The next morning I woke up, remembered the dreadful truth of my life: Dad’s death, the car crash, and the fact that Aaron was on vacation and out of cell service range. I checked my phone for messages anyway, and found one from Marnie telling me she was catching the eleven o'clock bus. My alarm clock showed me I had half an hour to get ready.
I messaged Marnie back. See u on the bus.
I put my phone down, walked into my bathroom, and screamed.
“Nessa?” Mom ran into my room. “Oh my God. What have you done?” She grabbed a fistful of my hair, inspecting it.
“Nothing.” I stared dumbfounded at the reflection in the mirror. A sixteen year-old girl with bright, clown-red hair and sea-blue eyes stared back at me.
“What kind of dye did you use? We can fix this. Your father…if he were here…” Mom's thin fingers began fluttering over the countertop, searching for the used box of hair dye that didn't exist. She opened and closed the medicine cabinet, riffled through the trash, even looked under my toothbrush.
“I didn't dye my hair. It turned this colour on its own.” I knew just what Dad would say about my hair if he were here. He’d always told me to be proud of the skin I was born with. He wouldn’t want me to change, and I didn’t want to either. But Mom was already absolutely positive that this was my fault.
Mom turned, hands falling to her side like she’d lost all strength. “Don't lie to me, Vanessa. I can’t deal with this kind of crap right now. My head’s already bursting with stuff I don’t want to deal with.”
I rolled my eyes and stomped my foot. “I'm not lying. I never lied to you. The police already told you the accident wasn't my fault.”
Mom glanced at me, making eye contact for what must have been the first time in close to a month. She leaned closer. “Are you wearing coloured contacts? You know I forbade you from buying those.”
Pushing past Mom, I marched out of the bathroom, desperate to put distance between us. “They aren't contacts,” I shouted.
“I'm not stupid, Vanessa. Do you think I can't remember the eye colour my own daughter was born with?” Mom chased after me, skinny frame shaking with anger.
“I'm surprised you even remember you have a daughter!” I grabbed my purse from the back of my desk chair, tossing my favourite belongs into it: raspberry lip-gloss, a green cell phone, the latest vampire novel, my blue iPod.
“I’m sad, Nessa, that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten you.” Mom grabbed my elbow; I easily shook her off. “Stop running away from me.”
“I'll run if I want to.”
“Run where?”
“Anywhere you aren't.”
“That won't fix things. That won't make your dad come back.”
“Maybe not, but it might make me feel better.” Running out my bedroom door, I shoved my nails into my palms, cutting into the skin. “I miss him too you know. I didn’t get to say goodbye either. You’re not the only one who’s sad, even though you think you are.” I could barely hold it together as I screamed at her. I hated her for making me feel like I didn’t matter. “Maybe I should just leave you to your misery. You’ll probably enjoy it more if I’m not around to distract you.” My purse bounced on my shoulder as I ran downstairs.
Mom ran after me. “Get back here! Nessa! Stop right there or I'll–”
“Or you'll what?” I spun around at the bottom of the stairs, one hand tightly gripping my purse strap, the other on my hip. “Ground me? Good luck holding me back.”
“Or I'll–”
The screen door banged shut. “What in the ocean is going on here?”
I spun left and saw my grandma, my mother's mother, standing in the entrance. Her appearance immediately shushed me; for a sixty year-old woman, she was breathtaking. She was wearing a long green dress that stopped just high enough to display her fashionable baby-healed sandals. Her skin was moist and tanned and barely had any wrinkles. But what stood out most about her was the long red hair that hung in a braid over her left shoulder in a cascade of rich, maraschino cherry colour that was twenty-times better than the colour my hair had turned.
“Mom,” my mom sobbed, hunching inward, the fire going out.
I brushed past them both. “I'm going out.”
Grandma nodded.
I glared. What the hell is she doing here? How could she possibly have the nerve to show up now when she hadn’t even bothered to come to Dad’s funeral? It had taken Mom days to get a hold of her; apparently she’d been in Ireland visiting family. By the time Mom reached her, the funeral had come and gone. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t be angry with her for not being there.
I stomped down the street toward the bus stop, thinking of the last time Grandma had visited. It had been a long time ago, five years at least. It had been pure hell. She'd spent the entire two days of her visit following me around, yelling at me to pick up after myself. “Why don't you help your mom more? Why don't you do your own laundry? You should cook dinner once a week!” I'd finally become so angry with her that I called her a horrible grandma and told her to go home. She'd responded by throwing a glass of water in my face. Of course Mom hadn’t believed that part—she'd been at work during the whole fiasco—but I still remembered every little detail that proved Grandma was untrustworthy. Dad hadn’t been fond of Grandma either—though I wasn’t sure why—but once she finally left, we’d gone out for ice cream to celebrate. This time Dad wouldn’t be around to share in my anguish.
I rubbed my eyes to keep the tears out of them. When I glanced up, the bus was rounding the corner. As expected, Marnie was already on it, sitting at the back where her blond hair stood out against the dark blue canvas seats. I walked down the aisle and took a seat beside her. She squirmed away from me like I was a smelly stranger invading her space. She didn't even turn her head.
“Hi, Marnie,” I said.
She looked at me and jumped. “Nessa? What the hell did you do to your hair?”
“It's horrible isn't it?” I don’t even look like him anymore.
Marnie put an arm around my shoulder. “No. No! It's not bad—I think it looks kind of good on you, actually.”
“Don’t lie to me! It’s horrible. I hate it. I was born to be a brunette, just like my dad.” I started tearing up; I couldn’t help it.
“Well, then why did you do it?”
“I–” I caught the words on the end of my tongue. Marnie would think I was crazy if I told her I didn’t do it. Everyone knew that hair didn’t just change colour on its own—not this drastically anyway. “I thought it would be easier if I looked different. Because, you know, everything is different. But now I wish I hadn’t done it.”
“Okay, if it’s what you want, I'm sure we can find a salon to fix it for you. You'll be back to your fabulous self in no time.”
I exhaled very slowly. “Thanks Marnie, that's exactly what I need.”