The rebel in me, as Cat pointed out, wants to resent the makeover. Freshly showered after breezing through the workout, I get a look at myself in the gilded mirror in the broad hallway of the school on my way to dinner. There is no denying that I look sharp dressed in this tailored suit, dapper even.
The fresh shave and new threads are an improvement over my long hair and favorite hoodie, but there is no way I’ll get dressed up every day. I don’t quite feel like myself—then again, I haven’t since starting Cat’s program.
What really throws me off is the haircut. Shonda did a great job, but I don’t want great. I want the hair that I started growingthe moment I walked out of my father’s house. It became a symbol of my freedom and I hadn’t cut it once.
So why did I agree to go through with the haircut?
My father kept his sons’ heads shaved for our entire childhood and teen years. Until I decided to let it grow, I didn’t know what my hair looked like. I’d never seen it past a quarter-inch long. When it came in brown and shiny, it was like a miracle—not one that I’d ever share with anyone because I don’t want to seem girly. That’s another thing my father wouldn’t tolerate—feelings. Not even the happy or excited kind, which was especially tough when I was little.
Why am I letting this woman challenge me? Change me?
As I near Cat’s office, excitement builds. Unless someone else has access to the Blancbourg social media account and was browsing @ChicksDigWolves, I’m certain she saw my selfie last night after accidentally liking it—I saw the notification bubble—then quickly unliking it. Her finger must’ve “slipped.” Yeah, right into my hands. I’m ready for revenge. Nothing diabolical, just a good old-fashioned prank.
Placing my hand on the knob to the raised panel door to her office, I expect it to be locked, but it turns easily.
Inside sits a wide wooden desk, a few chairs, cabinets, shelves, and plants. It’s classic and tidy. The view through the window, with the slowly setting sun hanging like a basket and golden light spilling over the mountains, is spectacular.
“Not a shabby show, Concordia,” I mutter.
I could get used to it here. Perhaps it’s the air, being far from home, out of my routine, or something else entirely, but I’ve been strangely introspective. Never mind. Thinking that way is too mushy, fluffy. Feelings have only ever gotten me into trouble.
I close the slatted blinds in the office and set to work. An hour later, while lounging in the courtyard, what sounds like a shrieksuggests my effort has been noticed. The approach of a forceful clicking of high heels suggests it’s not appreciated.
As expected, Cateline rounds the corner. Instead of showering me with a flurry of crumbled sticky notes—I’d half expected that—she holds a neatly stacked rainbow assortment of the colorful pieces of paper that I covered her entire office with while she napped.
“Good evening, Cat,” I say as though nothing is out of the ordinary.
“What are these?” she asks, waving the blank yellow, neon, and pastel papers.
I lift my gaze from the sports article I was reading and tilt my head, examining her slender fingers and waist. My eyes float lazy-like up to meet hers. “Those are calledsticky notes. The brand name is Post-it, I believe.”
“Let me rephrase. What were they doing all over my office? Every surface was covered. I didn’t even realize I had so many,” she says as an afterthought.
I had to borrow some from elsewhere in the building, but I reply to her question with an innocent shrug.
“This was a prank and as our resident prankster, I think it was you.” Pieces of her dark hair must’ve escaped her bun during the removal process and brush her cheek.
“Me? I’ve been reading this enlightening article on football analytics.”
“Really? What have you learned?” Her hand flies to her hip as though not buying it for a second.
“Are you challenging my knowledge of my own game?” I stand up, matching her posture.
“I’m challenging the possibility that you were sitting still and reading that for any length of time and not Post-it-ing my office.” Her accent pounds out each word.
“That’s quite the accusation. Before condemning me with guilt, do you have any enemies among your employees?” I ask.
She blinks a few times. “Not necessarily,” she says after a beat. “I knew I should start locking the door.”
“Not a bad idea.”
“Very well. I will see you at dinner. Same place and time.” Her eye twitches slightly, but so do the corners of her lips, like she too has hatched a plan.
“Game on.”
17
CONNOR
