“You look like a medieval weapon,” he said.
She chuckled. “You’re an asshole.”
Jeremy nudged her. “You know I’m messin’. And yeah. I like the blue. Nice upgrade from last year.”
“I see you still wear your hair like a shaggy dog,” Hannah noted.
“Well, I try to look as insecure as possible,” Jeremy replied.
Hannah cracked up. “Dude, I missed you.”
“I was around this summer. Where were you?” Jeremy asked.
“In Connecticut.”
“What?”
“Just don’t ask,” she muttered.
It wasn’t the deepest connection, but it was a connection. Hannah could be considered a friend—not a close one—but definitely someone he could hang with at school. It meant he wasn’t completely alone. Some time in tenth grade they found each other, formed a loose bond. They shared enough and left out the intimate details. For the most part, they witnessed each other’s abuse at school, anyway. There wasn’t a need to talk about it.
The hallway flooded with students, and he knew she’d be there at any second. He wanted to be alone when he saw her for the first time, just to be certain nothing in his expression betrayed his true feelings. He didn’t want Hannah asking.
Introverts were good at recognizing the subtle, nonverbal signs. Hannah knew Jeremy was done talking and needed space. She lightly punched his arm.
“I’m out,” she said, and walked off.
He steeled himself and waited.
***
Regan stood in front of the full-length mirror assessing her first-day-of-school outfit.
“I pretty much hate everything that’s going on here,” she said aloud. She fingered the fabric of her conservative blouse and crinkled her nose. “Boring.”
She looked like a Brooks Brothers advertisement: not her style. Somehow, in the space of becoming a popular boy’s girlfriend, she morphed into a preppy girl—boat shoes, salmon-color button-ups, even shorts featuring embroidered sailboats.
“I have anchors on my shorts,” she said to the mirror.
She paused and waited for her reflection to reply. Nothing. Just staring.
“I have anchors on my shorts!” she screamed.
“True,” her mom said, standing in the doorway to her room. The tiniest bit of amusement danced around her lips. “Is there something wrong with that?”
“Why did you and dad buy me these clothes?” Regan demanded.
“Because you asked us to,” Mrs. Walters replied.
“Why didn’t you say no?”
Mrs. Walters was silent for a moment.
“Honey, I don’t know what’s going on here,” she confessed finally. “Is this a first-day-of-school freak-out moment? Should I have expected it? What do you need me to do? What can I do? How do we fix this?”
Regan grinned in spite of her agitation. “I’m not freaking out. It’s just, Mom, you know me. You know this isn’t me,” she said, grabbing a handful of shirt.
“It’s not?”
“Are you for real right now?” Regan asked. “You know it’s not!” She picked up her mother’s vintage Jem and the Holograms T slung over her desk chair and thrust it under her mother’s nose. “This is me.”
“Jem? You’re Jem?”
“You know I’m totally Jem! I’ve been Jem since fifth grade. I was Jem before the ’80s even came back into style!”
“Truth.”
“Mom, don’t say ‘truth’. You’re too old.”
“Man, I keep forgetting that,” Mrs. Walters teased.
Regan turned back to the mirror. “I don’t wear button-up shirts and pink Sperrys. Sperrys don’t go with fishnets.”
“Please don’t wear fishnets on your first day of school.”
“Dang it, Mom.”
“Okay, I’m really listening. I promise.” Mrs. Walters plopped onto Regan’s bed and studied her eldest daughter.
Regan ran her fingers through her thick brown hair. By now, it had grown to the middle of her back. She kept it simple: long, sweeping bangs with a few layers. Identical to every popular girl’s hairstyle.
“I should chop it,” she said. “I’m sick of it. I should chop it all off.”
Mrs. Walters pursed her lips. “Are we talking a bob or a pixie cut?”
“Sinead O’Connor,” Regan replied, her eyes big and glossy—physical signs of a not-so-well-thought-out resolution.
“Oh, dear. First, how do you even know who she is? Second, please don’t do that.”
Regan laughed.
“It’s obvious you’re having an identity crisis,” Mrs. Walters said.
“For real.”
“Here’s what I’m thinking: You liked how you expressed yourself in the past, but somewhere along the way, for whatever reason, you suppressed it, and now you don’t know who you are.”
Regan gawked. “Did you study psychology in college?”
“Nope. I had a baby.”
Regan chuckled. “I hope I’m that insightful when I’m a mom.”
“What was the issue with the old Regan?” Mrs. Walters asked.
Regan scowled. “She was too loud.”
“I liked her loud. I liked when she wore those plastic, yellow star earrings,” Mrs. Walters said, pointing to a wall filled with colorful accessories. They hadn’t been touched in three years.
Silence.
“Mom, you know why I changed,” Regan whispered. “It’s hard enough going through puberty. It’s doubly worse going through it alone.”
“You had your father and me. And Caroline.”
“Not the same thing.”
“I know.”
More silence, thick with private meditations. Mrs. Walters wanted so badly to pick apart her daughter’s brain, but she learned to ask only the right questions at the right time, to give only a bit of advice when she was certain advice was wanted. Even now, she knew she was about to push the boundary, but her words needed to be said.
“I really hate high school for you, Regan. Always have.”
“Was it hard for you?”
Mrs. Walters brightened. An invitation!
“Well, it was no Breakfast Club. I can tell you that,” she replied. “I dealt with the same cliques and social tiers as you do.”
“But you were popular,” Regan pointed out.
“Like you.”
“But it was effortless for you.”