Everything I Know About You Read online

  “Well, your grandma Wendy must be very cool.”

  “She died. But yeah, she really was. She said I took after her, so.” I shrugged.

  “You know, that’s always a compliment, when people say you take after them.”

  “I guess.” Then I said a crazy thing. “Would you like to borrow them tonight?”

  “No thanks,” Ms. Jordan said. But she grinned back at me. “Although I’d be honored to wear them some other time. Can I please have a rain check?”

  “Sure,” I answered, although I wondered what rain had to do with wearing spiffy glasses.

  Kapow!

  THE THING WAS, I REALLY did mean to wash my hair that night. I’m not a big hair-washing sort of person, but once a week or so I get hyperaware of hair grease. And when that happens, I can’t keep my hands out of my hair, constantly checking to see if the grease on my scalp has migrated to my hair strands, and everyone I pass on the street is grossing out.

  It’s the way I always feel when I watch a movie in which the hero (never the heroine) has dirty hair. Usually it’s like a Western or something, and not my favorite movie type to begin with, but when the hero has greasy hair, I can’t concentrate on anything else. I just sit there the whole time going, Bleh, why doesn’t that guy just wash his hair? And why doesn’t anybody tell him how gross it looks?

  Anyway. So, yes, I was having a greasy hair day, and after everything that had happened, the idea of a long, soapy shower seemed wonderful. But the problem was, I hadn’t packed any shampoo. I could have stolen some of Ava’s—and of course she’d consider it “stealing,” not “borrowing”—but hers was for Dry and Brittle hair, and my hair wasn’t either of those things. For a second I considered using regular soap, but the hotel soap was that George Washington kind, and I didn’t trust it. I mean, George Washington wore a powdered wig; who even knew what his hair looked like under that thing?

  I considered my options. Yes, I’d promised Ms. Jordan I’d stay in my room, but she liked my glasses; this had to mean she was cooler than I’d realized. Even if she wasn’t cool, she was a female, which meant she probably understood the greasy-hair issue. And it would be the simplest thing in the world to pop downstairs for a second and buy a small travel-sized bottle of normal, unweird shampoo in Ye Olde Hotel Shoppe, whatever that place was called where I’d bought those excellent pirate Band-Aids.

  Before I could chicken out, I took the elevator downstairs to the lobby.

  The shoppe was still open, luckily. I found the hair-care shelf right away and grabbed a two-ounce bottle of my favorite shampoo.

  Then something caught my eye: KAPOW! it said on the box in red action-comic writing. I took a closer look—it was a bottle of hair color in Sour Apple Green. EXPRESS YOURSELF IN VIVID COLOR! the box shouted. DON’T JUST CHANGE YOUR STYLE—KAPOW!

  Obviously, I had to have this.

  I grabbed the box and brought it to Mikel, who was once again behind the cash register.

  “Hey,” he said, grinning at me. “Sardines, right?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah, although I looked that up. Sardines don’t actually come from Greenland. You were pulling my leg.”

  My face burned. “I never pull legs.”

  “Well, you pulled mine, and I fell for it, so woo-hoo for you. You buying that hair color for yourself?”

  “For me? No. Are you crazy?”

  “Well, it won’t work without bleach. You know that, right?”

  “Of course. You sell bleach here?”

  “Right next to the color. But I’m not sure you should be using it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you need a note from your mommy. Back in Greenland.” He started sniggering.

  I decided to hate him. Without any more chatting, I got the bleach and paid for both boxes.

  “Show me how it comes out,” Mikel said, still laughing.

  Yeah, definitely, you eighteenth-century, mustard-stained mosquito, I thought.

  • • •

  Back upstairs in the room, I put on the Ugly Tee and ripped open the box of hair color. I guess I expected a long, detailed set of instructions inside the box, so I was relieved not to see any. The only instructions were on the bottle: SHAMPOO AND RINSE. WHILE HAIR IS STILL DAMP, APPLY KAPOW! HAIR COLOR. USE GLOVES. LEAVE ON 5-20 MINUTES, DEPENDING ON COLOR PREFERENCE. RINSE, DRY, AND GO!

  Well, that seemed easy enough. And quick as popcorn! They even gave you latex gloves in a little plastic bag, which was very considerate of them.

  But what about this extra bleach thing? It was funny that the hair-color bottle didn’t even mention it. I ripped open the bleach box. Inside was a packet of “lightening bleach” (didn’t all bleach lighten?), a plastic bottle of KAPOW! Oxide, whatever that was, and a packet of Deep Conditioning Rescue (ditto). Plus, folded into eighths, was a long, complicated list of instructions, in microscopic print. Oh, bleep.

  READ FIRST, the instructions yelled at me.

  FINE! I yelled back.

  1. Apply ONLY to dry hair.

  What? Already I was lost. The color bottle said to shampoo first. So which was it?

  2. Processing time may vary. Check hair every 10 minutes. Dark brown hair: Process 50-60 minutes. A second application of bleach may be required.

  Curses. An hour of bleaching, and then you might have to do another hour? How would you even know? This was worse than bread baking.

  3. Wash hair.

  4. Apply color to dry hair

  But that wasn’t what it said on the bottle of hair color! That bottle said damp hair! And what about that Deep Conditioning Rescue stuff? Was I supposed to use it? And if so, when?

  Oh, never mind, I told myself. I’ll just figure it out as I go along.

  Sour Apple

  THE BLEACHING TOOK FOREVER, but that wasn’t the worst thing about it. The worst thing was how it made my scalp feel: all hot and tingly, like there was an army of fire ants zooming around my scalp.

  As soon as I felt this, which was right away, I started rubbing my hair. But that didn’t stop the ant-army march; it just spread the horrible crawly feeling to my ears and my neck.

  And then my shoulders and my back, because now the bleach was dripping down my tee.

  Okay, this was unbearable.

  I yanked off the Ugly Tee, which maybe I’d be forced to wear again and which was already ugly enough without KAPOW! drips.

  But I didn’t want bleach dripping directly on my skin, so I needed to wear something. But what? Also, the bleach smelled sour, but not like pickle sour. More like if-a-wet-dog-ate-pepperoni-pizza-and-then-barfed sour. So I didn’t want that smell on my clothes, because you could tell it would last forever.

  Then I remembered that stretchy pink tank Ava had thrown away. She didn’t want it, obviously, so who cared if it got a little stinky? And splattery?

  I fished it out of the trash, pulled it over my head, and tugged it into place. It didn’t completely cover my belly, but close enough. Also, there was something hilarious about wearing Ava’s doll-sized pink clothing while dying my hair Sour Apple Green. Too bad I couldn’t share the joke of it with anyone.

  Then, to take my mind off the fire-ant-scalp feeling, I turned on the TV. They were showing that insipid Manicure movie again, and the only thing else remotely watchable was the stupid baseball game. (At first I was confused, because I knew the local team was insect-themed; it took me five minutes to realize they were the Nats, not the Gnats.) Every time the cameras showed the crowd, I searched for Spider, but I never saw him. Then I remembered Mr. G had gotten way-in-the-back seats, since they were last-minute. Probably the seats were too high up to even see the field. Not that Spider would care, because no way was he interested in the actual game, despite what he said to Marco.

  Finally I got so bored I turned off the TV.

  But what else was there to do, waiting around while the bleach did its work? All there was to read were a Welcome to Our Nation’s Capital guidebook, the men
u for room service, and a bunch of those fashion magazines Ava wanted to write for someday.

  There they were on her night table, in a neat stack, all the corners touching. I flipped through a few of them: She OnTrend CelebStyle ModeJunior. Nothing but pages of pretzel-stick, clonewoman models looking grumpy, probably because they were hungry for muffins.

  TEN FASHION “IT” GIRLS

  LOOKS YOU GOTTA HAVE FOR FALL

  STAR WATCH: AWARD SEASON FASHION!

  WHO ROCKED WHAT

  Yawn. I mean, sure, there were also articles, but I totally didn’t get what Ava saw in them. Although there had to be something, because Ava wasn’t stupid. And it definitely surprised me how she said she wanted to write this stuff, because I never saw her writing just for fun. Not that I would, of course. Because writing was private.

  But then I thought of something: Ava writes in her yellow notebook! Before I could stop myself, I lifted her pillow. There it was.

  I was crazy with boredom, the room was empty, my scalp was on fire, and I had to kill time somehow—so I had a peek. Today there were only two numbers: 110 and 75. Which was odd, I thought, because I distinctly remembered her doing one hundred sit-ups this morning. Why had she written 110?

  Unless the number counted something else.

  Like what?

  Maybe I hadn’t solved the mystery, after all.

  The doorknob was turning, so I slipped Ava’s notebook under her pillow.

  “Tally, what are you doing?” Ava was standing in the room, pale and dripping with sweat.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I needed something to read while my processing was . . . processing, so—”

  “You went searching on my night table? For a magazine?” She kicked off her sneakers. Considering how she’d acted during our last conversation, she seemed way calmer now, I thought. Maybe she’d burned off something in the gym. “Is that my tank you’re wearing?”

  “Yeah,” I said, blushing. Which only made my scalp feel hotter. “You threw it away, so I thought, you know, while my hair was dripping all over the place—”

  “Whatever. It doesn’t fit you, Tally, but you can have it. I hate how it looks on me. And not that it’s my business, but what are you doing to your hair?”

  I tried to sound confident. “Expressing myself with color.”

  “Expressing what, exactly?”

  “Well, it’s called Sour Apple.”

  “Oh. Why am I not surprised.” Ava sniffed the air. “It doesn’t smell like sour apple.”

  “It’s the bleach. First you put it on and wait. Then you add the color.”

  “How long have you had it on?”

  “The bleach? Like thirty minutes.”

  “Like thirty minutes? Or thirty minutes?”

  “Ava, I was watching TV. I don’t know precisely.”

  “Well, if you color your hair, you need to know precisely! You’re supposed to use a timer!”

  “That’s not what it said in the instructions.”

  “Yeah? Let me see.” She held out her hand impatiently, so I gave her the instructions.

  She squinted at the tiny print. “So have you been checking the color every ten minutes, like it says?”

  “No. Well, I mean, not exactly.”

  “Tally, what’s wrong with you? If you don’t do it exactly how they say, it’ll come out terrible!”

  “Ava, I think you’re overreacting.”

  “No, Tally, I think you’re underreacting!”

  Ava was starting to make me nervous. It was impossible to deny that I’d been careless about the directions, and Ava seemed so sure of herself. Besides, she was Miss Perfection; I was used to her getting As for neatness, following directions, filling in all the blanks.

  And by then I couldn’t ignore the fact that I was sweating. Not regular sweat, like when you jog uphill. I mean, panic sweat.

  “I think I’m done, though,” I announced.

  “Already?” Ava said. “Are you sure it’s been at least fifty minutes?”

  “No. But I’m pretty sure it’s enough.”

  Before she could correct me again, I raced into the shower, still wearing the tank top. But the hotel had one of those complicated knobs (twist clockwise for temperature, counterclockwise for water pressure) so at first I sprayed my head with jets of scalding hot water.

  Which was not the effect I was going for.

  I yelped.

  “You okay?” Ava shouted from outside the bathroom.

  “Yep. Just a bit tingly.”

  I finally adjusted the water to a cool spray, and my scalp stopped screaming at me. Although it still felt angry as I towel-dried my hair over the sink.

  When it was dryish, I checked the mirror. My hair did look lighter in places—but it was wet, so I couldn’t be sure of the total effect. And I was supposed to add the color when my hair was still damp, wasn’t I? At least, that’s what it said on the hair-color bottle.

  I poured the entire bottle of color over my head. Now I had this awful-smelling liquid oozing down my neck and back, trickling down my cheeks. I didn’t want to use the white hotel towels to mop it off, because what if they turned Sour Apple Green and my parents had to pay extra to replace them? So I stepped back into the shower for a second, just to rinse the extra ooze off my body.

  And there was nothing else to do but wait. I sat on the edge of the tub, checking my phone to see if Spider had texted me. But he hadn’t. So I watched puppies on YouTube for a bit. Then a baby hedgehog.

  “What’s going on now?” Ava asked through the closed bathroom door.

  “Nothing. I put on the color a few minutes ago.”

  “With what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t use my brush, did you?”

  Bleep. The instructions said “Brush in,” not “Pour on”! “Of course I didn’t! I wouldn’t just use your stuff, Ava. So anyway, now it’s just waiting.”

  “For how long?”

  “Well, that’s up to me. But I want it extremely bright green.”

  “No comment. You’re checking the time, I hope?”

  “Of course I am!”

  “You have something to read in there?”

  “Not really.”

  The door opened, and in walked Ava with the fashion magazines.

  “That’s okay,” I said immediately, holding up my hand like I was stopping traffic. “I don’t actually read stuff like that.”

  “Why not?” Ava sat on the edge of the tub. “Don’t be such a snob, Tally.”

  “I’m not! I know you like them, but truthfully I don’t get it. A bunch of boring girls wearing boring outfits—”

  “I think the outfits are beautiful. And how do you know those girls are boring? They could be musicians or incredible athletes—”

  “If they were athletes, they wouldn’t be so skinny. Those girls are starving—or else somebody made them look that way, which is even sicker. In real life they probably all have zits and overbites. And actual bellies—”

  Ava groaned. “Oh, Tally. Do you ever shut up? And for your information, the articles are brilliant.” She flipped open ModeJunior to an article called “Ten Paths to POWER (When You’re Too Young To Vote).”

  “All right,” I said. “That looks sort of interesting, I guess.”

  “There’s also this cool feature every month called WILAM—What I Like About Me—and readers write in weird stuff about themselves, like the fact that their eyes are crossed or they have outie belly buttons.”

  “Okay, that’s cool. But the models are still super creepy. They look like starving aliens.”

  “Fine.” Ava stomped out of the bathroom. “Don’t read my magazines. I was just trying to be nice.”

  “Thanks, though,” I called after her, but she didn’t answer.

  I sat there for a few more minutes, seeing tessellations in the floor tiles. Finally I couldn’t stand the sticky, oozy-neck feeling any longer, so I stuck my head into the sink and rinsed the
dye out.

  “Behold,” I announced, as I stepped out of the bathroom.

  Rescue

  “ARE YOU SURE THAT’S SOUR apple?” Ava asked. Her eyes were huge.

  “Definitely. Why, it doesn’t look appley to you?”

  “Not . . . incredibly. But your hair is still pretty wet, right? It needs to be dry to get the whole effect. You should borrow my blow-dryer. And I have some other hair products you should probably use too.”

  I thought about all of Ava’s bottles on the edge of the sink. No way was I going to spend even more time on this endless hair stuff, which was worse than baking bread, worse than a seven-layer cake. “Thanks,” I said firmly. “But I’m done. I’ll just blow-dry it now. As is.”

  “Are you sure?” Ava said. “Because it’ll come out fried without conditioner.”

  “I’m totally, completely positive.”

  She shrugged. “Whatever. It’s your hair, Tally.”

  That was when I remembered the Rescue stuff. But probably it was too late to be Rescued, I told myself—and anyway, I wasn’t showing Ava I had any doubts. I plugged in her hair dryer by the sink and waved it first at my damp torso, then at my head. Again, my scalp was feeling hot and prickly as the hot air blew my hair dry.

  But at least now results were visible. Although under the bathroom lights, the color was confusing. Orangey at the roots, tree-bark mossy on the bottom. Not the Granny Smith green I’d been imagining. Not remotely.

  Also, my hair felt like straw. Old straw that fat horses stepped on.

  Ava came into the bathroom. “Tally, what—omigod. Your hair.”

  “I know!”

  “Does it say anything in the instructions? I mean about what to do.” She held the bottle up to her eyes. Then she scanned the bottle of bleach. But there was nothing she read there that she wanted to read out loud. “Tally, where did you get this stuff, anyway?”

  “Downstairs in the lobby. I just bought it like an hour ago. Well, more like two hours.”

  “You went to that little hotel shop? It looks so gross in there.”

  “I know, I know! But that’s kind of irrelevant at this moment, don’t you think?”