Bookish and the Beast - Ashley Poston Page 0,45
I’ve been too busy worrying about that girl down in the library.
And what she thinks of me.
I’m scrubbing my hair with the towel to dry it when my reflection catches my eye. Something is off. Slowly, I pull the towel off my head. The same face stares back. Nothing out of the ordinary, except…
A SCREAM EXPLODES FROM THE BATHROOM UPSTAIRS.
Uh-oh.
There’s a clattering noise, and loud footsteps rush across the ceiling. I hear him storm down the stairs. “WHERE IS SHE?” he yells, his voice cracking with either rage or tears, I’m not sure which one.
Tears, please tears, the barbaric part of me cheers.
Even though I don’t know what for.
I hear Mr. Rodriguez start saying, “Why would you—” before something loud crashes in the kitchen, as if he dropped whatever he was holding. “Dios mío,” he gasps, “what happened to your hair?”
Oh—oh no.
Before I can drop the book I’m holding—the seventeenth volume of Starfield—and dive under the desk, he storms into the library wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist and fury in his eyes.
Oh.
My God.
His hair…his hair is…
He jabs a finger at me. “YOU!”
His hair is orange. Not like a nice rose-gold sort of orange, brassy with the softest hints of sunrise, but…like…
Orange.
“YOU DID THIS!”
No I didn’t, I think. But then, like a flashback reel in my head, I remember the exact moments leading up to this very scene. Me in the bathroom. Me dropping the vitamin C packet. Me using the orange towelette on the sink to mop it up.
I…definitely did it. By accident. Not that he’ll believe me. So, as a guilty party would do, I step behind the wingback chair to put some, um, distance between me and someone who definitely totally completely wants to murder me.
“I’m sorry!” I squeak.
Yep, definitely a confession.
“LOOK AT THIS! LOOK AT MY HAIR!” he cries, rushing into the library. He pulls at his shoulder-length orange-pop hair. It’s like someone spilled an entire highlighter on his head. And I drank that? Oh yikes.
You can practically see him from space.
“It’s…uh…not that…bad?” I offer.
“It’s not that bad?” he howls, and covers his hands with his face. He falls into the wingback chair dramatically, and his towel slips a little. I quickly avert my gaze. “I’m hideous.”
“You’re not hideous.” Mr. Rodriguez tries to reason with him, following him into the library. He gives me a questioning look to see if yes, I am the perpetrator of this great and terrible sin. Yes, yes I am.
By absolute accident, mind you.
“No one will ever like me,” Vance goes on, his voice muffled by his hands.
“I like you,” his guardian says patiently.
“What’s the point if I can’t be beautiful?”
I squint at him. “Are you quoting Howl’s Moving Castle?”
In reply, he gives another anguished wail and flops half of himself over the side of the armrest. The towel is doing a very terrible job of covering anything up, and I gently pull it over his nether region so he won’t have to disgrace himself.
Mr. Rodriguez says, “It’ll be fine. Whatever happened, it can’t be permanent, and it doesn’t look terrible. Remember how cute that woman from that pop-punk band you like was with orange hair? Same thing.”
“It’s not,” he mumbles in reply.
A strange smokiness tinges my nose. “Mr. Rodriguez…is something burning?”
“My tamales!” he cries, then spins on his heel and darts out of the library and back into the kitchen.
After he’s gone, I hear Vance groan and lean back in the chair. “I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to my publicist.”
I don’t know, either, but I’m sure he doesn’t want my opinion.
The doorbell rings. It’s my dad, right on time. So I take my crutches, shove them under my arms, and begin to leave Vance dejected and alone with his orange hair in the library. I pause at the door, though, and glance back.
“If I told you it was an accident, would you believe me?” I ask.
In reply, he pointedly looks away.
No, I guess I wouldn’t believe me, either.
PART THREE
FRIEND
Ambrose runs his fingers down the slender length of Amara’s neck. They are alone on the observation deck, and he watches as gooseflesh prickles over the princess’s soft skin.
“Do you really want to spend the rest of your life on that small little planet, ruling from a throne, watching the stars from a distance?” Ambrose asks softly. “Aren’t you going to miss this?”
This being the view from the observation deck. This being the countless stars spread across the sky. This being nights like tonight, when