“Not that I’ve heard. I just meant … you can’t hang with your usual crowd anymore. I know how awkward that can be. And I really am in the market for a new best friend. My current crew keeps me from being forever alone, but they’re not…” She taps her temple and grimaces, conveying that they suffer from stoner brain.

I can’t believe she’s just telling me this. It seems so unlike Lila, but then I realize I really don’t know her. For the first two years, I saw the side she showed while running with the beautiful people, and then the new version she created to fit in with the goth crew. Maybe neither Lila was exactly the person she wants to be; that thought is kind of revelational. It’s probably true of me, as well.

“I’m definitely willing to hang. I might be quitting a number of my clubs.” That thought pains me, as I joined them for my college application, but I just can’t see working with Ryan at this juncture.

“What’s your cell number?”

I give her the number without my usual spiel it’s for emergencies only. When I check the time, I see I need to get moving. “Work beckons. Want to set something up for this weekend?”

“Do you ever go to the Barn?”

That sounds like it would be a club, but it’s actually a barn. Oh, the joys of rural living. There’s a kid who graduated last year, still famous for hosting parties. Which strikes me as a little sad. Why does he want to be the Man to a bunch of minors? I mean, maybe that’s all he has.

“I didn’t last year.” But maybe it’s time to change it up.

“There’s a bash on Saturday. You want to check it out?”

“Sure.” Then I realize that transportation will prove a problem. “Can you text me the address? I’ll meet you there.”

Parties are always hosted at night, so I’ll need to ride out to the farm, which could take a while. It also means I’ll be gross and sweaty when I arrive. I’ll also be covered in reflectors. I close my eyes and sigh. Maybe this isn’t the best idea.

“I can give you a ride,” she says.

I shake my head. “It’s not that. I have a thing about cars.”

“Are you scared of them?” She sounds worried, like if this is true, I’m 100 percent weirder than she banked on, and I’ve already lost her.

Fortunately, I have a valid reason to cover the deeper motivation behind my dogged avoidance. “No, I just don’t ride in them. They’re killing the world.”

“Oh, it’s like a protest?”

“Pretty much. I know it’s not getting media coverage or anything, but I care. I’d know if I broke down just because it’s easier.”

“That’s cool,” she says, visibly relieved. Then I see an idea register. “My dad restores golf carts as a hobby. Don’t ask. If I picked you up in one of those, would you go?”

“Totally.” I can’t believe she’d do that for me. It’s so dorky and she hardly knows me. “But is that even legal?”

“They’re allowed on back roads, as long as I yield to faster moving traffic. It’ll be faster than a tractor at least.”

I laugh, but she has a point. Country roads are often clogged by farm machinery this time of year. So I offer a quick nod. “Then I’m in. I really appreciate it.”

“Where do you live?”

I scribble my address on a Coffee Shop napkin, then groan at the time. “Now I really have to jet. Mildred will eat my face if I’m late.”

That’s the owner of the Curly Q. She’s a hundred years old with thinning, dyed-orange hair. From the look of her, you’d be scared to let any of her employees work on you, but the stylists are great. They like practicing on me when it’s slow. Usually, I don’t let them do anything permanent, but tonight, I’m feeling reckless. It’s just hair, right? Since I’m going to a party at the Barn with Lila Tremaine in a golf cart it seems like I need to update my look.

I have forty seconds to spare when I burst through the doors. Mildred gives me the side-eye, but since I’m not technically late, she just says, “Get your smock on, girl. There’s cleaning to be done.”

Though it’s not strictly legal or sanitary, I’m pretty sure they save the hair for hours. The stylists just sweep it away from the chairs and pile it out of the way. So by the time I arrive, there’s a small Sasquatch on the floor. It takes me an hour to get the shop pristine. Customers come and go, mostly walk-in haircuts. Around six, it slows down, and Grace beckons me to the chair.

“When are you gonna let me give you some highlights?” She asks this often.

This time, however, I say, “Tonight, if you have time.”

Grace gets excited. “Mildred, get the camera. I’ll do it free if you let me take a picture for the before-and-after wall.”

I eye the wall, not sure I want to be immortalized up there, along with all the eighties hair and prom refugees, but eventually I shrug. “Why not?”

My hair is a dark blond, mousy and forgettable. I mean, it’s decent hair, neither straight, nor curly. Left to its own devices, it falls in messy waves. That’s why I wear a lot of ponytails and braids. Aunt Gabby has similar problems, only she gets it lightened and highlighted so it looks bright and flirty, and she spends forty-five minutes a day straightening hers, so it’s sleek and smooth by the time she goes to the shop. UPS Joe seems to like the results anyway.

Grace fastens me into the plastic smock, then snaps a Polaroid. I still don’t care that much how I look; I mean, it’s so superficial, but a small part of me would like to be prettier, at least maximize what I’m working with. I tell myself this is more of a social experiment, and I can evaluate how people react to the new me. But that’s not it.

I’m totally doing this to see if Shane notices. Sometimes I hate being a girl.

CHAPTER SEVEN

It’s dumb to be so nervous.

This is a Tuesday. Nothing earth shattering ever happens on a Tuesday. It doesn’t even have a catchy nickname, unlike Wednesday, aka Hump Day. Still, I can’t shake the butterflies in my stomach. Instead of my usual leggings and skirt, I’m wearing jeans, an old pair that miraculously still fits; and I try not to think about how much of my butt they reveal. I didn’t discard my sweater shrug for unavoidable reasons, but instead of wearing an ordinary cotton tank, I borrowed a lace-trimmed cami from Aunt Gabby. Why all the effort? I want to be worthy of my new hair.

This morning, when she saw the highlights, my aunt insisted I let her use the straightener on me. It only took fifteen minutes, but I admit it was worth it. My hair’s never looked this sleek and glossy, and the delicate golden streaks brighten the darker part until it’s positively pretty. I don’t know that I’ve ever thought that about myself before. It’s kinda nice.

Lila waves as I come down the hall toward her. “Wow. You look fab.”

“Thanks. I let one of the stylists work on me last night.” I dial my combo and pop open my locker, getting the stuff I’ll need for first period.

“Trying to show him what he’s missing? Good plan.” She cuts her eyes toward Ryan, who is standing with one hand on his locker. He can’t seem to look away.

This time last year, I would’ve given a kidney to see him look at me like that, but he was oblivious. And no wonder, I think with a touch of bitterness. He was sleeping with somebody else. At this point, however, that’s not why I changed things up. My reason isn’t here yet.

“I’ve got to admit,” Lila says, still studying Ry. “I’m surprised. I would’ve thought he was fundamentally decent. He seems like a good guy.”

Crap, I don’t want her to think he’s a cheater. Technically we weren’t together, so the mess with Cassie isn’t that. “He is. He just … made a mistake. Lied to me. And I can’t handle it.”

“Oh. So we don’t hate him?”

I shake my head. “Mostly, I’m sad. I wish he hadn’t done it, but some lies change everything.”

“Absolutely, they do.” From the ferocity of her tone, I’m guessing Lila has some personal experience with this, but I don’t pry.