too. But not the meanest ones.” Chuck lets out a long sigh. “Anyway, you don’t have to worry about me. I can handle myself.”
He stands up. “I was worried about me, actually.”
Grace sets her bathing suit aside. “What?” Her eyes track Chuck as he heads out of her room. “Why?”
Pausing in her doorway, his back to her, Chuck glances over his shoulder and says, “Because if you hadn’t made varsity, I would have felt embarrassed going out in public like this.” In a flash, Chuck casts aside his blanket cape with the flourish of a matador.
Grace’s hands fly to her mouth.
When her brother left the house last night, his hair had been colorless, bleached so blond it was practically translucent. But sometime between then and now, he’s dyed it blue. Bright blue.
Wildcat blue.
Through her fingers she says, “You did that for me? But what if I didn’t make varsity?”
Chuck shrugs his bony shoulders. “I may not know shit about sports, but there can’t be another Wildcat wilder than you.” And with a level of pep Grace didn’t think was chemically possible for her brother, he lifts his arms and shouts, “Gooooo, Grace!”
She jumps up and smothers Chuck in a hug.
“I can’t believe you made me drag it out of you. It was so hot under those blankets!”
“I didn’t want to make a big deal about it.”
“Umm, have you forgotten that I went to West Essex? This is a huge deal.” Chuck shakes his head. Pridefully, he says, “I can’t believe my sister is a Wildcat.”
Finally, Grace lets herself release some of the giddy fizz inside her. “We have our first scrimmage tomorrow. And Ali Park told me she thinks Coach might start me.” Her brother’s eyes widen. “Ali actually drove me home. We’re tight now,” she says with a wink.
“Well, Nana and I will be there. Maybe I can convince her to dye her hair blue too.”
Grace follows Chuck into the hallway, both of them laughing because there’s a good chance Nana might do it. Then she ducks into the bathroom to get a swim towel from the linen closet. While grabbing her toothbrush, she meets her eyes in the vanity mirror. Her hair is still in a stubby little tuft at the top of her head from tryouts.
Grace takes out the elastic and rakes her fingers through it. She’d always had short hair—a chinlength bob with bangs, usually—but she’d dyed it so many times during eighth grade, the hair started to break off on her pillow. So the summer before high school, she buzzed it into a pixie and began growing it out.
At West Essex, basically every girl has long hair. Grace would be lying if she said that didn’t factor into it too. That maybe if she looked a little more like the other girls on her team, they’d do a better job remembering she was on it.
Of course, they didn’t.
Grace actually likes the length. Past her shoulders now, after a full year of growing it. She can braid it or twist it up if she chooses. It’s the color that makes her feel like a poseur. Mouse-belly brown. The lamest camouflage.
Underneath the bathroom sink, she finds a squeeze bottle holding what’s left of Chuck’s blue dye. The color looks so good. The perfect shade. And, with about half a bottle left, likely just enough.
She no longer needs to hide who she is. Grace is a Wildcat now.
And like Chuck said, maybe even the wildest.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 26
1:39 P.M.
ALI
Ali Park pulls along the curb in front of her house, turns off her Jeep, and sits. Her parents haven’t left yet. Their sedan is still parked in the driveway, the trunk stuffed so full of presents—rivaling the back of Santa’s sleigh—that it can’t properly close. Her father has used a bungee cord to secure it.
She should go in. See them off. Make sure her father has the right GPS app on his phone, the one that updates live for traffic.
Instead Ali sinks low in her seat and pulls out her phone.
There’s no other way to put it. She’s turned into a stalker.
She can’t even remember what she used to look at before finding Darlene Maguire on social media. Since then Ali can pass hours like minutes scrolling through Darlene’s posted pictures, reading and rereading the comments people have left. Ali’s found Darlene in pictures posted to other people’s accounts. Friends, relatives. Figured out that the boy who took Darlene to formal was likely just a friend. She’s read Darlene’s field