“Watch. In a month we’ll be missing pudding cups and peanut butter.” Sean nudges my shoulder lightly. I smile back at him, and it’s not too hard.
Sabine wrinkles her nose. “Doubtful.”
I try to imagine where we’ll be in a month, but it’s all gray. Just fuzzy static when I try to visualize the future. There’s no clear image, and this is still strange to me. Months ago, I could picture my future down to the smallest detail. Prom. Graduation. Me with Zac in New York. Juilliard.
Gil gets up and takes his plate to the sink. “I’m going to try the radio again.”
Sabine groans. “The reception is terrible.”
He shrugs. “I caught something earlier today.”
He sits on a stool at the short stretch of countertop and fiddles with the radio. Sabine starts on her third pudding cup. I don’t know where she puts it, but at least she looks less gaunt than when we first met at Mount Haven.
Scratchy static fills the air as Gil hunts for a station.
I glance at Sean. “Do you think they’re looking for us?” I don’t have to elaborate. He knows I mean the people from Mount Haven. The fear has weighed on me—on all of us, I’m sure. It’s like we consciously try not to voice it. I search Sean’s face.
“I doubt they’re giving up any staff or manpower to come after us. Someone will be keeping an eye out for us, but it’s probably not anyone from Mount Haven. Just general Agency people and the Border Patrol.”
“We’re probably on some kind of list, though,” Gil chimes in, his face screwed tight with concentration as he slowly turns the dial. “Probably got our faces plastered all over the internet and every gas station between here and Austin.”
Sabine snorts as she scrapes at the inside of the cup. “Like a list of the government’s most wanted carriers or something?”
Not “or something.” There’s probably just such a list, and we’re on it. My stomach knots uncomfortably. I think about the fact that our faces are out there for every agent of the Wainwright Agency to commit to memory. We’ll never be free to return to this country.
“We should think about altering our appearances,” Sean suggests. “I mean, we’re always going to be two guys and two girls . . . but maybe we can do something.”
I nod, wondering how we could do that out here in the middle of nowhere. Tossing a knowing smile at us, Sabine gets up and moves down the hall to the bathroom.
Gil continues to work over the box, turning the dial, inching along. Every once in a while a snatch of Tejano music fills the air. I grimace. The world still plays music. For some reason that strikes me as odd. Wrong somehow. Which is really weird for me to think. Have I actually reached a point where hearing music feels so wrong?
“Hey.” Sean nudges me. “Finish your sandwich. You need your strength.”
I force a smile and take another bite, working the thickness of peanut butter around in my mouth.
Sean studies me, his eyebrows drawn tightly together in an expression of concern. He watches me like this all the time now. Like he’s worried something he says or does might be the final straw that shatters me.
Sabine returns then, brandishing a few boxes in the air. “I just figured out why these are under the sink. This underground network thinks of everything.”
“What are they?” Gil asks.
“Clairol.” She reads each box. “Ebony Mocha, Nutmeg, and Midnight Black.” She looks back at me and Sean with an arched eyebrow. “Who wants to go first?”
Sean and Gil watch in silence as Sabine cuts my hair with a pair of kitchen scissors. The blades saw sharply through the thick strands. Gil’s eyes widen as the long pieces fall like dandelions dropping through air.
We all agreed cutting my hair would help alter my appearance, but the decision was mostly just to ensure we had enough dye. The instructions recommended two boxes for long hair, and since we only have one box of any given color, Sabine got to play barber.
Sean’s expression is calmly neutral, but he watches me carefully, closely, staring at my face, not my rapidly diminishing hair. It’s like he’s waiting for me to crumble.
Over hair? Does he think I’m that fragile? I start to shake my head at the idea, but stop at Sabine’s warning hiss.
Holding still, I face myself in the mirror as Sabine moves around to the back. I watch my transformation with a curious sense of detachment. Oddly enough, I feel lighter. Unburdened. Like with every lock of hair hitting the floor, a bit of the old me is left behind, too, making way for a new girl.
My hair now closely frames my face, ending just a little bit below my ears. My eyes pop, enormous in my face without my hair shrouding me. And my imprint pops, too. The dark band with the trademark H more pronounced than ever.
“I think it’s pretty straight,” Sabine murmurs, her forehead knitting with intent focus. She clamps the scissors between her teeth and squats before me, grabbing the ends of my hair dangling just below my ears and stretching them to see if they match.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s just hair.”
“Oh, this looks hot.” She grins at me.
I snort.
“Good?” She looks at Sean and Gil for confirmation.
Sean steps inside the bathroom and suddenly everything grows tighter, claustrophobic almost. He lightly tugs at a lock of hair brushing the back of my neck. “This piece here. It’s still too long.”
Sabine wrinkles her nose. “Doubtful.”
I try to imagine where we’ll be in a month, but it’s all gray. Just fuzzy static when I try to visualize the future. There’s no clear image, and this is still strange to me. Months ago, I could picture my future down to the smallest detail. Prom. Graduation. Me with Zac in New York. Juilliard.
Gil gets up and takes his plate to the sink. “I’m going to try the radio again.”
Sabine groans. “The reception is terrible.”
He shrugs. “I caught something earlier today.”
He sits on a stool at the short stretch of countertop and fiddles with the radio. Sabine starts on her third pudding cup. I don’t know where she puts it, but at least she looks less gaunt than when we first met at Mount Haven.
Scratchy static fills the air as Gil hunts for a station.
I glance at Sean. “Do you think they’re looking for us?” I don’t have to elaborate. He knows I mean the people from Mount Haven. The fear has weighed on me—on all of us, I’m sure. It’s like we consciously try not to voice it. I search Sean’s face.
“I doubt they’re giving up any staff or manpower to come after us. Someone will be keeping an eye out for us, but it’s probably not anyone from Mount Haven. Just general Agency people and the Border Patrol.”
“We’re probably on some kind of list, though,” Gil chimes in, his face screwed tight with concentration as he slowly turns the dial. “Probably got our faces plastered all over the internet and every gas station between here and Austin.”
Sabine snorts as she scrapes at the inside of the cup. “Like a list of the government’s most wanted carriers or something?”
Not “or something.” There’s probably just such a list, and we’re on it. My stomach knots uncomfortably. I think about the fact that our faces are out there for every agent of the Wainwright Agency to commit to memory. We’ll never be free to return to this country.
“We should think about altering our appearances,” Sean suggests. “I mean, we’re always going to be two guys and two girls . . . but maybe we can do something.”
I nod, wondering how we could do that out here in the middle of nowhere. Tossing a knowing smile at us, Sabine gets up and moves down the hall to the bathroom.
Gil continues to work over the box, turning the dial, inching along. Every once in a while a snatch of Tejano music fills the air. I grimace. The world still plays music. For some reason that strikes me as odd. Wrong somehow. Which is really weird for me to think. Have I actually reached a point where hearing music feels so wrong?
“Hey.” Sean nudges me. “Finish your sandwich. You need your strength.”
I force a smile and take another bite, working the thickness of peanut butter around in my mouth.
Sean studies me, his eyebrows drawn tightly together in an expression of concern. He watches me like this all the time now. Like he’s worried something he says or does might be the final straw that shatters me.
Sabine returns then, brandishing a few boxes in the air. “I just figured out why these are under the sink. This underground network thinks of everything.”
“What are they?” Gil asks.
“Clairol.” She reads each box. “Ebony Mocha, Nutmeg, and Midnight Black.” She looks back at me and Sean with an arched eyebrow. “Who wants to go first?”
Sean and Gil watch in silence as Sabine cuts my hair with a pair of kitchen scissors. The blades saw sharply through the thick strands. Gil’s eyes widen as the long pieces fall like dandelions dropping through air.
We all agreed cutting my hair would help alter my appearance, but the decision was mostly just to ensure we had enough dye. The instructions recommended two boxes for long hair, and since we only have one box of any given color, Sabine got to play barber.
Sean’s expression is calmly neutral, but he watches me carefully, closely, staring at my face, not my rapidly diminishing hair. It’s like he’s waiting for me to crumble.
Over hair? Does he think I’m that fragile? I start to shake my head at the idea, but stop at Sabine’s warning hiss.
Holding still, I face myself in the mirror as Sabine moves around to the back. I watch my transformation with a curious sense of detachment. Oddly enough, I feel lighter. Unburdened. Like with every lock of hair hitting the floor, a bit of the old me is left behind, too, making way for a new girl.
My hair now closely frames my face, ending just a little bit below my ears. My eyes pop, enormous in my face without my hair shrouding me. And my imprint pops, too. The dark band with the trademark H more pronounced than ever.
“I think it’s pretty straight,” Sabine murmurs, her forehead knitting with intent focus. She clamps the scissors between her teeth and squats before me, grabbing the ends of my hair dangling just below my ears and stretching them to see if they match.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s just hair.”
“Oh, this looks hot.” She grins at me.
I snort.
“Good?” She looks at Sean and Gil for confirmation.
Sean steps inside the bathroom and suddenly everything grows tighter, claustrophobic almost. He lightly tugs at a lock of hair brushing the back of my neck. “This piece here. It’s still too long.”
