Don't Breathe a Word by Holly Cupala Page B

Well, I keep them hidden anyway. Those guys can do the most stupid-ass things and have no idea what they’re wrecking. Now sit on the edge so I can reach you.”
    I sat obediently and she ran her fingers through my hair again. Bleaching my hair had turned my strands from thick and dark to white and airy, like cotton candy, more and more tangled each day. She finger-combed the strands until it felt like a rhythm.
    When we were younger, Neeta and I used to do each other’s hair—she would put dozens of braids in mine, and I would make ringlets of hers. My mom let us have slumber parties whenever we wanted—I think she felt bad I was so isolated. They never let me stay at someone else’s house, just in case I came down with pneumonia or had a sudden asthma attack. Neeta was like a substitute sister.
    May lifted my chin and arranged the strands one way and then another. “What are you doing?” I asked.
    â€œI’m trying to figure out what’s going to look the best on you. I mean, you’ve got these chubby cheeks.” I frowned. “But then you’ve got this great sharp line to your jaw and big eyes, like Natalie What’s-her-name—”
    â€œPortman?”
    â€œYeah, whatever—but with white hair. So actually, if we gave you the right shape, you could totally work the grandma hair thing—”
    â€œGrandma?”
    â€œDo you want me to fix it or what? No. Don’t answer. It couldn’t get worse, so you might as well let me make it better.”
    Seconds later, I felt the shears tearing through the hair I had left, and little by little, it fell on the floor in fluffy white tufts. May paused to take it all in, then dragged the blades through more and more of my hair until we both heard the floor creak behind us. Santos rubbed his eyes with his fists, reminding me of my younger brother, Jonah. “Got any coffee?” he mumbled, staggering further into the room. His hoodie and T-shirt were rumpled and faded, pants hanging down around his hips.
    â€œIt’s cold by now.” May handed him the fourth cup where an “S” had been scratched into the waxy surface. “There’s bran muffins in the kitchen.”
    â€œWow, nice hair. She’s Sid and Nancy now.”
    May rolled her eyes. “You can’t be Sid and Nancy. But she doesn’t look half bad. Here—take a look at yourself.” She held up a shard of mirror. “We can fix the makeup later, but look at the cut and tell me what you think.”
    The blonde in the mirror blinked back at me—hair razored and wispy around the face just below the jaw, unlike the jagged chunks I’d left by grabbing the entire mass and hacking it off. It looked chic and punk, mean and sassy at the same time, making my round cheeks disappear and my chin look sharper. Suddenly, I looked like a badass. Cross me if you dare.
    â€œWow. It’s the best haircut I’ve ever had,” I said, and I meant it. May clearly had the street power of disguise.
    â€œWhatever,” she snorted. “But it’s better than that post-Gene Juarez Salon look you had going on. Nobody is going to call you ’Burbs now.” She giggled. “Except maybe us, because you’ll always be ’Burbs to me. But you look hot now.”
    â€œSmokin’,” Santos agreed, chomping on his muffin. He slugged half the coffee and then fed some muffin to the ferret, who sniffed around before swallowing a fingertip-sized bite whole.
    â€œAt least nobody is going to try to jump your ass,” May was saying. “A few more weeks, and you’ll actually look like you belong here.”
    Maybe I would look like I belonged. But the real question went deeper—I’d left one family and only accidentally found another. Would there be room in this one for me?

Chapter 17
    â€œOkay, so the first thing you need to learn if you’re going to survive on the streets is how