Red(40)

“Nothing. I’m fine.” Felicity sounded about as convincing as she had when she was six and tried to blame the cat for the crayon drawings on her bedroom walls.

Ms. Kellogg gently tilted Felicity’s chin up and looked into her bloodshot eyes, and Felicity didn’t fight her. “You want to talk about it?”

She did. More than anything, she wanted to spill out the whole story. Ms. Kellogg was a strawbie herself. She would understand. But the words stuck in her throat like a glob of peanut butter, and she couldn’t get them out.

Instead she said, “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course. Anything at all.”

Felicity looked back down at her hands. “I hope this doesn’t sound rude, but … do you ever wish you were a real redhead?”

Ms. Kellogg laughed, a quick, surprised cascade of notes. It wasn’t the reaction Felicity had been expecting. “Felicity, I know this will sound weird to you, but everywhere except Scarletville, I am a real redhead.”

“What? But you’re a— I mean, your hair’s strawberry-blond. It’s totally different.”

“That’s not really a distinction the rest of the world makes. When I was growing up in Philadelphia, I got called Pippi Longstocking and Carrot Top all through grade school. I had the reddest hair in my class. I had this photography professor at NYU who used to talk about my ‘Pre-Raphaelite copper locks’ all the time. I feel like a redhead, and I’ve always considered myself one.”

Felicity looked at the strawberry waves falling around her teacher’s shoulders. She couldn’t imagine a strawbie getting called Carrot Top. It just didn’t make any sense. “But why’d you move to Scarletville if you knew your hair would look less red here?”

“Teach for America sent me here. It was a total coincidence. And then Principal Atkins hired me full-time when I was done with my assignment. My hair color has never factored into my decisions at all. This is just what I look like, and I don’t really have the time or energy to be self-conscious about it.”

Felicity couldn’t fathom the concept of a person’s hair color being unimportant. Rarely did an hour go by when she didn’t think about her own.

“Huh,” she said. It was less than articulate, but it was all her addled brain could manage.

Ms. Kellogg reached out and tucked a lock of Felicity’s vibrant hair behind her ear. “Just wait till you get out into the world, Felicity. I think you’ll be surprised by how big it is.”

As Ms. Kellogg moved on to the next painting, Felicity knelt there on the floor, trying to make sense of her teacher’s words. It felt like her world had just stirred in its sleep, stretched, and settled back down in a different position, taking up a little more space than before.

Felicity had been looking forward to her rendezvous with Brent all day, but now the prospect of seeing him filled her with dread. By the time he texted that he was coming up the tree, she was so nervous she felt sick; the spaghetti she’d eaten for dinner seemed to be braiding itself around her organs. She had worked out what she would say to him, but she wasn’t sure she could successfully force the words out of her mouth. For a moment, she considered telling him she couldn’t hang out after all. But this conversation would have to happen eventually, or there would be unspeakable consequences. If Brent found out Felicity was a strawbie, he’d probably break up with her, and she’d lose him forever. This way, she’d only have to give him up for one night.

She texted back and told him to come up.

A few minutes later, Brent slid through the window. He paused just long enough to say hello before he swept Felicity up in his arms like a Disney prince rescuing a damsel in distress. Then his mouth was on hers, urgent and thrilling, and everything ceased to exist except for his tongue and his wintergreen breath and his strong hands running up her back. The speech she had so carefully prepared flew from her mind like a pigeon in the path of a rampaging toddler.

After a few blissful minutes, they fumbled toward the bed, struggling out of their shirts on the way, and fell into each other’s arms on top of the covers. Felicity’s heart was beating so quickly it felt like a continuous hum in her chest. She pressed against Brent, wishing they could melt together. Even with no space between them, he didn’t feel close enough.

Just then, Felicity heard her brothers race down the hall, screaming something about a plane crash. She froze with her mouth an inch from Brent’s and waited for them to move on. “Can we keep going?” Brent whispered against her lips.

“Hang on a second,” she whispered back. “I don’t want my brothers to come in here.”

“No, I mean, can we keep going.” Brent pressed his hips against hers for clarification.

Felicity’s entire body was begging, Yes, yes, yes, just do it already! But the screaming and banging outside the door made her reluctant to plunge into uncharted waters. She wanted her first time to be slow and tender and romantic, not a quick, illicit whirlwind punctuated by seven-year-old voices.

“Babe, we can’t do it with them in the hall,” she whispered. “My door doesn’t even lock, and I’d get in so much trouble if anyone found out you were here.”

Brent gave a low moan that was one part frustration and one part assent. He kissed slowly up Felicity’s neck, and when he reached her ear, he whispered, “Maybe we could do it on prom night. We could get a hotel room, if you wanted. It would be really romantic.”