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“I’m the one Alexander asked,” Vance says.
Ezra’s lips twist into a smirk. “Did he ask you to babysit Tara too?”
Vance turns the vehicle on to the main road. “Just give me a fucking break, man. You know I don’t handle this much responsibility well.”
“Anyone who knows you, knows that,” Nya says, but her words aren’t as light. There’s an edge to them, and something passes between her and Vance when he looks at her through the rear view mirror. Okay, a not so subtle dig.
The tension is still there.
“Let’s just have a fun day,” Vance eventually says. “You girls can do anything you want as long as you don’t get into trouble. You won’t even notice Ezra and I are here.”
“Speak for yourself,” Ezra says with a grin. “I plan to wreak as much havoc as I can.”
Tara laughs, reaching her hand behind her seat to bump fists with Ezra. Vance heaves an exasperated sigh—he sounds like a dad, just like Nya says.
We take the same path into town that I’m used to. Vance’s foot is heavy on the gas pedal, and the nearly thirty-minute drive takes us less than twenty. He pulls the car to a halt in a parking lot that adjoins the shopping center Tara and I have visited a few times.
I get out of the car on Nya’s side, stumbling into a tense stare off between her and the star soccer player. Relative to Vance, I notice how tall Nya truly is. She doesn’t have to crane her head to make eye contact with him.
For a second, they don’t even notice I’m standing right beside them.
Vance clears his throat and turns away to join Ezra who is standing in front of the car. Tara pushes past Vance to join us. Nya smiles at me.
“So, Tara said you wanted to change your hair color?” Nya says, linking arms with me. Tara does the same on my other side.
We start walking. Vance and Ezra fall into step a few paces behind us.
I nod, reaching up to twirl one of my curls around my finger. “I got my hair like this to fit in. Now that I’m not pretending anymore, or even in Hemlock House, I want to choose something that I actually like.”
Nya grins. “I’m all for it. Do you have any ideas?”
Tara interjects. “Oh, you should go black with green streaks!”
I chuckle, trying to picture her suggestion. The image that pops up in my mind reminds me of Frankenstein. Nya shares my sentiments.
“God no, T,” she says. “I don’t think that’s Al’s style.”
“I was thinking that I could maybe get my hair back to its original color? Like, dark brown,” I say. “And then maybe two streaks of pink at the front. So it kinda frames my face.”
I look between them, gauging their reactions.
Nya leans her head to the side, twisting her lip. “You know, I think that could work.”
Tara says. “I like pink hair.” She gives me a toothy grin. “It’s not as extreme as I would like, but it’ll do.” Then she adds, “Dying your hair is like doing drugs, anyway. Before you know it you won’t be able to stop.”
I giggle. “You always have the weirdest analogies.”
“I’m never wrong, though,” she quips.
The salon,Bianchi, takes up almost an entire wing of the shopping center—it’s huge and modern, with glass-and-chrome accents, marble tiles and bright, white-light chandeliers. Despite the size, there aren’t many people inside when we get there, just like the last time.
“Why is this place always empty?” I whisper to Tara as we walk inside.
She grins. “That’s their brand. Exclusivity.”
“That’s why they’re so fucking expensive,” Nya says with a chuckle.
Though I have no reference point for the price at hair salons—I’ve only ever been to this one—I did feel that way the last time. It was a little strange that getting my hair colored cost the same as a bag at the Chanel store next door.
