’t hurt.”
When we get in the car, Duke turns up the radio to just short of unbearable and proceeds to talk above it the entire ride, about football and how small his meditation cubicle is and how his mom makes the best peach pie that I should try and on and on. I’m glad I don’t have to try to fill the silence.
“This is me.” I point out my house that seems so small and plain with Duke looking at it. He lives on the edge of town with all the other large houses. He pulls over. “Thanks.” I start to get out.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you? Your mom probably wouldn’t yell quite as loud with a witness.”
I do not want him to come inside. “We can’t lay it on her all at once. The hair is first. The boy is second.” I have no clue why I said that.
He nods. “All right. Well, good luck. I’ll see you tomorrow.” His stare is so intense, I feel like he can see right through me.
I put my hand on the center console, inches from where his rests. “Do you like to read?”
“Read?”
“You know, download a book onto your tablet and read it … for fun.”
“Not really.”
I raise my eyebrows. “See you tomorrow.” I hop out of the car.
“We’re like magnets, Addie,” he calls after me.
I laugh. He does make me laugh. I sigh and walk into the house.
“Addie, where have you been?” my mom asks from the kitchen.
I take a deep breath and pat my hair for a moment, tempted to run to my bedroom and grab a hat. I remind myself that rebellion takes commitment.
“Addie?” my mom calls again. “Are you going to answer me? Where have you been?”
“Just at Laila’s house.”
“I wish you would’ve called. I made dinner.” From the smell of it, she burned dinner.
“I already ate.” I walk into the kitchen and grab a water bottle from the fridge, trying to act casual. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mom gaping.
“What did you do to your hair?” Her voice is low and angry.
My commitment falters. “It comes out. Twenty-one washes.” That’s not what I intended to say. The plan was to put my hand on my hip and say, “It’s my hair. I can do what I want with it.” That’s what brave, angsty teenagers say after they do something rebellious. But I’m pretty sure those teenagers didn’t ever have to answer to someone like my mother. I’m also sure I’m neither brave nor angsty.
“Addie, seriously?”
“What’s the big deal?” Again, it is supposed to sound punkish, but I sound scared.
“Go away from me. I don’t want to look at you again until your twenty-one wash cycle is complete.”
I start to walk to my room.
“Oh, and no one else gets to look at you outside of school until then as well. You’re grounded for as long as it takes to wash it out.”