I need to charm the hell out ofeveryonehere.
Not because I want to play them for fools.
But because I want real friends. I want to fit in. I want to find a way to make things work so that we’re a positive part of the community, and I amclearlyoff to a bad start here.
So I flash Flint an even more brilliantMaisey Spencer, small-time home renovation TV starsmile that I don’t feel and don’t like either. “That’s so kind of you.”
His eyes narrow. “You know I see through teenage bullshit every single day.”
“Guess I’m lucky I’m not a teenager.”
“Not much different.” He sets the cartons on the bench at the edge of the playground and approaches me, a looming mass in the dim light. “What did you do to your hair?”
“It’s chain-chic. Latest trend.”
He sighs.Again.
I do my best not to get snippy in response.
But then he does the very worst thing he could possibly do.
He slips a hand into his pocket, pulls out something flat and palm size, and then I hear the distinct sound of a pocketknife opening.
“Oh my God, no!”I shriek. I back up in the swing, some of my hairs getting pulled, and I work the knot around the chain faster.“You are not cutting my hair!”
“Mom?” Junie calls.
The light’s fading fast, and I have no idea if there are streetlamps or park lamps or anything here, and I’m suddenly acutely aware ofthe fact that someone once told me mountain lions are most likely to pounce at dusk.
Are there mountain lions this far east in Wyoming?
I’m safe because I’m basically in a populated area ... right?
Hello, sudden regrets. I should’ve offered to buy Junie an ice cream cone, packed her into the car, and driven back to the ranch.
It would’ve worked a few years ago.
But that was before I screwed everything up trying to save my marriage by making my husband happier than I made my daughter.
“I’m not giving you ahaircut,” Flint says. “I’m cutting six strands loose so you can go about your business.”
“This iswaymore than six strands.”
“It’ll grow back.”
“Cut my fingernails. Ruin my manicure. Rip my clothes. Steal my makeup. Throw a berry smoothie all over my best dress. Scuff my boots. I don’t care. Butdo nottouch my hair.” It’s theonething I’m vain about. The one single thing I spend any time on in the morning and any significant money on for beauty-supply products.
Vanity and I aren’t all that well acquainted—not really—but my hair?
I love my hair.
“It’s already stuck in the chain and ruined,” he says.
One lock comes free, but there’s another clump still stuck. “Is this how you handle your students?Let me take the nuclear option because you’re being emotional, and I don’t want to handle it now?”
“I handle emotions just fine.”
“Oh, I’m sure, Mr.Calm Down. Mr.Couldn’t Tell Me He’s Been Putting Me at Liability for a Lawsuitsince Uncle Tony Died. Mr.I Don’t Like You, but I’m Not Actually Going to Tell You Why to Your Face. I don’t needthisway of your handlingemotions. Thank you for bringing my dinner. Now please excuse me.Again.I need to untangle myself and take my daughter home.”
