The stylist flips on the razor. It buzzes above my head as she waits for my decision.
I look at the mirror, at my short hair that’s about to get shorter. My pulse dances with excitement.
“Totally sure.”
Six minutes later, the cape comes off. I walk up to the cash register, holding a tiny tin of hair gel. Tamar follows behind me without a word.
As I’m rung up, I catch my reflection in the mirror behind a shelf of styling products. My hair is shaved short at the nape of my neck. The stylist used gel on the top, which I kept a couple of inches longer. It spikes up in tufts.
I’m handed back my change, and we head toward the exit. I raise my eyebrows as I pass another mirror, smiling at myself.
Hair is hair, like the stylist said.
But still. I absolutely love how I look.
We walk back, still not talking. Finally, I look over at Tamar, who nearly trips on the curb when our eyes meet.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Tamar says quickly. “I’m just getting used to it. You look good.”
“Yeah?”
She nods, then pulls her phone out as we round the corner to my building. She sighs as we enter the lobby.
“What’s up?”
“It’s Eli.” The corners of her mouth turn down as we start climbing the stairs. “Mom and Dad are arguing again, I guess.”
“Did he say about what?”
I reach up to feel the back of my neck, letting Tamar get a few steps ahead. My hair’s so short there it prickles my palm. What if Mom hates my new look? I remember how hard it was to get her to let me cut my hair short the first time, when I was nine. She thought I might get upset after they cut it, maybe cry. I wasn’t and I didn’t.
But if Tamar didn’t want me to get a boy haircut, maybe Mom won’t, either. We’re all the way to the third floor before I realize Tamar’s done talking and I didn’t hear a word.
“Sorry.” I shake my head, still enjoying how light it feels. “What’d you say?”
“Never mind.” Tamar doesn’t look back at me. “It’s no big deal.”
Her gaze drops when I catch up to her. It stays down while I fish out my key and unlock the door.
Mom’s in front of the oven, cooking dinner.
“You’re back.” She turns around. “That was qui—”
She stares at me for a beat, then another. It’s like she’s not quite sure who she’s seeing.
I reach up and touch my hair again. “I thought I’d try a new style. Do you like it?”
“I suppose it’s been a while since you changed things up.” Mom turns back to the stove. Her tone was light, but she didn’t answer my question.
My mouth tastes sour. I turn to Tamar. “Let’s look at your Intermediate Moves clips.”
She nods. We head toward my bed.
“Oh, Ana-Marie, I almost forgot,” Mom calls over one shoulder. “Alex messaged while you were gone. He wants you to bring your new free-skate costume to the rink tomorrow.”
“Okay.” I can’t quite keep the frown off my face. I know what this means. We do a run-through every year before my first competition so I know what it feels like to perform my program in costume.
Tamar stops halfway to my bed. “You didn’t tell me you got your new costume.”
“It just came in Friday. I can show it to you if you want.”
Tamar loves all things fashion, but she shakes her head and takes a few steps in the opposite direction. “I should probably get going. Mom said she’d be here by seven.”
I glance at the digital clock on Mom’s bedside table. It’s six forty-five and it only takes two minutes to get back downstairs. Three, tops.
“What about your Intermediate Moves?” I ask.
“I’ll text them. You can send me suggestions or tell me what you think the next time we hang out.” She speaks fast with her back to me.
“It was good seeing you.” Mom waves as Tamar turns the doorknob. “Please say hello to your mother.”
“I will.” Tamar looks back at me with an expression I can’t read. “See you, Ana.”
“See you,” I echo. I step forward for our goodbye hug, but the door clicks closed. Tamar’s already gone.
Chapter Eighteen
On Monday morning, I wait for the Parks while Mom and Samuel chat in front of her office.
Soon, their SUV appears, and I hug the garment bag in my arms tighter. When I open the trunk, voices drift back from the front, a rise and fall of words I can’t quite make out.
In goes my duffel. Two garment bags already hang under the back seat headrests. I hook mine beside them.
“… don’t get why you won’t just let me skip—” Faith clamps her mouth shut as soon as I open the door.
I take my usual seat beside Hope.
At first, no one says anything. Faith crosses her arms. The rearview mirror reflects Mrs. Park’s face. Her jaw clenches and relaxes, then clenches again.
It’s Hope who finally breaks the silence.
“You got your hair cut!” She sounds overly excited, like she’s trying to shift the focus away from Faith.
“Yep.”
“It’s super short.”
“Hope.” Mrs. Park shoots her a warning look in the rearview mirror, but Hope keeps her eyes on me.
“You kind of look like this boy who was in my class last year.”
“Hope!” Faith’s voice joins her mom’s.
“What? It was a compliment! He was nice—for a boy.”
Mrs. Park shakes her head and says something in Korean. Hope slumps in her seat.
“Sorry, Ana,” she mumbles.
“It’s fine.”
Hope’s comment didn’t bother me. She just said what other people probably think when they see me—short hair is usually for boys, long hair for girls. I run a hand over the top of my head, wishing there was a third option.
Hope puffs out her cheeks and turns toward the window. Up front, Faith’s head tilts down, eyes on her iPad. Everyone’s gone quiet.
I pull out my phone. There are no new
