DeSalvio and so was never "sexually active" with him and never had her photo- graph zipping around cyberspace. Someone who's never been humiliated in front of her entire school and her own parents. I go to bed at three a.m., Stevie the Purr Monster draped across my chest. For the first time in days, I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
Four hours later, I drag myself downstairs, Stevie at my heels. My parents are both sitting at the breakfast table, talking in low voices. They both stop and stare when I come into the room. My parents both have brown hair. They always thought my blond hair was this special thing, like a present they got when I was born.
115 They aren't happy.
"Audrey!" says my mom.
"Your hair!" says my dad.
I grab the nearest box of cereal and flop into my seat. Stevie jumps on the table and my dad shoos him off. "It will grow out, okay? Don't give me a hard time about it."
They look at each other, then back at me. "But," my dad says, "your hair was so beautiful."
"It still is," I say.
He doesn't know how to respond to that.
A few minutes later, my mom says, "It does set off your eyes."
"Thanks, Mom."
"If you do it again, maybe you could think about putting in some red highlights."
"Red what? What are you talking about?" says my dad. "Why . . ." He starts again. "What made you change your hair?"
"No reason. This crazy store clerk talked me into it. When I get sick of it, I can always dye it back. Or shave it off."
"Shave it off?" My dad is really becoming alarmed now.
"She's not going to shave it off, John," my mom says.
"How do you know?" I say.
My mom sighs and rolls her eyes toward the ceiling.
116 I haven't seen that in a while, and it makes me feel bet- ter. Then she ruins the mood by saying, "Remember, you have your doctor's appointment at the end of next week."
In the car, Ash can't get over me. "Holy Scheisse!" she says. "What the hell did you do to yourself?"
"I figure that if I have to be all dark and brooding, I should look the part."
"You even did your eyebrows! I've never done my eyebrows."
"Yeah. The package said that you weren't supposed to, that you could, I don't know, go blind or something if you got the stuff in your eyes, but I thought I'd look really dumb with blond eyebrows and brown hair."
Ash leans back in her seat and considers me. "You know what? I like it. It's pretty cool. Hot, actually."
"Thanks."
As she turns into the school parking lot, she says, "But it's not like people won't recognize you. I mean, they still might be talking about that stupid picture. So . . ."
"I know," I tell her. "I get it. It's not a disguise. I just wanted a change, that's all."
But it does work as a disguise, at least a little bit. Some people float by me without seeming to see me, and a lot of others do double takes. I still get comments about the picture, I still hear whispers behind my back,
117 but I keep telling myself that in a few weeks they'll forget. Someday soon, someone will write something outrageous and personal and maybe disgusting about someone else on a blog or a text message or chat, people will get pissed and the rumors will spread, and I'll be old news, no matter what color my hair is. I'll rack up the A's, I'll work on the set for Hamlet--even if there's only a coffee table and a telephone, it will be the best coffee table and telephone that the audience has ever seen. By April, I'll know where I'm going to college; then I can pack up and be off. See ya, kids. Bye-bye, high school. I'll leave this photograph behind while the gargoyle who took it will slink off to whatever circle of hell waits for him.
So I read, I study, I study some more. I admire my toothpick village and wish I were young enough to want to add to it, to disappear into a tiny little house or a train or a windmill. I slog from class to class to class. I'm more chilly than Chilly, I freeze him out. Except for Ash and Joelle, I freeze everyone out. By
Four hours later, I drag myself downstairs, Stevie at my heels. My parents are both sitting at the breakfast table, talking in low voices. They both stop and stare when I come into the room. My parents both have brown hair. They always thought my blond hair was this special thing, like a present they got when I was born.
115 They aren't happy.
"Audrey!" says my mom.
"Your hair!" says my dad.
I grab the nearest box of cereal and flop into my seat. Stevie jumps on the table and my dad shoos him off. "It will grow out, okay? Don't give me a hard time about it."
They look at each other, then back at me. "But," my dad says, "your hair was so beautiful."
"It still is," I say.
He doesn't know how to respond to that.
A few minutes later, my mom says, "It does set off your eyes."
"Thanks, Mom."
"If you do it again, maybe you could think about putting in some red highlights."
"Red what? What are you talking about?" says my dad. "Why . . ." He starts again. "What made you change your hair?"
"No reason. This crazy store clerk talked me into it. When I get sick of it, I can always dye it back. Or shave it off."
"Shave it off?" My dad is really becoming alarmed now.
"She's not going to shave it off, John," my mom says.
"How do you know?" I say.
My mom sighs and rolls her eyes toward the ceiling.
116 I haven't seen that in a while, and it makes me feel bet- ter. Then she ruins the mood by saying, "Remember, you have your doctor's appointment at the end of next week."
In the car, Ash can't get over me. "Holy Scheisse!" she says. "What the hell did you do to yourself?"
"I figure that if I have to be all dark and brooding, I should look the part."
"You even did your eyebrows! I've never done my eyebrows."
"Yeah. The package said that you weren't supposed to, that you could, I don't know, go blind or something if you got the stuff in your eyes, but I thought I'd look really dumb with blond eyebrows and brown hair."
Ash leans back in her seat and considers me. "You know what? I like it. It's pretty cool. Hot, actually."
"Thanks."
As she turns into the school parking lot, she says, "But it's not like people won't recognize you. I mean, they still might be talking about that stupid picture. So . . ."
"I know," I tell her. "I get it. It's not a disguise. I just wanted a change, that's all."
But it does work as a disguise, at least a little bit. Some people float by me without seeming to see me, and a lot of others do double takes. I still get comments about the picture, I still hear whispers behind my back,
117 but I keep telling myself that in a few weeks they'll forget. Someday soon, someone will write something outrageous and personal and maybe disgusting about someone else on a blog or a text message or chat, people will get pissed and the rumors will spread, and I'll be old news, no matter what color my hair is. I'll rack up the A's, I'll work on the set for Hamlet--even if there's only a coffee table and a telephone, it will be the best coffee table and telephone that the audience has ever seen. By April, I'll know where I'm going to college; then I can pack up and be off. See ya, kids. Bye-bye, high school. I'll leave this photograph behind while the gargoyle who took it will slink off to whatever circle of hell waits for him.
So I read, I study, I study some more. I admire my toothpick village and wish I were young enough to want to add to it, to disappear into a tiny little house or a train or a windmill. I slog from class to class to class. I'm more chilly than Chilly, I freeze him out. Except for Ash and Joelle, I freeze everyone out. By
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