I turned on the TV and started flipping around—one stupid game show and soap opera after another, reminding me of how I was wasting my life sitting there. Finally, I stopped on 61. I watched a bunch of girls wearing cheerleading uniforms and shiny, wholesome smiles, standing at their lockers, talking about the big game. “Omigosh, you guys! Isn’t high school the best?!”
What a crock, I thought as I started to cry. I pictured my face on one of their bodies. Not that I ever wanted to be a cheerleader; that was my mother’s dream, not mine. I just wanted to see what I’d look like—the butt-faced girl, standing at her locker, trying to act normal.
It was a vision too pitiful for words.
Day two … Day five … Day seven … Day ten.
In all my years as a student, from nursery school to elementary school to junior high, I had never missed so many days in a row. Not for sickness. Certainly not for playing hooky. And now here I was, two weeks into my high school career, already a delinquent. And bored out of my mind.
In my former life, if I ever got bored, I would call Taylor. My best friend, the boredom buster. Needless to say, I wasn’t doing that now. Which left me with three options: daytime TV, food, and feeling sorry for myself.
Lying on the couch, all I could think about was the fact that I was stuck at home like some kind of leper, while Taylor and Ryan were living it up on the sports fields. I knew from Kendall and Rae, who’d texted me from the gym as soon as the team rosters were posted, that Ryan made varsity football, and Taylor made varsity field hockey.
Well, I thought bitterly. At least Mr. Dano will be happy. Ryan’s dad used to play Division 1 football for Notre Dame, and whenever I was over at the Danos’, that’s all Mr. Dano could talk about. Football, football, football. He cared about football, it seemed, more than he cared about finding a job. No way would he have been satisfied if Ryan only made JV.
Taylor making varsity wasn’t a shock, either. She and I were the best players on our ninth-grade team. Up until the accident, the two of us had practiced every day of the summer—running drills, even timing each other in the two-mile, to ensure we were in the best shape possible for tryouts.
Tryouts that I missed.
A team that, even if the coach took pity on me and let me try out late, I would never play for. Because the mere thought of running down the hockey field—my hair in a ponytail, my face bare to the world—filled me with dread.
The longer I thought about it, the worse I felt. Why should Taylor get to play when I couldn’t? Why was I the one to end up looking like this when she deserved the punishment? And why, for God’s sake, did I defend her to my mother?
This tsunami of self-pity swept me off the couch and down the hall to the bathroom, where I stood in front of the mirror for a long time, squeezing my eyes shut.
Finally, I opened them.
Even though the stitches had dissolved since the last time I’d looked, and the bruises had faded from a deep purple to a sick, yellowish green—even though the entire right side of my face was no longer swollen up like a puffer fish—I still looked horrible. Worse than horrible. Hideous. All you could see when you looked at me was the graft. It drew your eyes in like a target. A two-by-two-inch target of angry, red butt-skin with a crispy maroon border, about two millimeters higher than the rest of my face. It was the ugliest, most wretched thing you have ever seen in your life.
“I hate you,” I said to my reflection. “I hate you so much.”
The girl in the mirror glared at me. I took a few steps back, trying to see the big picture. I was still wearing pajamas, but since my mother forced me into the shower last night, my hair was finally clean. Clean and thick and shiny as ever, the color of corn silk, down to my shoulder blades. “Barbie hair,” Taylor used to call it. “Rapunzel hair.”
All I could think now was how incongruous it was. How could someone so ugly have such beautiful hair? It made no sense. It was absurd.
The girl in the mirror smirked at me. You know what to do, silly.
I opened the medicine cabinet and peered inside. Lying on the second shelf from the top, in their faux-leather carrying case, were my mother’s good scissors. I remembered how bossy she always was about these scissors—how Ruthie and I were never allowed to use them for craft projects, not even for cutting thread—like they were made of thousand-year-old crystal.
Now, holding them in my hand, I felt their power. The metal was cool and slick against my skin.
I reached for a hunk of hair. As I cut, the blades of the scissors made a soft, satisfying swooshing sound. An eight-inch stretch of blonde fell to the sink.
Never in my life had I seen so much of my hair off my head. For fifteen years, my mother wouldn’t let me get more than a trim, no matter how hard I begged. Well, who was she to dictate what I did with my own hair?
I reached for another hunk.
Swooosh.
Then another.
Swooosh.
Then—
“Oh. My. God.”
I jumped, just as the silhouette of my sister appeared behind me in the mirror.
“Jesus, Ruthie!” I said, whirling around. “You almost made me stab my eye out!”
She stared at me. “You’re pulling a Deenie.”
“What?”
“Deenie,” she repeated. “You’re channeling Deenie.”
“Who the hell is Deenie?”
“You know,” Ruthie said. “Pretty girl with the messed-up spine? Hacks off her own hair when she gets the back brace?”
I shook my head.
“You’ve never read Deenie?”
“No,” I said, annoyed. “So?”
“So, it’s only one of the greatest books of all time. Vintage Judy Blume … Please tell me you know who Judy Blume is.”
I shrugged.
Ruthie gasped. “Blasphemy!”
“Did you come in here to lecture me on literature?”
“Actually, I came in here to pee, but—”
“Then pee,” I snapped, turning back to the mirror. “And get out.”
I grabbed a fresh hunk of hair, lifted the scissors again.
“Oh, no,” Ruthie said. “No, no, no.” She whipped out a hand so fast I didn’t have time to stop her.
“What are you doing? Give those back.”
“No.”
I lunged for the scissors. Ruthie hopped up on the toilet, holding them over her head.
“What the hell, Ruth!”
“Trust me. You’ll thank me later.”
“No I won’t!”
“Yes,” she said calmly. “You will…. Now get dressed. We’re going for a ride.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Ruthie sighed. She tucked the scissors into the back pocket of her jeans and hopped down from the toilet. She took two steps forward, grabbed both my arms, and leaned in so close I could smell the peanut butter on her breath. “If I have to drag you out of this house, I will do it.”
Brush your teeth, I thought.
“I’m serious, Lex. You need to get out of here.”
“Whatever,” I said, even though she had a point. I was going stir-crazy. Spending the first two weeks of school in exile was one thing. But the first official weekend of fall? In New England? If I didn’t smell some of that good, leafy air soon, I might shrivel up and die.
“Is that ‘whatever,’ you’re coming?” Ruthie asked. “Or ‘whatever,’ I have to drag you?”
I looked at her fingers gripping my arm, the ragged cuticles, the bitten-down nails. “You need a manicure,” I told her.
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not.”
Ruthie squeezed harder.
“Fine!” I said. “I’ll come! You don’t have to break my arms off!”
“You’ll get dressed?”
“Yes,” I said. Then I thought better of it. I would get in a car with my sister, let her drive me around, but no way was I showing my face in public. I would exit the front seat
when, and only when, we were home again, which meant there was no point in changing out of my pajamas.
“What you see is what you get,” I said.
Ruthie nodded. “Fair enough.”
“Okay then.”
“Where are you taking me?” I asked as my sister merged onto the highway, heading north.
“Just sit back and relax,” Ruthie said. “You’re supposed to trust me, remember?”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Relax,” she said again, reaching over to click on the radio. Some crappy classical station.
I sighed loudly.
“What?”
“Can’t we listen to something else?”
“What’s wrong with Mozart?”
“There’s nothing wrong with Mozart. I’d just like to listen to music from this century.”
“Expand your horizons,” Ruthie said. “Try a little culture.” She turned up the volume. Violins soared.
“C’mon!” I said.
“Shhhh … listen … it’s soothing.”
“It sucks!”
Ruthie smiled serenely. “My car, my tunes.”
“I hate you,” I muttered, pulling the hood of her sweatshirt tight over my ears. At first, when she’d made me put it on—to smuggle my hair past our mother—I’d protested. Nothing screams “dork” like an Interlochen Arts Camp sweatshirt.
But hoods do come in handy. Especially if you pull the cords tight, so all that’s left is a tiny nose-hole. The rest of your face is cocooned in soft, dark fleece. You’re not just cozy, you’re practically invisible.
The next thing I knew, the car had stopped. I poked my head out momentarily, blinking in the sun. “Where are we?”
“Westerly, Rhode Island,” Ruthie said.
“Why?”
“Because nobody knows us here. And … to visit what appears to be a fine haircutting establishment with an even finer name: Mar’s Hairy Business.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Oh no,” I said, shaking my head. “No way.”
“Yes way. Someone’s got to fix your hair … what’s left of it … I’d offer myself, but I have zero skills in that department, so—”
“I told you. I’m not getting out of the car.”
“Well then,” Ruthie said, “I’ll just have to ask Mar if she’ll come to you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Yes,” Ruthie said. “It is.”
I knew my sister was trying to reverse psychologize me, but I wasn’t about to fall for her tricks. No way, no how. She might have been the budding lawyer in the family, but my position was firm.
Okay, the only reason I was following Ruthie into Mar’s Hairy Business was this: bribery. If I agreed to let some stranger fix my hair, Ruthie had to let me decide what would be done to her. Hair, face, nails, the works. I could have my sister shaved, plucked, pierced, tattooed, anything I wanted. That was why I was walking up the steps and through the tinkly glass door right now. Payback.
“Hi there.” Ruthie marched right up to the reception area. “Are you Mar?”
The girl behind the counter shook her blue, spiky head. “Mar’s in Florida. I’m Luna.”
“Well, Luna,” my sister said, “I’m Benny, and this is my sister, Brandy. And we’d like to get our hair cut.”
I stifled a snort. Benny and Brandy were the hamsters Ruthie and I got for Christmas when I was six and she was eight. We used to dress them up in doll clothes and pull them around in Ruthie’s Radio Flyer wagon. When they died, we held a hamster funeral of epic proportions. Programs. Refreshments. Even a song-and-dance routine we’d choreographed ourselves.
“Brandy,” my sister continued, grabbing my hand and yanking me toward the counter, “has a bit of a hair issue that needs addressing.”
“Uh-huh,” Luna said, nodding, taking in my hooded head and my pajama bottoms. “Okay.”
“And Benny,” I squeezed Ruthie’s hand so tight the bones scraped together, “has several issues—as you can see—all of which will need to be addressed today. That is, if you have time…”
Luna gestured to the back of the salon, which was empty except for a white-haired lady with a bad perm, hunched under a dryer. “I think I can squeeze you in.”
“Great!” Ruthie said, grinning at me.
I shot her my dirtiest look.
Then, before I could stop it from happening, she reached over and tugged down my hood.
“Oh my God,” Luna murmured, one purple-manicured hand flying to her mouth. “What happened?”
“Bear attack,” Ruthie said, glancing at me and shaking her head sadly. “When we were in Maine a few weeks ago, camping.”
“Seriously?” Luna’s eyes were wide, staring at my face, my hair, the whole ensemble.
I shrugged, as in, These things happen.
“Oh my God,” Luna said again.
Ruthie nodded solemnly. “Every day’s a gift.”
By the time Luna was finished with us, our mother had left four voice mails on Ruthie’s cell. She wanted us to know that she was “worried sick” and that “the least her daughters could do” was to answer their phones.
“Why is she having a conniption?” I said. “She was thrilled I was leaving the house. She practically pushed me out the door!”
Ruthie shrugged. “Maybe she thinks we got in an accident.”
“Please,” I muttered.
I wanted to blow our mother off, pretend we didn’t get the messages. It’s not like we were doing anything wrong. We’d said we’d be back for dinner.
But Ruthie pointed out that it was already five o’clock. If we didn’t call now, by the time we got home our mother would have summoned not only the state police, but also the National Guard.
“Good point,” I said.
Ruthie handed me the phone.
“No way!” I told her. “This whole thing was your idea.” Which was a tough line of reasoning to refute, even for Ruthie.
It took a full five minutes for her to calm our mother down. Violation number one: not answering our cell phones. Violation number two: driving out of state without her permission.
When Ruthie hung up, I said, “You think she’s flipping now? Wait until she sees my hair.”
“Are you kidding?” Ruthie said. “You look great.”
“Right,” I said.
My new hair—short and spiky on the left (thanks to my hack job), chin-length layers on the right (to cover the graft)—was bizarre. And eerily reminiscent of Taylor’s bi-level ’do, circa fourth grade.
“I’m serious,” Ruthie insisted, shifting in her seat to face me. “It’s cool. Funkified.”
“Whatever.”
I felt an unexpected pang, looking at Ruthie. For the first time in her life she had groomed eyebrows. And a sleek, side-parted hairstyle that made her nose seem more delicate, even regal. Ruthie seemed to have noticed, too. Ever since we got in the car she’d been sneaking little glances at herself in the side-view mirror. I wished suddenly that I’d told Luna to do something unflattering. A buzz cut. Or a Mohawk. Then I felt bad. “You’re the one who looks great,” I told my sister.
She shook her head. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes,” I said, a bit of an edge in my voice. “You do.”
Ruthie shrugged, looking uncomfortable. She turned the key in the ignition. “I guess we should get going, huh?”
“I guess so.”
“Bye, Luna,” Ruthie said. “Thanks for the memories.” She gave a little salute as we pulled away, showing off her nails—Aphrodite’s Pink Nightie, my signature color. Subtle. Classy.
I shifted my gaze to the passing scene, the storefronts and Saturday afternoon shoppers. Part of me was glad that we’d taken this trip. But a bigger part of me felt worse than ever. I wasn’t Brandy the bear-attack victim with the great attitude and the heart of gold. I was a bitch, jealous of my own sister—a role reversal if ever there was one.
“
There’s a Subway in a few exits,” Ruthie said as we entered the highway. “You hungry?”
“Not really,” I said. “Are you?”
“I guess not,” she said.
After a few minutes of silence, Ruthie flipped on the radio. Classical music again, but this time I didn’t say a word. I just pulled my hood over my head and stared out the window.
We arrived home as the sun was starting to set. Ruthie pulled into the driveway and unsnapped her seat belt. She shifted in her seat to face me. “So. What are you planning to do on Monday?”
I knew what she was asking, but I pretended not to. “The usual. Eating bonbons, watching Ellen … organizing my socks.”
My sister’s face stayed serious. Gone was the fun-loving Benny of yesteryear. “Lex,” she said, looking me straight in the eye. “You need to go back to school. I understand why you don’t want to, but you need to. It’s too important.”
The way she said it—with such conviction—made my stomach hurt. I could try to argue with her, but deep down I knew she was right.
I heard myself murmur, “Okay whatever.”
“Okay whatever?” Ruthie raised her new eyebrows.
“Dad’s going to make me, anyway. You were there. His whole ‘truancy is a criminal offense’ speech?” I made my voice deep and lawyerly. “‘Twenty unexcused absences warrants a blah blah blah’ … I already have ten.”
“So, is that a yes?”
I shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Whatever is not an affirmative,” Ruthie said. “I need an affirmative.”
My sister the walking thesaurus. How we were even related was beyond me.
“Fine,” I said.
“Fine you’ll go to school on Monday?”
“Yes,” I said. “I will go to school on Monday. Is that affirmative enough for you?”
“Yes, it is.”
“But I am not taking the bus.”
“No bus,” Ruthie agreed. “I’ll drive you.”
“Good,” I said.
For a second, I imagined the two of us walking into high school together, with our new haircuts and killer attitudes. Benny and Brandy, the Mayer sisters: a force to be reckoned with.
For a second, I let myself believe it.
My Life in Black and White Page 9