He’d looked at me with those friendly eyes and said, “You must be the sister Jack keeps talking about.”
I’d been completely tongue-tied—unusual, because I was never quiet.
“She talks a lot,” Jack had warned him. “Fair warning.”
“I like people who talk,” Michael had said, and smiled at me.
I’d liked him immediately, always wanting to hang out with him.
Growing up, Michael was always around. Family dinners, holidays, sleepovers where he and Jack would camp out in our living room building elaborate pillow forts that I wasn’t allowed in. I’d sit on the stairs watching them, and Michael would always sneak me pieces of whatever snacks they’d hoarded.
“Don’t tell Jack,” he’d whisper, handing me contraband cookies. “He’ll accuse me of playing favorites.”
“Are you?” I’d whispered back. “Playing favorites?”
“Definitely.” He’d grinned. “But only because you don’t hog all the good pillows.”
When I was seventeen, I wandered downstairs during one of their sleepovers looking for water and found them sprawled on the couch talking about girls. I should’ve gone back upstairs. Should’ve given them privacy.
Instead I’d frozen in the hallway, listening.
“What’s your type?” Jack had asked. “Like physically.”
“I don’t know. I don’t really have a type.”
“Everyone has a type.”
Michael had been quiet for a moment. “I guess… someone different. Dark hair, maybe. Exotic looking. The kind of girl who looks mysterious, you know? Not the typical blonde California girl. Something more interesting than that.”
I’d looked down at myself. Nothing mysterious or exotic about me. Just another blonde girl in a state full of them.
“So you want the opposite of every girl who hits on you,” Jack had said.
“Basically.”
I’d gone back upstairs and spent the next week secretly googling hair dye. How much it would cost to become mysterious and interesting.
Pauline had caught me.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” I’d slammed my laptop shut.
“Were you looking at hair dye?”
“No.”
“Claudette Specter.”
“I was just curious?—”
“About dying your hair.” She’d sat on my bed. “Why?”
“No reason.”
“Is this about Michael?”
I’d stayed quiet.
