Page 6

“Elle, I’m coming in,” I say, pushing the door wide open. She bumps the door to her bathroom closed with her hip just as I enter. She’s definitely into something. I just hope it isn’t dangerous.

“You’re going to be late. I’m working with Mom this morning, and I noticed you hadn’t left yet. Want me to give you a ride today?” I inch my way closer to her bathroom, the door open just enough that I catch a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror.

“I’m not going to school,” she gurgles out. I push the bathroom door open as she drops her face into her palms, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

“Ellie, what’s wrong?” I run my palm along her shoulders.

She’s built differently than me, her shoulders thinner, arms slender, waist tiny.

She’s a size four, and I eat a size four for lunch.

But we have the same hair—an unruly combination of my mom’s dark brown and my dad’s natural waves that don’t really do either curly or straight well, no matter how many products we use.

I can tell by the droplets of water on the sink and the wet strands matted to her cheeks that this is what Ellie’s been battling this morning.

“Let me see,” I say, my voice gentle as I coax her hands from her face and urge her to look at me.

It takes my mind a few seconds to compute the visual.

At first, I’m not sure if the spiked hairs jutting in all directions are where they’re supposed to be, so I blink rapidly, trying to understand what my sister did.

Then she drops her gaze to the scissors on the counter, and her eyes flit to the trash can by her right leg.

“Oh, Ellie . . .” There are long bits of hair piled in the plastic bag lining the small silver can. It looks a bit like one of the nests tucked into the eave of the house.

My sister’s head falls back as her hands drop to her sides, her shoulders bobbing up and down as tears run down her cheeks. She’s fallen victim to the age-old pitfall that strikes most women at some point in their lives—Ellie tried to cut her own bangs.

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think. Here,” I say, taking her comb in my hand and finger-feathering the rest of her hair out of her face.

I comb the portion intended to be bangs down along her forehead, the length maybe two inches, and that’s only because it’s wet.

It’s as bad as she thinks, but like hell am I going to say that.

My sister’s eyes flutter as she fights off another round of tears, and her lips pucker as she blows out a wobbly breath.

“Be honest,” she says.

Ooof. I can’t do that.

“It’s a little short,” I go with. She laughs out once, but it’s more of a sob than a chuckle.

“We just need to kind of figure out the look. Here, let me try a few things. Is that all right?” I meet her stare, and she nods.

Her panic wrangled, at least for the moment, I pull open the drawer and take out my old flat iron and a few of the hair bands my sister’s collected.

I shake out the headband from the back of the drawer, the yellow and blue floral-print one I gave her when I left for college.

She used to wear it all the time, and it may be ready for its comeback.

“So, what prompted this makeover attempt?” I don’t make eye contact, instead focusing on plugging in the iron and lining up the products and tools I’m going to need. There’s likely a boy or some popular girls or some trend at school involved. I just hope it isn’t a bully.

“Rachel cut her hair last weekend, and it’s this really cute short style that barely reaches her shoulders, and she has these bangs that like, I don’t know, sort of sweep over her forehead, and, well . . . Kaden told Jace he thought Rachel looked cute, and . . .”

I smirk to myself as my sister’s ramble goes on, unraveling the reasons behind a lot of her behavior over the last few months.

I lock away that his name is Kaden, a fact I’ll share with Mom later so we can do our own investigating of this boy who has set off Ellie’s first real bout of angst. Plus, her best friend, Rachel, getting his attention might mean my sister is in for a first heartbreak sooner rather than later.

I don’t like that for her, but it’s both inevitable and necessary.

“Okay, well, first thing you need to learn is that you and Rachel are two totally different people—personalities, interests, and . . . hair.”

I gather Ellie’s thick hair into my hand and hold it at the base of her neck. With everything pulled back, the unusually short bangs almost have a modern look. If I can get her on board, I think we can work with it.

“I hate my hair,” my sister mutters. My heart deflates a little.

“I’ve been there,” I hum, not dwelling on the negative feelings longer than necessary.

I validate her, but we’re moving past this.

She doesn’t see it now because she’s thirteen, but in a few years, Ellie is going to look like she belongs on a runway.

Her large eyes and high cheekbones are going to fill out and come out of the awkward baby-bird stage to become something interesting and beautiful.

“Do you trust me?” I snag a hairpin from the counter and clamp it between my closed lips while I hold the flat iron in a ready position to swoop down her hair.

Ellie’s eyes flit to mine in the reflection and despite looking nervous, she gives me a tiny nod.

It takes me about ten minutes to get her hair completely ironed out and straight.

I do my best to dry the bangs she cut, too, and give them enough lift to curve into her forehead rather than stab out into the universe like those pointing things they put over storefronts to keep birds from nesting.

I turn her to face me, mostly so she can’t watch me work with her hawk-like eyes.

I want to surprise her with how beautiful she is, and a few small accents with some blush and a little eyeliner might make her believe Rachel’s new haircut isn’t all that.

The final piece is my old headband, and I slide it in place with the short bangs lined up along her hairline.

I hand her the deep red lipstick, something I’m sure our mom would say is a little too old for her, but is just what she needs, and then spin her to take in her reflection.

Her eyes flash wide, just for a second, and then her mouth ticks up on the corners.

“What do you think?” I ask. I know how I feel—I outdid myself, and also, cosmetology school really was an option for me. But what’s important is what Ellie sees in the mirror, and how it makes her feel about herself.

“I look like I should drive to school,” she whispers, a mischievous grin playing at her lips. Her eyes flit to mine briefly, and I laugh.

“Don’t push it. I’m already going to have to sneak you out with that lipstick. Go ahead and put some on, then we have got to go. I’ll sign you in late and tell them it was a family emergency.”

Ellie flings herself into me, her long skinny arms wrapping around me as her cheek pushes into my white T-shirt. I’m sure she’ll smudge me with blush, but this hug from my sister is worth every bit of laundry.

“Thanks, Peyt,” she says, her long lashes dabbing at her cheeks. I could cry at this visual, and she’s only my sister. I wonder how my mom handles watching us grow up. Also, I put her through a lot of hell. I owe her one of these hugs.

“Anytime, Elle. Now, get to it,” I say, kissing the top of her head, then leaving her to finish getting ready.

I wait by my Jeep, flashing my mom a thumbs-up when she holds out her palms, likely curious what the hang-up was. I’ll fill her in later. For now, I need my sister to hustle.

Ellie skips out of the house a minute later, and while my mom’s double-take signals that she noticed the change in her look, she doesn’t say a word as I usher my sister into the passenger side.

She’s at school ten minutes later, and after I finish signing her in, I spend a few minutes watching the long lines of kindergarteners weave along the walkways as they head in and out of recess.

One day, one of those spunky kids is going to be mine.

I leave my longing behind me, heading to the parking lot, and promptly driving from the elementary school to Coolidge High, where Wyatt’s truck sits next to my father’s.

The two of them are on the field, arms crossed as they talk, their focus on the end zone and the ball caddy that I have a feeling is there for them more than their players.

My dad loves reliving his past. And right now, Wyatt needs to build something of his own to relive.

This nudge is going to take a little more than a flat-iron and some makeup. But I’m up to the task.