This Is What It Feels Like

by Rebecca Barrow

  Hanna met Ciara’s gaze and nodded. This is what they did, favors pulled and good faith given because they all wanted the same thing at the end of everything: a chance to try. “Right.”

  On Monday morning Hanna opened the door to her house while Ciara sat in her idling van at the curb. “Molls?”

  Molly appeared in the kitchen doorway. “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” she said, her face fixed in worry. “Mom’s going to lose it when she sees.”

  “Tell her to come talk to me,” Hanna said, heading out to the garage. “Besides, they’re mine. I paid for them. I’m taking them.”

  She opened the garage door from the inside, rolling it up and letting the sun in, and then Ciara got out of her van. The three of them carried out the remains of her drum set and loaded them into the back, and when they were done the garage looked strangely empty. “All right, Molls,” Hanna said, and she grabbed her sister in a vise-grip hug that Molly had no chance of wriggling out of. “I have to go, but I’ll text you later?”

  Molly frowned once Hanna let her go. “What should I say?”

  Hanna knew right away that Molly meant What should I say when Mom asks me what the hell happened? She looked up to the sky for a second while she thought, and then back at her sister. “Tell her I said I had something important to give you,” Hanna said. “And you didn’t know I was here for the drums, and you had nothing to do with it. Okay?”

  Molly nodded reluctantly. “Okay,” she said. “Bye, Han. Love you.”

  “I love you too, Molls,” Hanna said, starting toward Ciara in the van. “Talk later.”

  Jules

  It had taken some convincing on Hanna’s part, getting them to agree to come to Ciara’s place. But Hanna had said Ciara wasn’t mad, and even though it didn’t stop Jules feeling bad—after everything Ciara had done for them, they’d still faded from her life like it was nothing, Jules’s second-biggest regret—she believed it. Hanna had stayed close to Ciara. And if she said that Ciara wasn’t mad, then maybe it was true.

  So on Monday afternoon, they took the steps up and knocked on Ciara’s door. It opened as soon as Jules’s knuckles left the wood, Hanna standing there looking wired. “Come in,” she said, impatience in her voice. “Set up, I want to get going.”

  Jules exchanged a look with Dia, a who is this girl again? look of awe. “Okay,” Jules said as they entered Ciara’s house, began unpacking their guitars. “Whatever you say, captain.”

  Ciara’s house looked the same, Jules thought, but as she looked around she began to notice the changes. Gray walls instead of green, the posters replaced with framed art prints. The rug on the living room floor was white and fluffy instead of multicolored knit. Jules lifted the corner of it, though, and underneath was the chunk of wood missing from that same floorboard. She smiled: Dia had dropped a plate there, shards scattering over the floor, and only after they’d cleaned up had they noticed the board.

  She put the rug back and plugged in. Dia was ready; Hanna was sitting behind her drums in the corner, and she lifted her sticks, eyes gleaming.

  Two songs—that was what the follow-up email had said. Each of the final three acts had to perform two original songs, and then the judges would decide who was going to win.

  So they ran through “Bones” and “Pretty Baby,” their obvious second choice, over and over, knowing them almost too well. It was the intense focus of knowing they had only five days now, the anxious energy from before having dissipated; or, it was finally falling into the band they were, who they were now.

  Jules didn’t know which for sure, but she did know that they didn’t make any mistakes. Didn’t slip up or forget anything, didn’t get into any bickering arguments or snap at each other the way they usually did. They kept going until Dia made them stop, wary of getting played out.

  “I think we’re ready?” Dia said, sounding unsure but looking determined. “Yeah.”

  “Ready?” Jules said, pulling her braids into a twist. “We can’t be ready. We still have five days.”

  “You know what I mean,” Dia said. “We were already ready. This is just extra. I don’t want us to freak ourselves out by practicing too much.”

  Hanna held her sticks up. “You’re right,” she said. “Let’s take a break, at least.”

  They sat on the couch, pushed back to make space, and drank sodas from Ciara’s fridge. “This is weird,” Jules said, breaking the silence. “It feels like no time has passed.”

  “You can tell it has,” Dia said. “Look at Hanna’s roots.”

  “Hey!” Hanna said, then tugged at her hair and sighed. “It’s true. I really need to fix this situation.”

  Jules looked at her. “Let’s do it now,” she said, the idea catching her. It was the kind of thing they used to do all the time: hair dye over kitchen sinks, makeup sessions in Dia’s bedroom, late night secrets in between. “We’ll help.”

  “Really?” Hanna sat up. “You want to?”

  “Why not? We’re done here,” Jules said, glancing at Dia to check. “We’ll kill each other if we keep going. Let’s do this instead, and we’ll practice again tomorrow to be sure.”

  “Yeah,” Dia said. “Sure.”

  Jules got up right as the front door opened, and there was Ciara silhouetted in the doorway.

  She let out a little shriek upon entry and raised her aviators. “For the love of all that is holy,” Ciara said. “Would you look at you three together!”

  “Ciara!” The name burst free of Jules’s mouth without her even meaning to say it, and she threw herself into Ciara’s outstretched arms with such force that Ciara stumbled. “Hi!”

  “Hi, pudding.” Ciara returned Jules’s bear hug with equal enthusiasm. “Oh, god, you’re taller. When did you get taller?”

  “I missed you,” Jules found herself saying. “I’m sorry.” Was that all? Was that everything she had?

  But Ciara touched her cheek. “It’s okay,” she said. “I know.”

  It was Dia’s turn to be enveloped in Ciara’s arms next—arms even more covered in tattoos than they had been before, Jules noticed—and then they stood there, all looking at each other and laughing. “Congratulations, mama,” Ciara said to Dia. “I heard you got yourself a beautiful little one.”

  “She is beautiful,” Dia said. “She just turned two, can you believe it?”

  Ciara shook her head. “I really almost can’t,” she said. “You’ll have to tell me all about her.” She narrowed her eyes. “But what are you doing sitting around? Aren’t you supposed to be practicing? I want to hear you!”

  “We’re taking a strategic break,” Hanna said. “We’re going to fix my hair.”

  “Oh, really? Hmm.” Ciara shimmied her shoulders, bare in a skull-emblazoned halter top. “Now that I can help with. But! Only on the condition that you play for me later,” she said. “And catch me up on everything I’ve missed. And I mean everything. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Jules said, in unison with Hanna and Dia.

  “All right then.” She whipped around and headed back out the door. “Come, my loves! To the beauty supply.”

  Jules looked at the others, the biggest smile on her face. “I forgot how much I fucking love that girl.”

  They piled into Ciara’s van—like old times—and headed downtown. Inside the beauty-supply store they wandered the aisles looking for bleach powder, developer, rubber gloves. “You know, you could try a little color,” Ciara said to Hanna. “Blue tips?”

  Hanna shook her hair out. “Maybe,” she said. “Jules, what do you think?”

  “Why not?” Jules said. “If you want.”

  “We’ll go look,” Dia said, grabbing Jules by the hand and dragging her into the next aisle. Heads bent low by the boxes of Hot Red and Purple Orchid, Dia whispered to her. “She’s not mad, is she?”

  “Ciara?” Jules said. “No. She’s not.”

  “Okay,” Dia said. “I needed you to say it.”

  Jules reached out and flicked Dia�
�s elbow. “Don’t push it,” she said. “Right now we have a really good thing going. Don’t jinx us.”

  “I would never,” Dia said, rubbing at her elbow. “And ow!”

  Jules started down the aisle, toward the pinks and blues. “Oh, you princess.”

  She scanned the array of colors, mentally pairing each with Hanna’s face and either casting aside or plucking a box out. When she couldn’t decide between Coral, Capri, or Lagoon Blue, she went to find Hanna and Ciara. But as she passed the makeup aisle, a too-familiar voice caught her and Jules had to look.

  Down there by herself was Delaney Myers. Standing the way she always did: back arched, one hip jutting out, her head tipped ever so slightly to the side, in case anybody was looking. Which Jules was, she supposed, but not looking. Because this was the first time she’d seen Delaney since graduation and it felt strange. Like, as if there used to be a piece of invisible string between them, pulling taut and falling slack but always connecting them, that now had been sliced in two. Jules felt no pull, not in that bittersweet way she always used to.

  Delaney hadn’t seen her. Jules watched her for a moment, bending down to pick something off the bottom shelf. Before this summer Jules might have found some reason to walk down there, shut off her brain for a minute, and give in to loneliness. But now Jules had that thing she’d always been needling Delaney for, and she regretted the time they’d spent pissing each other off and pretending it was what they wanted. Delaney deserved better, too.

  “Hey,” Jules called out before she really thought about it.

  Delaney heard and turned and smiled like there was nothing out of the ordinary about this. “Hey,” she called back. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hair dye,” Jules said, and pointed at her braids. “Not for me.”

  Delaney nodded slightly. “Right. For your girlfriend?” she said, and then grinned at the face Jules knew she must be making. “I heard you were seeing some pretty girl with amazing hair. Am I wrong?”

  Jules looked up to the pockmarked store ceiling, trying not to laugh. “No, you’re right.”

  “That’s good,” Delaney said. “I hope she’s good to you.”

  “She is,” Jules said, and watched Delaney carefully. “Are you? Good?”

  Delaney nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

  Jules smiled, and she hadn’t realized how good it would be to ask that question and get that answer. To even talk to Delaney like they were only some version of friends. “All right.” She lifted her hand to wave goodbye. “See you around.”

  “Yeah,” Delaney said, waving too. “Have a good summer.”

  And then Jules kept on walking, pulling her phone out when it buzzed in her back pocket.

  Autumn had perfect timing. Hey, her text read, hope it’s going well! Malai lost big this morning so next taco trip is on me. It was accompanied with a selfie, Autumn peeking over a twenty-dollar bill.

  Jules shook her head. I was just talking about you, she wrote back. You’re so cute it should be illegal.

  I know, Autumn’s response came. But you love it.

  Jules glanced over her shoulder, back in Delaney’s direction. What they’d had and what she had with Autumn—they were an entire world apart. She and Autumn weren’t perfect, not close. They made mistakes, and made up, and they were both figuring it all out. And it was better than Jules could have ever imagined.

  Jules snapped a picture, a silly face, and sent it to Autumn. Then she headed up to the counter, where the others were already congregating. “Hey,” she said. “Did you choose a color?”

  Hanna nodded, glancing at Jules as Dia and Ciara stacked boxes on the counter. “You okay?”

  Jules let out a slow breath, imagined herself tangling her fingers in the sweet pink and ocean blue of Autumn’s hair. “Yeah,” she said. “Perfect.”

  Hanna

  Hanna stood in the bathroom that night, turning this way and that, watching the way the light changed on her new Special Effects Nuclear Red hair.

  “Are you sure?” Dia had asked, a brush loaded with red dye in her hand. “Once we start, there’s no going back.”

  Hanna had taken a deep breath and nodded. “Do it.”

  It was almost a shocking difference. Hanna was so used to the bright white—it had been her calling card since she’d first locked herself in the bathroom with the bleach at thirteen. But shock was what she needed. Because the girl with the platinum hair was not really her anymore. She didn’t know if she was this girl, either, but she could try it out for a while. Experiment with who, exactly, Hanna Adler was right now.

  She pulled her hair into a ponytail, admiring the jewel-bright shimmer as she did so. Then she took her phone out of her pocket and checked the list of missed calls: all from her mom, none since last week. Only a handful of texts, sent at times of the morning Hanna thought of as night. Just checking in, they said, or some variation of.

  Hope your day went well.

  The weather’s nice today.

  Nothing from today, no sign that her parents had noticed her heist—or that they had decided to do anything about it, at least.

  Hanna bent over the sink. It had been two weeks now. For the sake of harmony: time to yield.

  She watched her new self in the mirror as she dialed. It only rang for a second before her mom answered, this cautious voice. “Hanna?”

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hi. Did you get my messages? I left a lot,” Theresa said, and then, “You came home today. What were you doing?”

  There it was. Hanna knew her mom couldn’t keep away from that.

  (Hadn’t she known, really, as she’d been dismantling her drums that it would lead to this? Wasn’t that a little bit why she’d done it?)

  (Maybe.)

  “I’m sorry,” Hanna said, flexing her free hand. “I should have called you back sooner. I was . . . I’ve been trying to get my head straight.”

  “Hanna—”

  “I want to talk,” Hanna said, watching her mouth move in the mirror. “Not on the phone. At home, with you and Dad. Would that be okay?”

  There was a long silence, and then her mom said, “Of course it would. Come by tomorrow. For dinner?”

  “Sure,” Hanna said, and it felt strange to be doing this, arranging dinner dates at her own dining-room table. “See you then.”

  She hung up and checked her reflection again. The red, she loved, but she wanted more. More different.

  She opened the door. “Ciara! I need your help.”

  The first thing Molly said when she opened the front door was, “Your hair!”

  Hanna touched a hand to her head, a little self-consciously, grateful for the distraction from the unsettled feeling she’d gotten from knocking on her own front door. “Oh, yeah.”

  “It’s so short! And red!” Molly said. “You didn’t tell me you were doing it.”

  Hanna let the ends run over her fingertips. Last night she’d made Ciara cut off five inches. The ends now hovered above her shoulders, falling in her natural waves. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing,” Hanna said. “I didn’t plan it. I would’ve told you if I had. Stop hassling me.”

  Molly gave a defiant toss of her head. “Fine,” she said.

  “Hanna?” her dad’s voice rang out. “Is that you?”

  She steeled herself, fixed a smile on her face, and followed Molly inside, into the kitchen. “Hi, Dad.” She was not a hugger at the best of times, and she leaned against the door frame, waved at her dad sitting at the table. “Hi, Mom.”

  Theresa came away from the sink, a pitcher of water in her hands. “Hanna,” she said, and there was the tiniest hint of warmth there, and then her eyes widened. “Your hair!”

  “Looks good,” her dad cut in, nodding approvingly. “Different.”

  “Yes,” her mom said, her smile wavering. “That’s what I was going to say. Sit!”

  “Sure,” Hanna said, pushing down her laugh. How easily everyone was shaken by a box of red dye and pair of
scissors.

  But aside from that, things were not as terrible as she’d expected.

  They playacted regular through dinner: passing food, Molly making faces across the table, her parents making intermittent conversation. Hanna ate and wondered if this sense of surreality was evident only to her, or if they all appreciated the play they were putting on.

  Once they were finished, Hanna got up to clear the plates. “Molly, help me out,” she said, but her dad cleared his throat.

  “Actually, Molly, will you give us a minute?” he said. “Take your laundry upstairs.”

  Molly rolled her eyes. “Fine.” But as she stood up, she shot Hanna a worried look. Hanna nodded at her and mouthed, It’s okay. Because it was true. Hanna had been at this table with her parents wearing those Very Serious faces many times before: after the ER that first time, and when Elliot had died, and after the ER that second time, and when they’d told her she was going to rehab. She’d lived through those talks and she’d live through this one, too.

  Four hundred and sixty-eight days, she thought.

  I am here.

  I am not broken.

  I am okay.

  Once Molly was gone, up the stairs, her parents turned all their attention on her. “Hanna,” her dad said, and he looked so, so tired. “We need to talk about what’s going on.”

  “Where are you staying?” her mom asked. “Not with Dia? Jules? I called their mothers.”

  “You called their moms?” Hanna said, and she wasn’t sure why she was surprised. “I’m staying with Ciara.”

  “With Ciara?” Her mom pressed her lips into a thin line, and Hanna could imagine the conversation in her head: At least she has a safe place to stay. But Ciara’s a part of the whole music thing. She’s older, though, and maybe she’ll teach Hanna something about responsibility. Or maybe she’ll be a bad influence. “Okay,” was all her mom said eventually. And then she sat up straight, eyes bright. “What are you thinking?”

  Hanna swallowed her nerves and looked her mom right in the eyes. “I am thinking,” she said, “that you gave me an ultimatum and I made my choice. That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? When someone says do this or that. You pick one. I picked the one you didn’t want. That’s it.”