Part 11 (1/2)

”Okay ... how are things going at Pennsbrook?”

”'h.e.l.l is empty, / And all the devils are there,'” she quoted.

I shook my head. ”I don't know that one.”

”That's okay. It's The Tempest, and I changed a word, but you get the idea. Pennsbrook is h.e.l.l, Cara. I'm a Cubby Crew of one, with no chance to reinvent myself because I'm surrounded by zombieheads who made up their minds about who I was before I even knew. I would give anything to have the opportunity you have now. I'm just as interesting a person as the Supreme Populazzi-so are you-but I'll never have the chance to prove it.”

Claudia's eyes bore into me, finis.h.i.+ng her thought without saying it. I did have that chance. After ten years I was finally away from everyone who had labeled and categorized me and put me in a cubby-and now I was doing the same thing to myself.

”Pretty fancy speech just to get someone to dress like the undead,” I said.

”Did it work?”

I walked back to the girl at the counter and handed her my credit card. ”We're ready now.”

Of course, Hot Topic was only our first stop in the day's transformational odyssey. From there we went to Sephora and grabbed several soft black eyeliners, thick black mascaras, smoky-colored eye shadows, and black nail polish. This time I didn't hesitate. I presented my credit card with a smile.

The next stop was more difficult. After we pulled into the parking lot, I had to close my eyes and breathe deeply to still my pounding heart. Claudia put her hand on mine. ”You don't have to do this part, you know. It's okay if you can't.”

I took another long, deep breath, then opened my eyes. ”No,” I said. ”I want to.”

We walked inside the shop. I strode the three steps to the front desk and smiled at the perfectly coiffed and painted woman behind the counter.

”Hi. I'm Cara Leonard, and I have an appointment for a hair relaxing.”

I couldn't imagine myself without curls. From the time I was three years old, they'd been my trademark feature. I could wear them up, I could wear them down, I could tuck them behind a headband, but they were always there. People I hadn't seen in years would recognize me on the street because of my hair. My curls defined me; even my personality was curly, bouncy, springy, and playfully twisted.

But the look I wanted didn't include curls, and a simple blow-out wouldn't get me the style I needed. If I was going to go for it, I had to really go for it. Claudia had done tons of research on the best curl relaxers in Philadelphia and found Yumiko, the guru of the field. She used only a special relaxer from j.a.pan that wouldn't damage the hair and wore out after two to three months.

I must have looked terrified when I sat in Yumiko's chair, because after she ran her hands through my curls, she looked at me in the mirror and gave me a big hug. ”I promise you,” she said, ”you'll love it.”

I had absolutely no reason to believe her, but I did. I took a deep breath, smiled, closed my eyes ... and didn't open them again until she was completely finished.

”Cara,” I heard Claudia say, ”it's over.”

I didn't want to open my eyes, but I did ... and found a complete stranger staring at me in the mirror. She had the same wide, amazed expression I knew I was wearing, but otherwise she was totally alien to me.

Claudia bent down next to my face and looked that strange reflection in the eye.

”Claudia?”

She shook her head, then a smile broke across her face. ”I love it. It's a whole new you.”

Chapter Thirteen.

I couldn't stop staring at myself in the mirror.

This wasn't ideal, since I was driving to school and almost caused a slew of accidents, but it was unavoidable.

I still wasn't over the hair. I'd had three days to get used to it, and it still shocked me every time I saw it. It was straight. Totally straight, not at all frizzy. It was layered for body, much thicker on the top than on the bottom, and hung down past my shoulders. The color had changed from a chocolate brown to an inky black-a fact I couldn't forget because it was constantly in my face. I had long bangs now, and they swept over my right eye and cheekbone. I could wear them long and broody, or I could tuck them behind my right ear if I wanted to do something wild and crazy like, oh, see.

I loved it. I felt like I had entered the witness protection program and was embarking on a whole new life as someone I didn't yet entirely know. It was absolutely thrilling.

My parents were far less thrilled, but they hadn't freaked out anywhere near as much as I'd thought they would, mainly because Claudia and I had decided to spare them the full effect. We hid all my shopping bags in my room while Mom was making dinner and Karl was locked away in his home office, then revealed the haircut as a little something new I tried on a lark-a very temporary lark that would reverse itself within three months. Karl quickly did the math and realized I'd be back to my normal self in plenty of time for my April lunch with Dean Jaffe, so he was fine with it.

I got off easy because Karl was still on a high from my last report card. Also, my PSAT scores had come in over Christmas break. I'd landed in the ninety-sixth percentile, and qualified to enter the National Merit Scholars.h.i.+p Program-news that Karl had immediately broadcast to anyone even remotely connected to the Northwestern University admissions process. At that moment Karl loved me unconditionally, no matter what temporary insanity had made me straighten and color my hair.

Mom was worried. She kept asking if the hair change was my way of acting out on deep, hidden anxieties about the move and the new school. I a.s.sured her again and again that it wasn't.

Karl stuck up for me. ”Her performance says it all, Lo-Lo.”

Claudia and I smiled. Nothing ended an argument like Karl calling Mom Lo-Lo. It was Karl's response to her claiming she didn't like it when he screamed ”h.e.l.loooo” for her across the house. Instead of changing, he just made the call into a pet name. Mom hated it, and as she laid into Karl for the zillionth time, I knew I was off the hook-at least until the credit card bill came.

Now, three days later, I was ready to reveal my new look at school. I'd started the day in my usual Gap finery, said an early goodbye to Karl and Mom, and driven straight to Wegmans. My mom loved Wegmans because it was the best supermarket in the area. It was huge, pristine, and filled with fresh, amazing food. I liked that, too, but today what I really liked about it was that it had an enormous ladies' room. I locked myself into the ma.s.sive handicapped stall and changed for school: a black patterned T-s.h.i.+rt over super-skinny black jeans with a black stud-and-stone embossed belt, black flats, and a tight-fitting black and white zebra-striped hoodie.

I emerged from the stall and gave thanks to the G.o.ds of Wegmans that they'd decided to build a long gla.s.s shelf above the sinks: the perfect staging area for my makeup. I slathered on the eyeliner, shadow, and mascara, and topped off the look with a touch of pale lipstick. I stood back to get as much of my body as possible; the only strike against Wegmans was no full-length mirror. I brushed my hands through my chunky-fabulous hair, mussing it up to perfection.

I looked nothing like myself. I looked deep. I looked interesting.

I looked like a DangerZone.

Awesome.

I ran out of Wegmans and smashed the speed limit to get to school in time. It was only as I was about to race into the building that I had a panic attack.

If I had even dreamed of showing up at Pennsbrook looking like this, I'd have been laughed out of the building within seconds. Was there a chance that would happen here? Claudia had said no. She said I was still too new. I had only one true friend at Chrysella, and he was in on the new me. No one else knew the old me well enough to judge. The other Theater Geeks sort of did, but if Archer didn't act like it was a big deal, they wouldn't either. For all the rest of the school knew, this was my preferred way to dress. Or I could be one of those girls who just likes morphing her look.

Whatever. Claudia had said the key was owning it. As long as I owned it, no one would question.

Okay, then. I'd own it.

I ran in just as the bell rang, threw my books in my locker, dashed into English cla.s.s ... and directly into the crosshairs of the one person who would never let my new look go unquestioned.

”Trick or treat,” Mr. Woodman said as I took my regular top-of-the-table perch. I pressed my lips together in a grimace and hoped he was finished.

He wasn't. ”How appropriate that you dressed up for The Crucible. I can only imagine what you'll wear when we start Moby-d.i.c.k. Any thoughts?”

I knew he wanted me to do my usual thing. It wouldn't have been hard: he'd set me up with a giant white sperm whale. But I didn't like that he was calling me out for the way I looked. It wasn't cool.

”No thoughts,” I murmured.

Mr. Woodward's eyebrows shot up in surprise. ”Oooh. Are you a good witch or a bad witch?'”

Great. Now he was quoting The Wizard of Oz. I didn't respond. I just slinked off the table and into my chair.

I could feel Archer staring at me. The whole time he was away, I'd texted him everything about my ongoing transformation, but I guess seeing it was pretty jarring. I was dying to talk to him about it, but I had to wait.