"Relentlessly well-intentioned?" Emily supplies with a knowing smile.
"Exhaustingly so. And then there's James."
"The Webmaster," she nods. "Drew says he's brilliant but antisocial."
"That's putting it mildly," The words muttered under my breath. "He looks at me like I'm a virus that infected his computer."
Emily laughs. "James looks at everyone like that. Don't take it personally."
But it is personal. From that first day when he helped me compile evidence against Cher and Michael, James has made it clear he thinks I'm beneath him. A rich kid playing at being poor, a moral compromise waiting to happen. His judgment stings more than it should, especially since I barely know him.
"Almost done," Sandy announces, interrupting my thoughts. She adds some kind of product to my hair and works it through with her fingers. "Just a little texture. Nothing complicated."
When she finally spins me around to face the mirror, I almost don't recognize myself. My hair is shorter on the sides but still has length on top, styled in a way that looks effortless but intentional.
But it's my face that takes me by surprise; without the curtain of hair, my features seem sharper, more defined. My eyes, dark and large, dominate my face in a way I've spent years trying to prevent. 'Too expressive,' Father always said. 'Learn to control your face, Caleb. People can read every thought in those eyes.'
'Your eyes give everything away. It's a liability in our world.'Mother would add her disappointed agreement. Emotions were meant to be controlled, not displayed. The hair was easier than fixing whatever's wrong with having feelings that show.
"What do you think?" Sandy asks, sounding slightly nervous at my silence.
"It's..." My throat’s tight. How do I explain? "It's good. Really good."
Emily claps her hands together. "It's perfect! You look like a totally different person."
"That's kind of the point." The words come out quietly. Without my hair to hide behind, I am exposed, vulnerable.
Sandy seems to sense my discomfort. "Remember, you can still style it forward a bit if you need to.” She shows me how to push the front slightly down. "But trust me, you don't need to hide that face."
After I've paid, refusing Emily's attempt to cover it, we head back to her car. Emily chatters happily about how the brothers will react, while I try to ignore the growing anxiety in my stomach.
"You know," she says as we near campus, "it's okay to let people see you, Caleb. The real you, not the persona you think they want."
"Easy for you to say." The words sound petulant, even to my own ears. "You're naturally likable."
"And you're naturally guarded," she counters. "But that doesn't mean you can't let a few people in." She pulls into the fraternity house driveway and puts the car in park, turning to face me. "The Delta guys are good people. Even the grumpy ones like James."
A loud snort erupts from my nose. "I doubt James and 'good people' belong in the same sentence."
"You might be surprised," she says cryptically. "Sometimes the ones who push others away the hardest are the ones most worth getting to know."
Before I can respond to that piece of fortune cookie wisdom, she's out of the car and heading for the house. Taking a deepbreath and running a hand through my now-shorter hair, I follow her inside.
The guy's reactions are immediate and mortifying. Wolf whistles and hoots greet us as soon as we enter the living room, where several brothers are gathered around the TV.
"Holy shit, is that Caleb?" Gavin booms, his eyes comically wide.
"Damn, Emily, you worked a miracle!" Ian calls out. "He's actually hot!"
"Fuck off," I say, my jaw clenching as heat rises to my cheeks, when I try to push past them toward the stairs.
"Seriously, though, you look great," Tyler says, more kindly. "Nice haircut."
"Thanks." Keeping my head down, I make my escape.
Heading straight for the computer room, which is basically a small study area off the main living room. They've tucked the fraternity's shared desktop computers close together. It's usually empty this time of day, making it the perfect hideout until the commotion dies down.
Except it's not empty. James is hunched over the main computer, typing rapidly. He doesn't look up when I enter, too focused on whatever code is filling the screen.
