This Isn't the Zombie Apocalypse

26. Darell and a Pair of Scissors

It was a sad clean-up, a terrible excuse for a bath or shower, but I felt so much cleaner and better it was ridiculous.

Relatively fresh, I stepped out of the bathroom and glanced around for Calvin. He had gone in before me and left me to sit outside the door and play with the broken ends of my hair. I ought to have put it up in a ponytail or at least brushed it, but, alas, there was neither the time nor the patience. No one was around when I came out, so I crept through the small hall, peeking around the corners for anyone.

I felt young and naïve, insecure, unprepared for life; five years old and asking for directions in everything I did.

Steeling myself, I strutted out from my hiding place, grasping for something akin to self-confidence as I walked to the front counter. Even my ego would be nice. This searching for something I desperately lacked didn't last long, though. Everything crumbled when I smacked right into Smiley Two.

E for Effort, right?

"Ooo," Smiley Two groaned, rubbing his jaw. "Sorry 'bout that, Cal."

With a soft upwards tilt of his lips, he reached a hand out to help me off the ground, where I had gracefully (not) landed on my behind. "Oh, um, thanks..." I stuttered. "Um, what's your name again?"

"I never told you." Smiley Two smiled good-naturedly and heaved me up, as I bumbled embarrassingly, searching for words. "And it's Darell. Darell Johnson." He tilted his head towards Smiley One, rubbing his arm awkwardly. "And that's my older brother, Denton."

So, here at the Shell gas station there was Hunter, Andrea, and Denton and Darell Johnson. And Alexander Calvin. And Cal Renee.

Hunter and Andrea were around the same age, late twenties, early thirties, and, by the way they were huddled so closely, were probably a couple. Denton was a bit younger than them, twenty-five, I would say, and wore his gray beanie over his thick black hair that was peeking out around his ears and the back of his neck; his smile was larger than usual and his eyes wide as he explained to Calvin something or another—what sounded like rules to a game he was trying to rope Calvin into. Darell, who, because of genetics, looked similar to his brother (well, duh), had the same dark skin and tall build, and, of course, same blinding smile; he had somewhat squinty brown eyes and a lighter shade of hair that curled slightly. I noticed with a start that he was about the same age as me.

Andrea suddenly—because that's how she did everything from what I could tell—shot out from her seat, glaring at my dripping, bird's nest of hair. She waggled her finger and grabbed my arm with a surprising force. "I need a brush!" Andrea yelled as she dragged me toward as seat. "This child's hair is an abomination."

After that declaration, with a brush in hand, Andrea yanked the sharp bristles through my thick hair, ripping out chunks and tearing apart knots that were now ancient.

And I did not yelp. Or beg her to stop.

That would be demeaning.

But I did ask. A lot.

oOo

My hair was nowhere near silky smooth, but at least it resembled bed head instead of a rat's nest.

Of course, Andrea wasn't done. "Now, you need a haircut."

I didn't know why she was insisting on this—on having a stranger with an attitude clean and proper looking in her eyes before sending the stranger off with some of her supplies. Maybe it was a nurturing-slash-caring personality trait that I seemed to lack.