Mom blinked. “Oh. That’s fine. It’s not like anyone’s going to see you in here.” She scanned the empty salon. “Do you want to wait in the car while I pay?”
I nodded and yanked off the smock before the stylist could undo the snaps. Gyver took the keys from my mother and put a hand on my shoulder as we walked out.
With the doors shut, me in the backseat, Gyver in shotgun, and the radio tuned to one of his stations, I took the hat off. My head felt exposed and prickly. “Awful?”
Gyver leaned against the headrest, eyes closed and singing along with a song while he rolled a guitar pick between his fingers. “Are you compliment fishing? Because you couldn’t look awful if you tried.”
I put the hat back on. “I wish you’d be serious.”
“You look fine.”
“Fine? I hope Ryan’s okay with ‘fine.’” I was crushed. What did I want Gyver to say?
He opened his eyes and scanned me from the top of the hat down to the heart pendant. “So Ryan’s your boyfriend now? It’s official?”
“What?” I stopped fussing with the rim of the hat and looked at him. “No, Mom just refuses to listen, and I’m sick of correcting her.”
“What kind of game are you playing, Mi?”
“Game?”
He turned around in his seat, searing me with intense eyes. “You’re jerking the guy along. Either you like him enough to date him or you don’t—so either go out with him or let him go while he’s still got some dignity left.”
I pulled the hat brim lower and stared at my fingernails. When I had I let them get so ragged? “You don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s not like that.”
Gyver nearly yelled his response. “I know exactly what I’m talking about—you’re going to break his heart.”
I scoffed. “I am not going to break Ryan’s heart. He doesn’t care that much.”
Gyver paused for a second, his voice dropped to a deep whisper. “Well, if he doesn’t care, why’s he doing all this?”
Why was Ryan doing this? I could think about that later, right now I was too focused on Gyver and too unsettled. “He’s hardly the only thing I’m worried about. Does it look real or will people guess? What if Ally and Hil find out? How do I keep a wig on while cheering?”
“Enough.” He held up a hand—the pick held between pointer and middle finger—and shut his eyes again. “Didn’t you hear? It makes your ‘killer blue eyes look bigger.’ Are you really going to make me tell you you’re gorgeous, so you feel good about yourself for Ryan? You know I think so. I need a much bigger dose of caffeine if you’re going to be whining about The Jock and the cheerbitches.”
If his eyes had been open, he would’ve seen how much his words hurt, but he only sighed and rubbed his closed lids. I spent hours locked behind my bathroom door with the wig and the arsenal of products Mom bought to care for it. I ached to call Hil, have her come do hairstyling-goddess tricks and tell me honestly how I looked. She’d hug me and allow a five-minute cry if it was awful, then say “that’s enough” and tell me her plan to make bald the newest trend. But after our fight yesterday, I couldn’t convince myself to press the buttons to bring her to my dramafest. Probably because I was scared she wouldn’t come.
I needed to believe that even withered, ashen, and bald, I didn’t look too repulsive. I left the bathroom, trying to convince myself that I didn’t need my clover necklace to keep me safe, but I paused again to check myself out in the foyer mirror.
It was gone. Replaced by a framed floral print. I stepped into the dining room; the decorative mirror in there was also missing. Ordering the wig hadn’t been Mom’s only preparation for today. How long had she been planning this?
Mom came in while I studied the dining room’s new Monet print. Did she fake her smiles too? Her face looked falsely cheerful as she asked, “What are you up to tonight?”
“No plans.” I shook my head, hyperaware of the whisper of the wig against my cheeks.
“No plans?” She frowned. “Call Hil, see what she’s doing.”
“They’re all going over to Bill’s house, and I don’t feel like going out.” I didn’t want to leave the house until my hair grew back.
“Have them over here instead. I haven’t seen anyone but Lauren in ages. What’s everyone up to these days?”
I stared at the painting, a decoration to hide the ugly truth. My mouth tasted sour. “Lauren had a party last night. Other than that, I wouldn’t know. I’ve barely seen them, I have no clue what’s going on in their lives.” My voice climbed octaves as I lost my battle with tears.
“That’s not true, kitten.” She patted my back. “You see them at school and practice.”
“It is true! My whole life is illness and lies. I hate it!” I pulled the wig from my head and whipped it at the ground. “And that? It’s just another lie—another thing to hide. I don’t know my friends anymore, and I can’t even tell them why!”