Where's Casper?

Black hair

I hate sleeping inside the carriage, and I mean it. I'm not alone with Aric anymore because Dante offered to come sit with us during our, this time, short trip, and I chose to ignore him and lay on the ground.

"Caspar, you can't ignore me! Caspar! Wake up!"

Yep. I can't hear him, or I pretend I can't. I open my eyes just a little bit to see Aric. He's sitting alone in a corner. I giggle, but I can't let Legend hear. He is supposed to think I can't talk to him right now, just because I don't want to.

"Fine, Caspar. You want to play games."

I have to thank Aric. He kicks him right in his ankle and takes him down. I laugh. Dante jumps back on his feet.

"Aha! I knew you weren't asleep!"

______________

I miss our old, fancy inn. This one is dirty. And old. And it stinks. And I have to share my room with Aric again.

This time, the room is a lot bigger, so we don't have any problems. I sleep in the bed next to the window, and he sleeps on the kitchen counter. Fair trade. The bed is too small for him, anyway.

But it all started the morning my scalp started itching like crazy. I sat at the small table. Aric woke up before me, so he made me some coffee and brought me some cookies. He probably had his already because he just looked at me while I ate them, studying every single move I made. 

I can't let the cup down, even though I feel the need to scratch my head. I'm sure it will eventually go away. But I take three more sips, and I let it down quickly, putting both of my hands in my hair. He seems a little bit confused. The morning was good so far, but I'm afraid I might have... I might have... I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. It can't be. It's been one year since the last time, and my hair barely grew back. 

Aric shoves my hands away and starts looking into my hair. After a few minutes of searching, he sighs, and he lets me go. He leaves. I think I'm okay since he didn't look panicked. I lean on my chair, and he comes back with his notebook, holding something behind his back. I'm scared.

We kind of have a problem. The words I don't want to see appear on the piece of paper. I think you've already guessed you have lice. But, if you think you'll look like a clown with your hair cut off, let's both be clowns.

And now, we're here, in the bathroom, me waiting for him, and him coming with two pairs of scissors. He hands me one of them. He sighs, sitting on the floor, and invites me to sit on his leg.

It starts easily; he cuts a lock of hair from the sides, and I do the same thing. He giggles. This is the closest I've ever been to him, and I notice some things I haven't, like how his hair is not tangled anymore, his slightly fuller bottom lip, and how beautiful his eyes actually are.

He wanted to cut his hair so I wouldn't be the only one looking awful. He doesn't. I do. I personally think I got stripped of my last ounces of femininity because my hair was longer than most of the boys'. Ever since my last lice infestation, I cut my hair a little bit every day. My father hasn't figured it out yet.

He stops, and I stop, too. He leans over me a little bit. He smiles. His hand goes down, from my hair to my face. He looks like he is in pleasant pain. Not happy. Not sad. In pain. He slowly traces my lips and leans a little more.

He snaps, pretending it never happened, and continues to cut while pieces of my black, beautiful hair fall on the ground.