Five minutes later, I pull my purse-size travel flat iron through my mostly dry hair, watching the steam rise as I drag it through. The iron snags on my hair and jerks out several strands. Yikes! Lora’s going to kill me as it is. I tap a smidge of powder to the deep chickenpox scar on the side of my nose and spread it across the rest of my face. I’m lucky I’m not more scarred, considering how badly I got the disease last fall. Mom gave me her long, white evening gloves from her prom days and made me wear them so I wouldn’t scratch myself. Good thing she did.
“Come onnnnnnnnn . . .” Lora whines at me. “Meet me at the car.”
“Be right there.”
Okay... I step back and check myself out in the mirror. My uniform is still clean, albeit a little damp from exertion. I actually look pretty good despite the crutches and bandage.
Outside the gym, Mom and Dad are getting into the truck. “So, you’re going to a party and then spending the night with Lora,” Mom reiterates.
“Oui.”
“No alcohol, Hayley,” Dad says firmly.
“Dad, it’s not that kind of—”
“I’m serious.”
“Yes, sir.” He’s so old-fashioned.
“And if Lora drinks, you call me and I’ll come get you.”
I kiss his cheek. “Thanks, Dad.”
Before they issue any more rules or edicts, I hop into the front of Lora’s Beamer.
The party is going full blast when we arrive. The music blares from the backyard. Good thing Anthony lives outside the city limits so there aren’t any neighbors who might complain.
Lora hooks her arm through mine and leads me into the backyard filled with tons of people. To the left, a barbecue grill is fired on high, grilling burgers, dogs, corn, and chicken. To the right, lounge chairs are strewn around the custom-made swimming pool. There’s a keg, a DJ, and even laser lights. Man, Anthony doesn’t mess around. Even though the food smells heavenly, I don’t dare eat anything. My nausea is back, and I wish I had a Snickers bar in my purse.
Damn . . . I’ll be glad when these side effects are over.
I watch as William tips his cup in Lora’s direction. He is so totally into her. Why not? She’s pretty and she’s a genuinely nice person.
I pour a Diet Coke into a cup so people can’t see what I’m drinking. I can pretend it’s alcoholic. It’s not that I’m a prude or anything—and I am underage, after all—I just want my wits about me this evening. Besides, my post-chemo tummy doesn’t need any intrusions. It would be just my luck to take a few sips and then puke all over the place. I stick out enough as it is already without adding on that stigma.
Man, if this is how we party after winning the home opener, I can’t wait to see what happens if we get to the state championship. A zip of excitement zings up my back at the thought of making it that far.
Lora points out over the lawn where most of the PHS Patriots roster is scattered about playing volleyball in a sandpit (aren’t they tired from the game?), chugging beer or roughhousing in the swimming pool.
Before I know it, a volleyball comes flying toward me and remarkably, I’m able to half herkie myself into the air—landing on my right foot—to avoid a smash that would have smarted like all hell.
“Dude, watch it!” someone shouts.
Daniel rushes over to my side. “I was going to ask if you were okay, but after that bit of gymnastics, I’d say you’re just fine.” He loops his arm around me and hugs me to him. When he touches me, I nearly jump away from the shock of the contact. I’m still not used to Daniel Delafield being into me.
“Seriously, are you all right?” Daniel asks, caressing my arm.
“Totally fine.”
“Throw the damn ball back, Delafield!” one of his teammates shouts out. He does as he’s asked.
Daniel cracks a crooked smile at me and then leans down toward my shoulder. Hot lips meet my skin in a surprising sizzle when he kisses me. He straightens and then lifts his eyes to me.
A smile paints across my face. “Oh, I think you can do better than that.”
There are a few catcalls around us as Daniel takes my hand and leads me into the house. People are everywhere, dancing and drinking and eating. Daniel weaves us down a long hallway and into a darkened room where several couples are making out to the light of the TV.
He indicates an available couch in the corner. “Over there.”
Next thing I know, we’re making out. Daniel is fiery hot and kisses like a professional. His tongue touches mine, and I feel as if I’ll explode into a million miniscule sections. His hands work themselves into my hair, and he strokes at the freshly shampooed length.
He breathes deeply and then whispers, “I love your hair. The way it feels and smells. Mmm.” Then he nibbles his way down my jaw line and neck to my ear. I am going to explode.
Daniel pulls back when his massive class ring gets snagged in my hair. I try to untangle us, but next thing I know, he’s holding a clump of brown strands.
“Eww... what’s going on here?”
“Damn, Daniel, you pulled my hair out.”
He examines the knot and then tosses it over toward a silver garbage can. “Sorry, babe.”
“It’s okay.”
Without another thought, I press my lips back to his.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Just when you think it can’t get any worse, it can.
And just when you think it can’t get any better, it does.
—Nicholas Sparks
Two Saturday mornings later, I wake up in my bed with a pile of hair on the pillow and stuck on the mattress. This has been happening little by little the past couple of weeks.
This is more, though.
A lot more.
My hands crawl across the sheet to make sure it’s actually mine.
It’s mine.
No doubt about it.
I sit up, and my heartbeat stammers my panic.
“Son of a bitch!” I scream out in a mixed cocktail of fear, anger, and disbelief.
The doctors all told me one of the main repercussions of chemotherapy is hair loss. Any idiot knows that. Since it didn’t happen immediately to me, I thought I’d sidestepped it.
But you can’t dodge the Grand Canyon of side effects.
I’ve pretty much been ignoring the clumps of hair in my brush by flushing the wads of evidence down the toilet. I have thick, thick hair to begin with, so maybe I didn’t really notice it was thinning.
Since ponytails are the “thing” for the varsity cheerleaders, I’ve just taken to wearing my hair up all the time hoping people wouldn’t notice how the thickness was diminishing. By game time last night, only I knew how bad it really was when I tugged my hand through my hair only to pull back a fistfull of chestnut strands equal to what Daniel had caught in his ring after the second game.
I stare at the rat’s nest underneath me in the bed and sadly call out. “Dad!” I run my hands into my hair and there’s an even bigger knotted mess on the crown of my head. “Dad!”
I don’t know why I think to call for him instead of Mom. He bounds up the stairs two at a time.
“Are you all right, Little Kid?”
“Look,” I say, pointing to my mattress.
Dad’s face falls for a moment, then he tries to soothe me. “The doctors said hair loss was a possibility.”
I tamp down my dread by swallowing hard. Fiery heartburn flames up my throat, threatening to consume me. “It’s been four weeks since my chemo. I didn’t think I’d lose my hair.”
I sniffle a bit as Dad goes to my dresser in search of my paddle brush.
“I’ll take care of that knot.”
He sits on the bed and I put my back to him so he can get a good angle. He carefully tugs the brush through my long hair, working at the knot on the back of my head.
“Remember how I used to brush your hair when you were a little girl? You’d sit in front of me as I’d watch the news.”
I nod. “I always loved it.
Why did we stop doing that?”
He snickers. “You grew up and learned how to brush your own hair.”
I let out a muffled laugh and languish for a sec in the memory. “I guess you’re right,” I finally say. “Thanks for doing this now.”
I sit quietly as Dad gently strokes through the mess on top of my head. Five minutes later, Dad speaks to me, barely above a whisper and a quiver in his usually brave voice.
“I’m so sorry, Hayley. It couldn’t be helped.”
My chest aches from the massive hammering of my heart against my ribs. First, I shift so I can see the brush. It’s full of my brown hair and there’s also a substantial pile in Dad’s lap. I’m almost afraid to turn and look in the mirror.
I have to, though.
I have to face myself.
The reflection I see is not me.
It’s an image of a girl I don’t recognize.
One whose eyes are ripe with horror and doubt.
But this girl is me.
Through some miracle of the moment, I find my voice.
“I-i-i-it’s gone . . .”
“Not all of it,” Dad says in a hushed tone.
Not even his tender voice can salve this wound.
“Enough of it’s gone,” I say. “Like, you can see my head... everywhere.”
My shaky hand reaches up to find only a few stray wisps of hair remaining on my scalp. My bald, white scalp.
Is this really me?
I thought I was past everything and back to my life. Now this?
I’ve seriously lost all my long hair?
Before I can stop them, tears stream from my sleep-filled eyes. I can’t halt them any more than I could keep the roaring river from tumbling over Niagara Falls.
“Oh, Daddy,” I cry out.
A torturous shriek fills the space of my room and I realize it came from deep within me.
“I know, baby.”
Dad pulls me into his arms and kisses my forehead. We hug each other tightly; our tears mingling together.
This is the second time I cry.
At least my daddy is here to comfort me.
***
I hide out in the house all day Saturday, avoiding Lora’s texts. She wants me to go shopping with her later, but it’s the last thing I want to do. I know I’ll eventually have to go out in public, but why rush it?
I tell her I have horrific menstrual cramps, which she buys, and leaves me alone.
The day is spent downloading historical romances to my e-reader so that I can escape into the fantasy of the ladies in lace and hoop skirts and their hair up in perfectly coifed chignons. Whatever the hell those are.
Leeny doesn’t leave my side, obviously sensing my anguish. She got sprayed by a skunk two years ago when she escaped the house one time. The vet had to shave off her thick gray fur to get the stink out. I suspect she knows what I’m going through.
Sunday morning, I avoid going to church. Quite frankly, I’m a little miffed at God for what I’m going through. Or maybe I should be pissed off at Satan. Honestly, I don’t know who to blame. I don’t think it’s God’s fault, per se, that I contracted cancer, but why couldn’t he have protected me? I’ve been baptized. I take Communion regularly and pray (almost) every night when I don’t fall asleep first. I’ve been going to Sunday school religiously—no pun intended—since I can remember, and I’ve been a member of Methodist Youth Fellowship and choir. I totally believe in God the Father, the Son, and Holy Spirit and that I will spend my life in heaven with them when I die. But why can’t my earthly life be better?
Why am I going through this?
I thought everything was over when the tumor was cut out.
The only obstacle was to walk without a limp.
Now this.
Baldy McBalderton the varsity cheerleader.
Fuck this noise.
By six o’clock that night, Mom won’t let me sulk in my room any longer. She insists that I come to the dinner table even though my eyes are swollen from crying and blowing my nose nonstop.
“This is not God’s fault,” Mom snaps at me, knowing what I’m thinking apparently. “He spared your life, Hayley, by allowing you to find that tumor in time to take care of it.”
I pick at my baked chicken and rice, feeling sorry for the fowl that had to sacrifice its life so we could eat tonight. Poor bastard.
I don’t want any part of it.
I push the plate away.
No food sounds interesting or appetizing.
A chalky aridness coats the inside of my throat.
Nothing—and no one—can cheer me up.
Doubt is my closest friend and most detested enemy.
Stupidity surrounds me.
Right at the peak of my high school social life. Right when I have an amazing, popular boyfriend. Right when my crowning achievement is being a varsity cheerleader.
I’m frickin’ bald and I have to go to school tomorrow.
I’m bald . . .
I’m bald . . .
I have no hair . . .
I look like an . . .
Mom slams her utensils to the table, knocking me out of my pity party. “Hayley Ann Matthews. Stop the damn pouting right now!”
I jolt up in my seat, not believing the insensitivity my mother is showing at this moment.
“Mom, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m bald!”
“Big deal, Hayley. Hair grows back. Instead of wallowing in self-pity and trying to place the blame on God, you should thank Him—and your doctors—that you still have a leg to walk on. You have been so upbeat and positive up until now. You can’t let this defeat you.”
Dad reaches out to stop her. “Nan, don’t you think you’re being a little—”
“I will not have her doubting her faith, Jared.”
“I don’t... really,” I say meekly. “I just thought I was through everything. Through all the bullshit.” I bite my lip. “Sorry. How do I go to school looking like this?”
Dad smiles at Mom and then turns to me. “You’ll go like you do every other day. You’ll walk in the door, go to your locker, say hello to your friends, and go to class. You’re still the same person, Hayley. There’s more to you than just your hair.”
Mom chimes in, calmer now. “You’re alive, sweetie. That’s what’s important.”
I suppose she’s right. One day I’ll look back on all of this and realize my parents knew what they were talking about. Still, it doesn’t make going to school tomorrow any easier.
I’m trying not to feel sorry for myself, but it’s pretty damn hard not to.
There’s very little sleep that night and in the morning, my getting ready time is significantly less since I have nothing on my head to style. I stare at myself in the mirror, trying to find myself in the image somewhere. The features are still the same, albeit a bit sadder.
Leeny rubs up against me, purring and meowing. She still loves me. Just the way I am. Mom and Dad do, too. I should love myself.
“Hair grows back,” I say to the mirror.
There’s a deep, cleansing breath for confidence, and I grab my purse, backpack, and crutches and head out the door.
Mom lets me take her car to school... I suppose in the event that I need to flee. I won’t let that be an option, though.
When I walk in through the glass doors, there are noticeable gasps, sideway glances, and unspoken judgments regarding my bald pate. I ignore them and instead head straight to my locker. I stash the books I don’t need right away and pull out the AP English Literature textbook.
There’s a sobbing cry beside me. My partner stands there stock-still as her mouth hangs open. “When did it happen, Hayley?”
“Saturday morning,” I say quietly.
“Oh my God,” Lora says. Then she wraps her arms around me. I need this support more than anything right now. Staving back tears that I refuse to shed at school, I hug her back and try to laugh about it.
“It’s my extreme makeover.”
&nb
sp; Water pools in her eyes. “I’m glad you can laugh about it.”
“What’s my choice?”
“You rock, girl,” Lora says. “I don’t know if I’d have the guts to walk into PHS like that.”
I had to. Mom’s right. I can’t let the shit get the best of me. “Again, what choice do I have?” This time, I snicker even harder, really starting to feel the meaning of the words.
The whispers and eyes of fellow students dance and swirl around me. I refuse to let them consume me, though. Mentally, I shield myself in a barrier of protection to knock down any negativity or criticism. I have to in order to get through this. The worst part is behind me. I have to keep my eye on a brighter, healthier future.
Still, I’m fully aware that I’m the talk of the school and not in a good way.
“Wow, would you look at Hayley Matthews,” I hear from a distance.
Leave it to Gabriel Tremblay to save the day. Without missing a beat, my friend with the shaved head strides right up to me and rubs my head. “Look at this! A PHS cheerleader has so much school spirit that she shaved her head, too.”
A smile cracks on my face.
Kids nearby murmur among themselves with some oohs and ahhs here and there. Do they honestly believe I’d do that?
“Well, that worked,” he says to me. He scrubs his own severe buzzcut and smiles. “You’re one of us now, Hayley.”
For a moment, I’m almost no longer self-conscious about my lack of hair.
That is until my boyfriend passes by.
Daniel sees me and immediately bursts out laughing. “Hayley! Holy shit! You shaved your head? What the fuck? You had such gorgeous hair.”
Thanks . . . I know . . .
Lora moves to chastise him. “Daniel, don’t—”
“Wait, wait,” he continues. “Is that some sort of makeup skullcap thing? Some sort of joke?”
Gabriel grinds his teeth together. “Dude, are you seriously this insensitive?”
Daniel’s clueless. “What? What did I say?”
His laughter pierces my soul and echoes through my brain. I want nothing more than to crack him in the knees with my crutches just to shut him up. I muster up the courage I so need at this moment and snarl out at him.
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