“Is that new?” Mom also leaned in to inspect the gold heart.
“Ryan gave it to me last night.” I pulled away from Gyver’s grasp and tucked it self-consciously under my shirt. He’d surprised me with it after the game—when I’d bailed on Lauren’s party and yet another of his rain check dates—pressing a small jewelry box in my hand while I was still making excuses. I knew I was probably supposed to respond with, “Yes, I’ll go out with you,” but I couldn’t hide my disappointment that my necklace wasn’t inside the green velvet case.
Ryan had looked disappointed too, saying, “I’m still here, Mia. I know you thought I’d run after seeing you in the hospital, but I’m still here. Trust me.” I’d kissed his cheek and asked for help with the clasp, but it felt different on my neck. A heart wasn’t good luck. What does it signify if you lose your lucky charm?
“Your boyfriend?” asked the stylist. “How pretty! You’re lucky to have such a nice guy. I wish my boyfriend bought me jewelry.”
Gyver snorted.
“She is lucky!” Mom gushed. “He’s handsome, thoughtful, and last year’s junior prom king. Now let’s try the wig.”
Instead I put on Gyver’s hat. “I think my scalp needs to settle.”
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?