Villainous

Chapter 7 | Hellas

It has been thirty-two days, and I've stopped waiting for Caspian. Stopped trying to initiate conversation. Stopped pretending at friendship. I don't have the kind of time for her anymore. I've got my full load of classes, almost all of which I'm getting B's in, I've got Caspian's friend and her Jackass brother trying to contact me, I've got the mockery of the students at IAD, I've got a limited supply of bleach for my hair and no reason to buy anymore of the stuff.

I love the fun simplicity of dying my hair. I loved the way it set me apart from the rest of the pack. I've got maybe twelve thousand in my suitcase. I've set aside one hundred dollars for clothing. That makes fifty for food, twenty for beauty products to keep me clean, and thirty for miscellaneous needs.

Not only is my dye running out, but my hair's growing out. Last week it banged against the curve of my neck in a constant reminder to get it cut. But haircuts cost a solid thirty bucks, even at the cheap places. The way I saw it, my best shot was to buy a pair of scissors and hack it off myself. Unfortunately, that wasn't a good idea. The last time I did that, I was the laughing stock of the town for a few weeks, until I finally broke down and paid for a cut.

Which was why I was currently sitting in a black vinyl spinning chair with a piece of fucking tape around my neck like a noose and my eyelids crashed shut over my eyes while she blows chunks of hair away from my brain. "Right, Miss. We're about done." With no flourish, the hair-woman whips off the plastic curtain and spins me around so I can see my face in the mirror.

I'm shocked. It's not bad. My bleach-tinted hair has been cropped to a boyish pixie cut, barely a millimeter of hair on the base of my skull, no more than an inch anywhere. It highlights the long thin scar running down one cheek, showing my harder-than-is-feminine jawline in a new light. My silvery eyes shine. "Love it." I grin, and it doesn't look like vulnerability.

Perhaps the girls in the locker rooms are right when they say a makeover can do wonderful things. I ruffle my new cut. Even better, my hair is now short enough that I don't need to spend extra cash on hair products. Which leaves an extra ten for clothes. One hundred and ten dollars. I can work with it.

After paying the hairdresser, I walk jovially across the street. I like weekends at IAD. We get to walk off campus and pick up supplies for the next week. Caspian has already replaced her pink ensembles with various colours and styles of clothing. She hasn't found out what suits her yet. It seems to boggle her mind that so much clothing exists. To my knowledge, she works an after-school job. Of course, she tells Marie and Kristen that she's just shopping some more. She knows what impact the knowledge of her job would have on her budding social life.

I have two hundred dollars in my pocket when I enter the low end clothing store. Music pounds through the speakers, clothes hang on hangers in a semi-circle, and they have mannequins displaying their excellence. The neon blinds me for a moment, and I seek solace in the gothic corner of the little shop. The shirts are leather with chains on them. I'll never wear chains. Not anymore. I push a memory away with the same force as a tsunami.

In the end, I walk back into room 378 with two pairs of dark blue skinny jeans, two pairs of cargo pants, a variety of dark tank tops and camis, and a camouflage jacket. Caspian barely looks up when I enter, fatigued as she's been running her double life. Her hair, which was straightened into submission just ten hours ago, lays twisted and wrinkled on the king sized bed I never sleep on. Her glittering makeup has smudged into an unflattering blur. The lipstick has rubbed on to her upper chin and the fake eyelashes she puts on almost every morning now, especially when she has her dates with Jared Holt, her boyfriend of two weeks.