“IT’S TIME,” MARA DECLARES as we sit in the middle of her bedroom floor. I just finished cutting a big wad of pink bubble gum out of her hair that someone had stuck in at some point during the day. It had hardened beyond the point of peanut butter and careful untangling.
The debate has been going on for months now.
“So, red,” I confirm, as we stare at the box of hair color standing upright in the space between us. I didn’t say anything when she stopped showing up to band practice, or when she started sneaking cigarettes from her mom’s purse, but I have to say something now, before it’s too late. “Mara, you realize that’s really, really red?” I ask, looking at the girl on the box.
“Cranberry,” she corrects, picking the box up gently with both hands, studying the picture. “Do you think you could cut it short like this girl’s?” she asks me. “I’m so sick of having long hair—it’s like I’m inviting them to throw things in it.”
It’s true; she’s had the same long brown hair falling to the middle of her back ever since I can remember. “Are you sure it has to be right now?” I double-check. “’Cause if you wait just three more weeks, it’ll be summer, and then if it doesn’t turn out, you’ll have time to—”
“No,” she interrupts. “That’s all the more reason it has to be tonight—I can’t go through this for another year. I can’t go through this for three more weeks. I can’t go through this shit for another day!” she almost shouts.
“But what if—”
“Edy, stop. You’re supposed to be helping me.”
“I am, I just—do you really think coloring your hair is going to change anything?”
“Yes—it’s going to change me.” She rips open the lid on the box and starts pulling out the contents one by one.
“Why right now, though—did something else happen besides the gum?” It was the question I had been waiting for her to ask me for months.
“Like anything else needs to happen? It’s been years of this—every single day—stupid names, gum in the hair, ‘loser’ signs stuck on my back. Can only be expected to take so much,” she says, her voice getting chopped up by the tears she tries to hold in.
“I know.” And I do know. I get it. She gets it. It has to happen, and I understand why.
“Well, let’s do it then,” she says, holding the scissors out to me.
I take the scissors from her like a good friend.
“You realize I have no idea what I’m doing, right?” I ask her as strands of hair begin to fall to the floor.
“It’s okay, I trust you,” she says, closing her eyes.
“No, don’t,” I say with a laugh.
She smiles.
“Can I ask you something and you’ll promise not to get mad?” I begin cautiously.
She opens her eyes and looks at me.
“This isn’t about Cameron, is it? Because he should like you the way you are. I mean, if you’re doing this so he’ll be interested, or so he’ll think you’re cooler, that’s not—”
But she stops me. “Edy, no.” She’s calm, not mad at all. She talks quietly, explaining, “Yes, I like him, but I’m not trying to be like him. I’m just trying to be like me. Like the real me. If that makes any sense at all,” she says, laughing.
I don’t even need to think about it—I know exactly how she feels. “It makes sense, Mara.”
“Good.” And then she closes her eyes again, like me cutting and coloring her hair is the most relaxing thing in the world. It’s quiet for a while.
“Can I ask you something else?” I finally say, breaking the silence.
“Yeah.”
“You’re not coming back to band, are you?”
“No.”
“Thought so.”
She turns around to look at me. “Sorry, Edy. It’s just not me anymore; I’m interested in other things now.”
“It’s okay, I was just missing my stand partner is all.” I try to make light of it, but it really does make me sad. “You know they’re gonna stick me with that smelly girl who’s always messing up, right?” I tell her as I start mixing the hair color.
She laughs. “I’m sorry. Just hold your breath!”
“I kind of need to breathe in order to play!”
“True,” she admits, still smiling.
I start brushing the mixture into her hair in sections, trying to be as neat as possible. “So, what other interests?”
“I don’t know. I think I’ll start taking art classes next year. And I know what you’re gonna say, but it’s not about Cameron. But becoming friends with him, it’s just made me realize I want to try new things.”
I’ve never known Mara to be interested in art. “Well, that’s cool.” I kind of mean it too. Because I can’t think of anything in the world that I’m interested in anymore.
“Do I look tough?” she asks once we’ve finished, giving herself dirty looks in the mirror.
I study her reflection too. “You look . . . like a completely different person,” I tell her, consumed equally with admiration and jealousy. She walks past me over to the window and cracks it open. Then she pulls out a cigarette and a lighter from the rhinestone-studded jewelry box in her desk drawer, watching herself closely in the mirror as she brings it up to her demetallized mouth. “I look mean, don’t I?” she asks. “I look like a bitch,” she says slowly, her smile perfectly straight.
“So you want to look like a bitch now?” I laugh.
“I don’t know, maybe. Why not?” She shrugs. “I’m reinventing myself. Everyone else gets to change.” I know that what she really means by “everyone” is her parents—they get to change their minds, change their lives, and hers.
“I guess.” I can’t exactly protest too much, because honestly, the idea of reinventing myself sounds pretty appealing. I’m not sure who I’d want to be, though.
“I really don’t care what anyone thinks about me, as long as they don’t think I’m just going to sit back and take it anymore!” She exhales a cloud of smoke with the words. “I’m just sick of getting pushed around, treated like shit. I mean, aren’t you?”
She shifts her gaze from the mirror to me. I can’t lie. Can’t admit the truth, either. So I say nothing. Instead, I walk over to her and take a cigarette out of the pack. I place it between my lips. Mara doesn’t say a word. She just smiles cautiously and brings the lighter up to light it for me. I breathe in. And then choke on the horrible chemicals. We laugh as I cough and gasp.
“That’s so gross!” I tell her, choking on my words. But then I bring it to my lips again anyway.
“Don’t breathe in so deep this time,” she says with a laugh.
I don’t. And I don’t choke this time. I watch Mara watching me, and I think maybe I can change too. Maybe I can become someone I can actually stand. I take my glasses off, take another drag, and look at Mara. “Seriously, what do you think? Should I get contacts?”
“Absolutely!” She keeps the cigarette dangling from her mouth as she reaches over and swoops my hair back from my face. “You could do this,” she tells me, her words muffled through the smoke.
“I could?” I ask her, not sure exactly what she means by “this.” Just my hair. The contacts. Or everything.
“You could be so hot—so beautiful, I mean—if you would quit hiding.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes, Edy. I know so.”
I smile again, letting the chemicals go to my head, and imagine what I could be, all the things I could do.
