The smell is a cross between rotten eggs and rotten eggs that have mated with the contents of a summer-ripe dumpster. The cut on my forehead, which trails back into my hairline, burns like I’m pouring acid on it, but I grit my teeth and keep going. The color looks much darker than it does on the box once it’s all in: almost black. It would be upsetting if I were dyeing my hair for appearance’s sake instead of camouflage.
Malcolm shaves while I wait, and I use the concealer we bought to cover his bruises. He looks younger than nineteen, and somehow more innocent, when we’re done. When I first saw him tumbling out of the trunk, he’d been caked in blood and sweat, with several days’ worth of stubble. He looked…culpable. Now he looks like a college student, not a criminal. He looks like someone who prints out selfies with his grandmother, because he wants to have actual photos in his wallet.
Because that’s who he is.
I think back to how I treated him and I want to apologize, but the words get stuck and then it’s time to rinse my hair. Malcolm helps with this too, running his fingers up the base of my skull and using an empty water bottle to reach where the stubby faucet can’t.
The dark rivulets that slither down the drain make my heart skitter, and I squeeze my eyes shut, scrubbing my hair until I’m sure the excess dye is gone. Every time I run my hands through the short strands, vertigo whirls through me.
My heart nearly stops for good when I catch my reflection for the first time, with hair that swishes at my shoulders instead of swinging beyond my lower back. The dark color makes my normally olive skin look wan and pale, and my eyes larger somehow. Peering through my new blunt bangs, I’m wary of the girl staring back at me. I look like I’m hiding. Or maybe that’s just how I feel.
The bangs are too long to stay out of my eyes and too short to tuck behind my ears. They’ll be constantly in my face, obscuring my features.
Okay. Okay. That’s good. That’s what I want.
Instead of fleeing outside, I confront my new appearance, getting as close to the mirror as the sink will allow. It’s me, but not the me I’ve seen my entire life.
Malcolm half nods. “It looks good.”
“I don’t even recognize myself,” I say, turning away from him while I change into my new shirt and jacket. “I guess that’s the point, though.”
He lowers his head, maybe to give me a semblance of privacy but maybe because he’s the reason I can’t afford to look like me anymore. I don’t relish making him feel bad, the way I did just yesterday, but it’s a good reminder all the same. He’s not helping me out of the kindness of his heart; he’s helping me because I forced his hand.
And we’re hoping for radically different outcomes.
Eyes still cast down, Malcolm says, “I need to tell you something. That night you and your mom ran, I—”
Boom, boom, boom!A pounding fist. “Police. Open the door. Now!”
Malcolm and I both jump, and I’m dimly aware of the way he shifts to place himself between the door and me.
“Just a minute!” I call. My adrenaline spikes as I throw myself to the floor and grab fistfuls of cut hair to toss in the toilet. Malcolm is right beside me, shoving our bloody clothes into our bags. I’m twisting around the small space, searching for anything we might have missed.
I know they’ll hear the toilet flush and rightfully assume we’re trying to hide something, but it can’t be helped. More pounding on the door and issued commands, and my heart lurches painfully with each one; I can feel it trying to break free of my ribs. I place a hand on my chest.I have to calm down. I have to calm down.
Most of the hair is gone from the floor, and what’s left could blend in with the general filth. Malcolm and I are dressed in clean clothes, and we’ve covered the worst of the bruises on his face.
Whatever this is, we’ll talk our way out of it, just like with the motel manager.
I fling the door open and instantly squint at the sunlight that slaps me in the face.
“Step out of the bathroom.”
I follow the officer’s command, and I take Malcolm’s hand to keep him by my side. I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but I think I see the officer’s demeanor soften at the sight.
“Is there a problem?” I force my eyes open, and the bright sun makes them water. The officer is of average height but well above average weight, and I have the insane thought to just run. I don’t think he’d be able to catch me. But could Malcolm run fast enough with his cracked ribs?
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
I nod quickly and tighten my hold on Malcolm’s hand.
After staring at Malcolm for a long hard moment, the officer says, “The attendant told me he saw a man with a bloodstained sweatshirt enter the bathroom after you about forty-five minutes ago.” His glance flicks to my wet hair before returning to Malcolm and the crisp white T-shirt he’s wearing under an equally crisp hoodie. The officer’s eyes snag at something where our hands are joined, and sweat prickles my neck as I spot a tag we forgot to remove.
“I’m sorry if we made someone wait.” I shift forward to draw the officer’s gaze back to me. “I wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want to be by myself in case I got faint.” In the same movement, I push my new bangs to the side and rip the scab off my forehead to reveal what looks like a fresh cut. “We were in a car accident earlier, and I was worried I might have a concussion.”
There’s no indication from the officer that he believes me, and my hand in Malcolm’s is growing slick.
“Where’s your car?” the officer asks.
