Fern’s mom was really nice. We promised to keep the black dye off the shower curtain and be very careful and lay down towels, and she was cool about it. Me and Fern headed to Fern’s bedroom.
Her room was amazing. The walls were purple. She had a shelf of books and CDs, on top of which were several vases of dried flowers. Her bedspread was black satin, and her sheets were black. All of her furniture was painted black as well, and the room smelled vaguely of warm vanilla. A black electric guitar lay casually on the bed. There were candles on her nightstand and several posters and paintings on her walls. She had a vanity covered with cosmetics and perfume bottles and a string of small white Christmas lights around the mirror. I swallowed hard, picturing my own white-walled, mismatched bedroom with the old powder-blue comforter on the bed and the porcelain duck lamp I’d had since I was a baby. I wanted to make my room cooler before she saw it. This room had a dark, cozy mood to it. Perfect for holing up and writing.
“Your room is great,” I said.
“Thanks. It took awhile to convince my mom to let me paint it this colour,” she said.
We got started by bleaching Fern’s hair in the bathroom. She sat on the toilet lid and I wore plastic gloves and tried to get as much of her hair covered with bleach as I could. It was a difficult job; not only because I had never done it before, but also because Fern’s hair was so bloody long. She had roots growing in, which were dark brown, and she told me to do the roots first so they’d have longer to lighten than the ends, which were already pretty light. I was a bit nervous. I didn’t want to totally ruin Fern’s hair.
After inspecting herself in the bathroom mirror, she deemed my job thorough, and we went back into her bedroom to wait for the bleach to do its stuff.
“Play me something on your guitar,” I suggested.
She giggled nervously and picked it up, sitting on her bed and resting the guitar across her lap. “I’m not very good,” she warned. “I have a book I was trying to learn from.”
Fern played a few chords and then launched into a slowed-down, faltering version of the opening guitar riff from “I Ignore Your Screams” by DED. Flawed as it was, it was totally recognizable, and I was thrilled.
“That’s great!”
“Eventually I want to get an amp and some effects pedals,” she said. “But I can’t afford any of that right now. It sounds so stupid like this.”
“Will your mom let you have an amp?”
“It won’t be too loud. I can listen over headphones,” she said. I was impressed at her knowledge of guitar gear.
“Can you write music?” I asked.
“I want to eventually, but I kinda want to get better at playing before I try,” Fern replied. “I want to be in a band one day.”
“I told you I’m starting to write lyrics,” I said. “We should totally start a band someday.”
“Yeah, we should. You’ll have to show me some of the stuff you’re writing. Can you sing?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
xXx
When Fern went back to the bathroom to rinse the bleach out of her hair in the shower, her mother invited me to have a cup of tea with her in the kitchen. Her mom was older than my parents were, with grey hair, but not old enough to be a grandmother type. She’d made some green tea, and I sat across from her at the table.
“I’m happy to see that Fern’s made a friend,” she said, sliding a plate of cookies across the table towards me. “Especially one she has things in common with.”
“We like the same bands,” I said, eating one of the cookies.
“You’re dying your hair black?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I think that will look very striking on you. You have a very light complexion, you’ll look quite vampy.”
The kitchen door opened and in skulked a tall dark-haired guy. His eyes flicked from me to his mother. “Hey.”