“It’s nothing,” I mutter to myself. A one-person cheer squad with no enthusiasm for the team. I check my bank balance on my phone and the breathing comes easier. There’s plenty of money in my account. I can replace the makeup before Saturday. It’ll be fine.
The money from the first two appointments might even be enough to cover the expense. From now on, everything important to me stays in the car, locked away from Caylon’s minion army.
“Nice hair,” a boy calls out, sniggering behind me.
I raise my hand, nerves already stinging, feeling self-conscious. There’s gum. So high up it feels like it’s nearly at my scalp.
Vinegar. Peanut butter. Toothpaste. The home-made remedies spin through my head.
When I tug at the gluey substance, my fingers become coated with the pink, sticky mess. It feels thinner than gum should. More adherent. Like something was mixed in with the wad.
The stuff on my fingers hardens. Becomes crackling.
I duck back into the bathroom, trying to clean it off. It feels like there’s cement mixed in there. Superglue? Whatever it is, the pads of my fingertips have set into concrete.
The same thing will happen with my hair.
I stare at my reflection, growing angrier by the second. There’s a pair of small scissors in my makeup kit and I fish it out of the bin long enough to snag them. The disgusting liquid washes off them easily enough and soon I’m holding them in one hand, the long strands of my hair in the other.
I could go home right now. Struggle to get this stuff out. Save the many years’ worth of growth. I’ve already lost one set of armour today; no need to destroy another.
But I can’t stand the thought of walking through the corridors with students nudging each other and exchanging knowing glances. Can’t stand to see the laughter crinkling their eyes. To see their enjoyment at my expense. So fleeting that it’s not worth me worrying about but I do. I really, really do.
This is my refuge. How did one boy turn it into a battleground so easily?
Caylon likes my hair. He likes to tug on it almost as much as Wilbur does.
A rush of pure venom surges into my hands.Tug on this, you fuckwits.I cut straight through the first hank and there’s no turning back.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
EM
When I emerge from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, most of my hair is lying on the sink or the floor.
I stalk through the corridors, meeting each pair of wandering eyes with a challenge. Outside, I track Caylon down to a corner where he’s sitting with his friends.
Zach does a double take while Lily sniggers. Fuck them. Fuck all of them. Even Trent with his sympathetic gaze, like I need or want his pity.
“You owe me,” I snap at Caylon. He turns, eyes widening at my new appearance. “That makeup was worth hundreds, and I don’t care which one of your goons did it, you’re replacing it or I’m going straight to the counsellor and telling her what you’ve done.”
“What I’ve done?” A frown eats up half his face as Caylon reaches out and touches my hair. “What have you done to yourself? What happened to your beautiful hair?”
“You happened.” I stamp my foot, frustration eating me alive. “This needs to stop. It’s sexual harassment. I never did anything to you.”
“That’s the point, Em. I’ve kindly asked you to suck my cock, yet here it is, still unsucked.”
A sea of lava wants to explode out of me at his casual summary. It’s lucky my hair is already cut off because with the temperature of my face right now, it would catch fire.
My vocal cords are so tight, I have to exhale hard while I’m speaking to make them work. The words are soft, thready,whining. “I need that makeup.”
“Why?” This time his frown is softer. He touches the knuckle of his forefinger gently to my chin. “You look fantastic without it. Why would I replace it so you can slather it over this perfection?”
“Because I need it for my job, arsehole.”
“What job?” Caylon laughs as though the thought of working is a silly fancy that couldn’t possibly concern anyone.
“I do makeup for people. You or one of your sycophants just ruined my only source of income.”
