People Like Us(68)

I wet my hair and comb out all the snarls until it hangs in waves down over my face and shoulders. Then I pull a handful tightly down between my middle and forefinger and close the scissors with a satisfying snip. I cut off six inches around at first, giddy at the sudden lightness of my skull, and then a nauseous wave of nervousness hits when I realize how difficult it is to cut it evenly all the way around. I have to rewet it several times and use a variety of handheld mirrors, and the kitchen scissors do not cut very easily.

There are some useful tools in Nola’s bathroom hutch, including several sets of salon scissors and buzzers, which I experiment with. I end up pulling the top layer of my hair on top of my head in a bun and shaving the lower layer about a half inch short, something I saw once on a pro soccer player I admire, then cutting the top layer short in the back and long in the front. It looks a little different on me because my hair is so wavy, but it’s still pretty cool. I think my waves actually hide the fact that I can’t quite manage to cut it perfectly straight. Just as I’m finishing up the last few snips, I hear the front door open and slam shut downstairs. I hurriedly sweep all of the evidence up into the trash can and rinse the scissors and combs, then towel dry my hair and change into a shirt that isn’t covered in damp hair cuttings.

I jump on the bed and grab one of Nola’s books, assuming a poker face. I want an honest reaction.

Nola flings the door open and flicks the light on. “I had the best idea. When you call Spencer—” She stops. “What did you do?”

I jump up. “Ta-da!”

“You look like a circus freak.”

I cross my arms over my chest, feeling less confident but also annoyed. “No I don’t. I look like Mara Kacoyanis. She’s, like, my personal hero.”

Nola approaches, cringing, and turns me around in a circle. “Why didn’t you ask me first?”

I gape at her. “For permission?”

She rolls her eyes. “For my opinion. Not to brag, but I know a bit about couture.”

“Not here you don’t.”

She pauses. “Do you have a problem with the way I dress around my parents?”

“Do you have a problem with the way I wear my hair around them? Or my name, for that matter? I never go by Katherine.”

She sits and sighs into her hand. “My grandmother’s nickname was Kay, and she is revered as something of a beloved ghost that’s never mentioned.”

I shift my weight back and forth. “Is there some Freudian reason why you befriended me?”

“No. It’s just one of those family things. Kay is sacred. It’s taken. You can’t be Kay. She got dibs.”

“And my hair?”

“That’s just ugly.” Her expression softens. “I’m sorry. It’s not ugly. It’s just not what I would choose.” She pauses. “Let me fix it for you.”

I take a step back from her, stung by the sudden change from yesterday. “No. I like it.”

She bites her lower lip and looks like she’s struggling not to say something. “Fine.”

“Why do you care?”

“I liked you the way you were,” she bursts out.

I touch the soft new ends of my sharp curls. “I am the way I was.”

She paces a bit and chews on her nails. “I just like things a certain way. Forget it. What’s important is what Spencer likes.”

“Oh my God.” I push her away and sit down on the bed. “He doesn’t care what I look like.”

Nola flinches at that. “Isn’t he the enlightened one.” She throws a plastic bag at my feet. I open it to find a body microphone and recording unit, tiny and sleek and very expensive looking. The receipt falls out at my feet, and when I bend to pick it up, the total catches my eye and I gasp.

“I cannot possibly accept this, Nola.”

She pushes the bag into my hand. “You have to. I won’t let you refuse.” She takes my hand in hers and looks into my eyes. “Kay, I am not watching you go to prison because of someone else’s crimes. This has been a nightmare. One last push. Then life begins again, and everything goes back to the way it was.”

The words churn in my head. Nothing is going to go back to the way it was. But if there are two paths in front of me, and one leads to prison and one still holds the possibility of scholarships and college, I don’t have a choice. I take the plastic bag and stuff it into my overnight bag.

“Thank you,” I say, swallowing hard. Failure is not an option.



* * *



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AT DINNER, BOTH Mrs. Kent and Bernie compliment me on my new haircut. Bernie calls it “winning” and Mrs. Kent says I look like a young Dolores Mason. I’m not sure who that is, and I don’t want to sound ignorant, so I don’t ask. Since Marla has the night off, dinner is Chinese takeout. It takes me back to the months after Todd died and Mom was absent. Dad and I had a rigidly planned weekly menu. On weekends we visited Mom, but every other night was a set schedule. Monday was my turn to cook: mac and cheese from the box. Tuesday was Dad’s night: spaghetti and sauce from the jar. On Wednesday night, we ordered pizza. The first half of the week was admittedly carb heavy. Thursday night was Chinese.

“This is the best Chinese north of Chinatown,” Bernie jokes, and Mrs. Kent laughs, but Nola rolls her eyes and mouths at me, Every time.