Page 23

T hat night, I dye my hair .

While I sit on the floor outside the shower stalls, because I don’t want to drip hair dye in my room, I try to read my Bio book. I have homework due, which is easy enough; I can find all the answers. But it takes me a ridiculously long time, because I can’t stop thinking about Luke and his grief and his anger .

I feel drawn to him even though he drives me mad. Maybe we’re both lost. Maybe that pulls us together and pushes us apart at the same time .

I sigh and push the book away long before my cell phone alarm begins to sound that it’s time to rinse the dye out. Another girl from down the hall is showering in one of the far stalls, and she’s brought in a wireless speaker. The fun, bouncy sounds of her music are in contrast to my dark thoughts. She’s probably about to make the most of the end of her weekend while I focus on serial killers .

Still, unlike most of the other girls on my floor, I love the communal shower room here. Ghosts are usually shy, for everyone but a psychic. This way I don’t have strange faces popping up while I’m trying to towel off .

I step into the hot water, hanging my towel up on the hook, and let the water run over my face and hair. It’s satisfying to feel my thick, wet hair between my fingers as I wash all of the dye out. I’ve never been blond before. I wonder how it will look. I wonder if I should have dyed my eyebrows .

Finished, I skip the lotion and wrap my towel around myself, anxious to blow dry my hair and get a look at the damage. The shower room is empty now. I pad across the cold tiles. Someone’s left a toothbrush on one of the sinks .

I did what I read about on the internet: two different dye jobs, one to begin the lightening process and one to color it the final shade of blond. But really, I don’t even care how blond it is or how it looks; I’ve never wanted to go blond. What matters is that this appeals to a serial killer .

I plug in my blow dryer and go to town, straightening my hair as it dries. It looks blah. A yellowish blond that is definitely not my favorite. Two other girls come in, glance at my hair, and go giggling into the showers. Thanks, ladies .

The steam from their showers makes the room muggy, on top of the heat I’m already directing at my scalp. I turn off the blow dryer. Might as well let it dry frizzy. Hopefully the serial killer likes a bad dye job, because my hair looks awful .

Luke probably convinced me to do this just to mess with me, but the sense of guilt over what I’ve said to him has made me want to be an Extra Good Psychic Medium. Don’t get me wrong; Luke has been a raging asshole, and he damn well owes me an apology. But I didn’t mean to step on his grief. I would have been kinder if I’d known. Maybe I should just be kinder. We never know what burden someone else is carrying .

I stick the blow dryer in the overnight bag I use to cart all my stuff to the bathroom – except for my flip-flops, that is – and sling it over my shoulder .

When I straighten up, there are words written at the edges of the mirror, where fog is beginning to form .

1219 H

My hands shake with adrenaline as I head down the hall towards my room, cinching up my towel. There’s message from a ghost, in the bathroom with me .

Now I have to call Luke. That’s another reason for my hands to shake .