Red(8)

“Maybe,” Felicity said. “Call me, okay?”

“I’m going to the gym after school. Coach says I should be able to bench about fifteen more pounds. Gotta work on my arms. Call you after.”

“Great.” Felicity gave him a quick kiss, then watched as he walked away. He already had really great arms.

The day passed in a blur of admiring looks, praise, and congratulations from her fellow students and teachers. Three giggling freshmen approached Felicity in the cafeteria and made her and Haylie promise to sign their yearbooks, which wouldn’t even arrive for another four weeks. Unlike Felicity, Haylie soaked up the attention. “Everyone needs celebrities to adore,” she announced. “We’re providing a valuable service to the school. We have to do our civic duty and let everyone gossip to their heart’s content.” Ivy responded with a sound that closely resembled that of a cat expelling a hairball.

Felicity tried hard to remember Haylie’s comment when she caught Sayuri Kwan and Marina lurking near her locker after school, stealing quick glances at her as they laughed and whispered. They’re just talking about how much they wish they could switch places with me, she told herself as she headed to the salon. There’s no reason to worry.

Rouge-o-Rama was located in the Jefferson Building, where many of Scarletville’s dentists, lawyers, and real estate agents had their offices. The building’s main elevators stopped only on the first six floors. The salon was on the seventh, which looked like part of the roof from the outside. Felicity went to the third floor and waited until the hall was empty, then ducked into the women’s bathroom, marked closed for renovations. Once inside the room, which reeked of cheap floral air freshener, she approached a plain metal door near the back and pressed on a wall tile next to the doorknob. It flipped up to reveal a keypad, which always made Felicity feel like a secret agent. She pulled out her mom’s Post-it note, punched in that day’s salon code, and flipped the tile back down. The door unlocked with a click, and she pulled it open.

Behind the door was one of Rouge-o-Rama’s two private elevators. This one carried clients up, and the other, at the opposite side of the building, took them back down after their appointments. The other elevator let out on the second floor, which ensured that clients never accidentally met coming to and from the salon.

Felicity boarded the elevator and punched the only available button, and the car ascended to the top floor with its usual clanking and grinding noises. Rose opened the door almost immediately when Felicity rang the bell. “Hey, honey!” the stylist said, pulling her into an enthusiastic hug. “Congratulations on Miss Scarlet!”

“Thanks,” Felicity said. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Of course you could’ve. You got in ’cause you deserved it, not just because of your hair. If it was all about red hair, they wouldn’t have chosen Ariel, right?”

“Yeah, but Ariel doesn’t have a chance. Is it even worth competing if you can’t possibly win? That’s so much work for nothing.”

“I think Ariel might disagree.” Rose shrugged. “Come inside. Let’s make you even more beautiful.”

Rose led Felicity into one of the salon’s two main rooms, handed her a smock, and went into the back to mix the dye. Contrary to all rumors, Rouge-o-Rama just looked like a regular hair salon. The walls of the main room were papered in a crimson and white pattern intended to hide errant flecks of red dye. The mirrors had decorative, low-wattage lightbulbs around the edges—Felicity had spent a lot of time posing in front of them as a kid, pretending she was a Hollywood starlet. It was a comfortable, warm space that made people feel optimistic about their hair, even if it wasn’t naturally red.

Felicity sat down in the chair and snapped on her smock, which had a big red rose printed on the front. After a few minutes, Rose came out shaking a plastic squeeze bottle, her gloved finger over the hole in the top. “So, are you excited about the competition?” she asked.

“Yeah, definitely. It’s going to be great.” Felicity tipped her chin up so Rose could smear Vaseline along her hairline to prevent accidental drips from dyeing her skin. It was slimy and cold, and she had to force herself not to pull away.

“What are you doing for your talent?” Rose started squeezing the dye onto the roots of Felicity’s hair, using a small paintbrush to spread it around evenly. The harsh chemical scent of it scratched at the inside of Felicity’s nose, the olfactory equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard.

“I’ll tap-dance. That was Mom’s talent, too. I already learned a routine, just in case.”

“I can’t wait to see you strut your stuff. You’re all so talented. Katie, my youngest, is totally obsessed with the pageant this year. You should see her practicing her runway walk in the living room every night. It’s adorable how she idolizes you girls.” Rose grinned at Felicity in the mirror. “Is everyone treating you like a celebrity at school?”

“Yeah, most people.” But her brunette classmates’ cold stares were still fresh in her mind. She tried to figure out how to ask Rose if anyone could possibly know who frequented the salon, but she couldn’t think of a way to phrase the question that didn’t sound paranoid.

Rose brushed on one final squeeze of dye and stretched a plastic cap over Felicity’s hair. “Come on, it’s time for the dryer.”