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It’s really my hair that’s the problem. Seven bobby pins and counting, and it’s still not right.

It’s hard to explain. Technically, I look just like I always do. Same face, same eyebrows, same freckles. Same Jew hair—thick

and wavy, way past my shoulders. The color’s the only thing that throws people; always some gentile who doesn’t know Jews

come in blond.

I lean closer, gripping the edge of the twins’ bathroom counter. Ninety-nine percent sure that’s still yesterday’s head on

my neck.

But I feel so itchy in my skin when I have to be fancy. Or even somewhat fancy, since according to Mom, I’m, quote-unquote,

“dancing right up to the line.” But after weeks of negotiations, the treaty’s been signed, sealed, and delivered. Mom gets

tea-length tulle and a solid color on top; I get sneakers. For the dance and the pictures, even though you only get one senior prom, Amelia, and don’t you want it to be special? Apparently, thirty years from now, my life’s big regret will be prom footwear.

Mom just cares a little too much about this stuff.

Always has, always will. My dad says it’s because I’m graduating soon, so she’s scrambling for some semblance of control.

But I swear it runs deeper than that. This is a woman who got the flu last year and proceeded to text me a full-page getting-ready-for-school morning checklist from her sickbed.

She reads all my assigned English class books and then lends them to Bubbe, so we can have our monthly multigenerational Bagel Book Brunch.

And you’d better believe my phone’s location tracker stays on; it’s the only reason I’m even allowed to have a phone.

I like to think she’ll loosen the reins when college starts.

Or this summer, maybe, since I’ll be entering my working woman era.

In the form of scooping ice cream at Longford’s.

Something I was definitely only hired for because Mom knows the owners.

There’s a tiny rap on the door. “You about ready?” asks Zora.

“Almost! Sorry.” I scrunch up my nose in the mirror. “You guys can head down! I’m right behind you.”

I slip the pins out of my hair, shaking it loose. Maybe Google can fix this. How to not look like Alice in Wonderland.

Ten minutes left until group pictures. Not even.

Claire insisted on coming over early for couples’ shots with Natalie—and by that, I mean a full-on themed photo shoot at the

woodsy edge of Nat and Mark’s backyard. Just a pair of sparkling prom lesbians prancing around the enchanted forests of suburban

New York. You’ve got to hand it to her—no one painstakingly cosplays Spontaneous Carefree Authenticity quite like Claire Zimmerman.

All you need to know about Claire is that she’s a natural-born theater kid who refuses to do theater. Full-throttle drama

with no proper outlet.

It isn’t just that she’s annoying. I can deal with annoying.

But she’s a shitty girlfriend to Natalie.

They met in tenth-grade chorus class, and since then, it’s been a pretty steady cycle of tearful soliloquies, impulsive breakups, and apologetic grand gestures.

Suffice it to say, she’s a nightmare and a half.

And she’ll be in every single one of my prom pictures. Just how I always imagined it, right? Me, my three best friends since

literal kindergarten, and Nat’s on-again-off-again histrionic mess of a girlfriend.

Five more minutes.

I flip my phone upside down. Though it’s not the ticking clock that’s wringing my brain out. It’s the radio silence from Walter.

Combined with the fact that I could hear from him. At any moment. Just because the video’s gone doesn’t mean he never saw it.

The problem is, my brain wasn’t built for this level of mortifying uncertainty.

The problem is, I might actually erupt through my skin.

I slide the top drawer open. Grab Natalie’s scissors.

What’s weird is that it doesn’t actually feel like I’m doing this. More like I’m remembering doing this.

I lean closer to the mirror again.

Nothing extreme or dramatic. Just—

Different.

Those two extra-blond strands in the front, where the sun hits hardest. I start there.