“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.
