Page 83 of A Dead Man's B-Side
I hadn’t noticed how long my hair had grown, how long it had gone without a trim, until she reached for a clip on her desk and slipped it between my strands. “That’s true. But you don’t look English.”
“Oh?”
Her evasive responses bothered me, but I couldn’t very well blame her. I’d have done the same, sometimes just for the fun of it.
“Yeah, you look Eastern European–ow!”
She let go of the strands she was pulling so tight on. “Sorry.” I scowled but she ignored me completely, too fixated on my hair. “Your… you have white hair.”
The lie rolled off my tongue like it was second nature, “Premature greying.”
She didn’t look like she believed me, the roots looking paler blonde than grey, but she decided not to comment on it, choosing to continue off my previous words, “And you’ve seen enough Eastern Europeans to know, Mr I’ve Never Left America?”
I didn’t let her words burrow under my skin, and I certainly didn’t let myself duck my head in shame. Not everyone had enough money for international vacations. “I’m learning.”
“Oh, you’re learning, are you?”
I rolled my eyes, thinking better and going for the direct approach. “You could always just answer my questions.”
Paris turned to the ceramic bowl filled with cream-based formula and began adding the liquid developer. Her gloved hands, provided by the Clairol box, were quick at work. “You could always ask a question.”
She didn’t look up, busy reaching the perfect consistency before pulling a flat brush from a compartment on her desk.
I sighed but couldn’t help feeling glad. She was a lot like Ajax, and if that was anything to go by, she didn’t mind speaking freely. “Where are you from?”
She pulled at my hair and peered as closely as she could before applying cold liquid to my scalp. “I’m…” her eyebrows, from what I could see in the mirror, furrowed as she flipped the section of hair under her hands and began applying the dye to the underside. If Paris ever asked to dye my hair again, I would never hesitate in saying yes. “I’m Scandinavian. Iceland.”
I wanted to tilt my head, but the strong grip she had on my hair wouldn’t let me. “So, why do you speak with an English accent?”
She smiled, but it couldn’t be described as anything other than sad. “I’ve been going to boarding school in the United Kingdom since I can remember. Not much else to pick up on.”
“Oh.” I didn’t mean to sound so sympathetic, but I did.
I didn’t exactly feel sorry for her; I hardly knew her enough. Maybe she liked living away from home. Or perhaps she missed her grade school.
She continued to say, “I went to the same boarding school as Rain. Did you know? In Oxfordshire?”
I perked up, sitting a little straighter, “Really?”
She laughed before sectioning the next row of hair and brushing the hair dye in. “Really. It was a preparatory school with the most unflattering uniforms you can imagine.”
“I’m sure you found a way around that.”
She grinned and huffed out another laugh. “Oh, yes, I did. Rain didn’t, sadly. I was never quite able to turn her over to the dark side. Always a stickler for the rules, that one.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, only humming.
“You must’ve missed home, you know, being away for so long.” I remembered the way her lip curled, and anger twitched from between her muscles when Ajax had mentioned her parents’ divorce. I hoped she wouldn’t put me on the receiving end of the same treatment.
But she didn’t, instead she kissed her teeth. “Not much of a home to miss when your holidays are spent in a cold castle.”
I tilted my head to the side, almost a habit by now, for only a second before she righted my posture and continued on with the brush in hand without missing a beat.
“So, why wouldn’t your family live in a warmer climate?”
I wasn’t an idiot, but I also wasn’t a sympathetic person. Offering words of support and acceptance were not things that came to me without substantial effort.
Nonetheless, I wasn’t turned away. Paris paused and seemed to be taking in my words, trying to understand them, before sending me a sharp grin, one that only partners who’d just finished committing a crime would have shared. “I’m not sure. But it would have been quite the simple solution.”
