“It’s not bad. You still look beautiful. It’s just, if you want to pretend you have hair, we need to switch to the wig before what’s left on your head is gone.”
The wig looked like a shiny dead animal. “Today?”
“It doesn’t have to be. Whenever you’re ready—I’ve already talked to the salon. So, when you’re ready …” Her eyes skipped by me and fixed on the telephone.
“I guess today works. There’s no point in waiting, right?” I looked at my feet; my toes were clenched within my socks.
“Absolutely! I knew you’d make a mature decision. I’ll reserve the salon so you have privacy. Don’t worry, you’re going to look just as pretty in the wig.”
I ducked out the front door while she was on the phone. Mrs. Russo answered my knock. “Mia? What are you doing over here so early? And in your pajamas? Get in here before you freeze.”
“Is Gyver up?” I asked.
“This early? I don’t expect him to surface before noon. He was at a concert last night.” She took a plate from the cabinet and piled it with fresh fruit and toasted raisin bread.
“Oh.” I sat at the table and poured juice. “Thanks. Did you and Mr. Russo already eat?”
“Yes. Why don’t I go wake lazy boy up to keep you company?”
“It’s okay.”
“Dearest, you would not be over here at nine in the morning on a Saturday—in your pajamas—if everything was okay.”
I stared at the tablecloth. “Mom thinks I should shave my head and wear a wig.”
Mrs. Russo refreshed her coffee and joined me at the table, leaning in and giving me her complete attention—the same way Gyver did. “How do you feel about that?”
I shrugged. “It makes sense. It’s not like I have much choice, and my head’s itchy.”
“You wouldn’t have to wear a wig.”
“Walk around bald?”
She put a hand on my arm and waited me out.
“I don’t want to be bald.” Once I started to cry, I couldn’t stop. Mrs. Russo bundled me in her arms and rubbed my back, rocking and cooing comforting words.
“I. Don’t. Want. Any. Of. This.” And finally the words I’d been fighting against since July came spewing out. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.”
“I know,” she soothed.
“I just want—”
“Nancy? Is Mia here?”
At the sound of my mother’s voice, I jerked upright, stifled a half-formed sob and wiped my cheeks on my sleeves.
Mrs. Russo pressed her lips together for a moment, then leaned over and touched them to my cheek. “We’re in here. Eating some breakfast.”
Mom walked in. “There you are, kitten! Good news, we’re all set for ten thirty today.”
I examined my raisin toast and hid my giveaway splotchy cheeks. “Great. Thanks, Mom.”
“Would you like some fruit? Bread? Coffee? There’s plenty.” Mrs. Russo pointed to the mugs on the table and began assembling a plate.
Mom poured herself a cup of coffee. “When I can’t fit in my pants, I’m blaming your raisin bread. It’s sinfully good. Right, Mia?”
I um-hmmed, but my legs began to bob under the table. I couldn’t fake it right now, and if I didn’t leave soon, she’d notice. “Can I go wake Gyver?”
“Absolutely. Tell lazy boy it’s time to join the living,” Mrs. Russo said.
I knocked twice before I heard a noise that was half-groan and half-snarl. “It’s early, Mom.” His voice was muffled by the door and maybe a pillow.
“It’s Mia,” I said to the doorframe.
“Mi? What?” Less muffled; perhaps the pillow had been removed.
“Can I come in?” I waited five quiet seconds. “I’m coming in.”
Gyver sat up and rubbed his face with the palm of his hand. His hair was an anarchy of black locks and the pillowcase had left creases on his cheek. He was shirtless. One foot and part of his calf were sticking out from under his blanket, making it clear he didn’t wear pajama pants to bed either.
“Hi,” I said shyly, sitting down in his desk chair.
“You’re in my bedroom. In your pajamas.” His words were sleep-slowed and rusty.
“Yeah,” I agreed, waiting for his inevitable innuendo.
Gyver blinked. “And you’ve been crying. What’s wrong, Mi?” He sat up straighter, alert.
“Nothing.”
He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.
“Nothing really. At least, nothing that matters. My mom wants me to get my hair cut today.”
He raised the other eyebrow.
“Cut off,” I clarified.
He nodded and waited. Were the Russos born with magical listening powers or did they cultivate them?
“It’s superficial, but I like my hair. I don’t want to wear a wig and I don’t want to be sick.” I was making trails in his carpet with my big toe. “Go ahead, tell me I’m being shallow.”
“C’mere.” He patted a spot next to him.
“Um … what do you have on under there?”
He grinned. “Would you like me to show you?”
When my cheeks lit up with blushes, he laughed and amended, “I’m joking, Mi. I’ve got boxers on. Come here, would you? I’ll stay safely under the covers.”