I will prevail. Swallowing heavily, I walk to the sink and put my stuff down. Leigh’s dark eyes follow every movement. Without saying a word, I approach her from the side and reach for her scissors.
I place my hand on hers and tilt my head to meet her gaze in the mirror. “Let me. I cut my sisters’ hair all the time. I’ll do a better job.”
She grips the metal handles tighter, but a second later, she lets go and releases another sob. I take the scissors from her and drag the garbage over. She dumps the clump of hair she’s holding, the black strands floating into the trash. I don’t ask her what’s wrong, and I certainly don’t ask her if she’s okay again. I know too well what it’s like to have people see you at your lowest. It makes you wish you were a turtle with a bulletproof shell. She sniffles a few more times, hiccups, and rubs her hands down her face.
Taking my time, I snip off long chunks before styling the shorter pieces. Partway through, I bite my lip. “I have an idea. I’ll be right back.”
She looks kind of worried when I leave her alone, but I return in seconds with a taller garbage bin. I flip it upside down, grab her by the shoulders, and sit her down, giving myself a better view. She can’t see in the mirror anymore. She fiddles with her fingers, alternating between biting her nails and picking her cuticles. When I’m done, I turn her to face me. The pixie look rocks on Leigh. It makes her sharp cheekbones stand out and highlights her thin frame.
“Okay,” I say. “Your turn.”
She spins toward the mirror, and her hand shoots to her hair. “Holy shit,” she says and then, “Mother fuck,” then, “Holy shit” again.
I knock my knees together and hunch a bit. “Sorry. I did the best I could. Honest. You can go to a salon tomorrow and get it fixed. Shoot, Leigh…I’m sorry.” One of the three sinks has a leaky faucet and the drip echoes against the walls.
She runs her fingers through her short black strands. Then she grins. “This is perfect. I love it. Exactly what I needed.” Black lines still streak her face, but she’s looking in the mirror as though she’s the fairest of them all.
Still uncomfortable washing up and leaving her on her own, I play with the hem of my tank top, rolling the blue cotton between my fingers. “So can I ask what happened? I don’t want to overstep, but why the sudden makeover? And, you know,”—I drop my shirt and point to her cheeks—“why all the tears?”
She flicks her head back and throws her hands up as if cursing the heavens. “Why? That bitch Reese, that’s why.” She spins around and folds her knobby arms across her chest, her eyes welling with hurt. It reminds me of every time I cried myself to sleep after another supposed “peer” thought it was okay to call me names and hurl insults.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, unsure what else to say.
Drip goes the leaky tap. Drip. Drip. Drip.
She mutters under her breath and steps from foot to foot. She makes a familiar throaty sound and says, “Fuck,” like she’s having a whole conversation in her head. Suddenly, she looks at me dead on and says, “I’m gay.” Just like that. No pretense. I’m gay and deal with it, or get the heck out.
“Oh,” I say. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Oh. Really? Is that the best I can do? For all I know, I could be the first person she’s ever confessed that to, and I reply with a resounding, “Oh.” I’ll file that gem next to “Are you okay?” under the title How to Lose Friends and Alienate People. Leigh’s no longer glaring at me. She’s backed herself into the wall, one knee bent ninety degrees, her arms still folded.
I clear my throat, walk over, and lean against the wall beside her. “Must be pretty rough, always trying to be something you’re not. Never feeling accepted for who you are.” I don’t know if I’m talking about her or me. Not that I’m struggling to come out of the closet. My self-imposed confines are due to my inability to own my crazy, as Sam says. Unless I’m with him. Then I let my crazy shine.
She looks at me from the corner of her eye and back at her folded arms. “I