It was lunchtime, and we went to school, because Davianté didn't want to miss a test in his fifth hour class. He offered to take me home, but that was the last place I wanted to be. He had a sad as an emo expression as we parted ways, like he felt responsible for me that I'm sure was unintentional. I pretended not to notice.

The lunchroom was filled with chatter and the smells of cafeteria food. I spotted Lan at our table in the back. She had the cutest strip of pink on the top of her black hair. Kim must have done it last night.

She sat next to Rachel and Vicky, our friends that we sat with at lunch. Vicky, with her hair in a side French braid, unwrapped a piece of cheese from a wrapper while Rachel recoiled. Rachel was passionate about a great amount of topics, such as why humans thought it was ok to eat and drink milk products. She thought cheese was gross, and Vicky thought it was funny to taunt her. Rachel was also preachy about women's oppression by the male species. She didn't shave, ranted about how women didn't belong to a men, and she didn't think women should have to wear shirts if men didn't have to. Vickie usually had a new book. She was a total opposite of Rachel, but they were the best of friends.

I was unsure of how Lan would react to my change in hairstyle, but I suspected she might not be thrilled about it. I took a deep breath and reluctantly strolled over. She scanned the lunchroom and looked straight at me, but I could tell it didn't register to her at first who I was because her eyes kept roaming, and then I saw her do a double take.

I opened my arms and smiled as I came to her and gave her a hug, hoping to diffuse the situation. "I love your hair," I said, over her shoulder, then I pulled away to gauge her reaction.

Her shoulders sagged, and her jaw practically unhinged. "What did you do to yours?" Her voice as sharp as a razorblade.

My heart sank. "That was... candid," I said, trying to make light of the situation. "I... I decided long hair wasn't right for me." I stuttered.

She put her hand into a bag of chips, and shoved one into her mouth but didn't turn her disapproving gaze away as I took a seat next to her at the cafeteria table. "I call bullshit. You loved it last night."

People sitting at the adjacent table quieted down at how loud Lan was, and turned to stare at us. We had known Mary and Jocelyn since elementary school. They were the first to call anyone a whore that didn't meet their dress code, or that they deemed a "serial dater"—a girl that had a new boyfriend every couple of weeks.

Lan ran her fingers through the side of my hair that was shaved and bristled. "What on Earth possessed you?"

"I like it," Rachel interjected. "It makes a statement." She put her arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze.

I laid my head on Rachel's shoulder. "Lan, can we drop it? It's just hair." I turned my gaze to Mary and Jocelyn who were making ugly faces at me from behind Lan. "What?" I said sarcastically.

They rolled their eyes and turned their backs to us.

"For whatever it's worth," Vickie straightened her glasses and said, "I support your choice. I think it's wicked sweet."

"Thanks," I said.

Lan, still steaming, lowered her voice. "For real, why did you cut your hair?"

For a moment I thought about telling the truth, about how I had been thrown to the floor and sheared like an animal, but the truth made Courtney seem psycho. I didn't need to start any more trouble between her and me, and I wouldn't put it past one of my friends to mention it to one of the counselors. Besides, it embarrassed me to the nth degree for anyone to visualize Courtney punishing me. She told me I should be ashamed of what a bad kid I was, and that anyone I told would know I deserved what I got. She said good parents beat their kids while bad parents let their kids do whatever they wanted. I supposed this had some level of truth and that this was a common belief of adults which was why I never mentioned what Courtney did. "I just... needed a change," I said.

Lan scrunched her eyebrows together. "If you didn't like the hairstyle, you could have asked Kim to fix it."

Vicky pressed her lips together, and Rachel cupped her hand around the back of her neck as an uncomfortable forcefield mushroomed around our round table.

Guilt, like a thief, stole my innocence. Even if it wasn't completely my fauly, Lan didn't understand that. I had cheated on my hairdresser, and acted ignorantly without considering Kim's feelings after she put all that work into it.

"That's completely insensitive of you," Lan continued. "It looked great—"

"Lan!" I rested my elbows on the table wishing for mercy. I started to confess. "It was my mom..." but I couldn't finish the truth. The image of social workers visiting my house to question Courtney and me came to mind.

Lan narrowed her eyes and sat quietly judging me as I searched her face for thoughts. "What did your mom do?"

I didn't answer.

"There's more to this isn't there?" She leaned closer. "There's something wrong with her mental health."

Vicky and Rachel looked from Lan to me.

I shook my head. I couldn't give her reason to believe Courtney was at fault. "She has extremely conservative ideals," I said, and it was true.

"She's a right wing extremist," Rachel said, smoothing a piece of black hair that fell out of her messy bun. "We know."

"So, she's going to like this side shave better?" Lan said with sarcasm.

I shrugged, knowing she had me on that point. I had done it as a jab at Courtney but nobody needed to know that.

Lan widened her eyes like she had just gotten an idea. "Maybe if your mom started dating, she would have less time to control you. Have you heard of those moms that use their children as a replacement spouse? I mean, not in a sexual way, but in a psychological kind of way?"

"Yeah," Rachel said, "Like Dee Dee Blanchard. She refused to date and she used her daughter, Gypsy Rose, to get sympathy for donations and a disability check. She lied and said Gypsy Rose was younger than she really was so she couldn't date, and Gypsy Rose couldn't move out or live her own life because her mom pretended she had a life threatening illnesses." Rachel lifted her eyebrows dramatically. "So, Gypsy Rose met a boy online and convinced him to kill her mom."

Rachel's comparison alighted an inner fire.

"No!" I wrinkled my brow. "Neither me or my mom are that crazy."

Rachel shrunk.

Vicky shook her head. "No, you're not crazy." She shot darts with her eyes at Rachel.

"Sorry," Rachel said. "I know you're not. What I meant was, your mom has control over you like you're a horse, and she's the jockey."

"I've been at your house enough to know that your mom has some peculiar habits," Lan said. "Maybe something happened to her—something that made her the way she is with an undiagnosed mental illness."

Heat spread up my cheeks until they were on fire. Courtney was unconventional, but she was still my mom.

"I think it's your psychology 102 book that's up your ass," I said. "What makes you think my mom is mentally unstable?"

Lan spread her fingers out on the table. "She's paranoid for one thing."

I shook my head, rolled my eyes to the ceiling, and leaned back.

Lan raised her eyebrows. "She stares out the window watching people." She demolished another chip in her mouth.

That didn't seem weird to me. "That's how she's always been, and it's not that unusual-"

"She has all those locks on the door," Rachel said, "like she wants to keep someone out..."

I continued to shake my head.

"What about the time we were playing The Game of Life," Lan said, "and I asked how many children you wanted to have? She went crazy. Remember that?"

Vicky and Rachel nodded.

I remembered. Courtney went off on a tangent about how people shouldn't ask other people about life planning, because some people couldn't have children, and it was a painful subject. She told everyone to go home and not bring that game over again.

Rachel and Vicky avoided coming to my house after that. Lan was the only one willing to put up with being uncomfortable. "My sister died when she was a month old, God rest her soul," I said, "not to mention my mom had a lot of miscarriages before I was born. She didn't think she would have a child of her own."

"I mean, I get it," Lan said, "but that was before you were born. We were twelve years old, and she had a meltdown over a game."

She was right about that. I had never seen an adult behave like Courtney, but I assumed every parent had their moments that we didn't discuss. I thought back to an argument Courtney and I had when I was in sixth grade. She used to insist on getting me ready for school. She would wake me up and dress me. Then she would sit me in front of a mirror and comb my hair. I was like a doll she could manipulate. Then she would make my breakfast. She wanted me to look and act perfect. Eventually I had an epiphany. This wasn't normal, and at my age I should be doing these things for myself. When I mentioned I wanted to dress myself and comb my own hair she accused me of not being appreciative. She liked getting me ready. It was our mother-daughter time. For a while I let her continue to make her happy, but when I hit puberty, and I wanted my privacy. I got up earlier, before she did so I could get myself ready. She began to get up earlier too, until I decided to put my clothes on after she tucked me in for bed. Eventually I outsmarted her and she accepted my silent protest.

"She's constantly in your business," Lan said. She crumpled up her chip bag. "She doesn't have any interests of her own to keep her occupied. You are her only hobby."

I didn't know what to say. Lan had raised a question in my mind, but I wouldn't confirm her conclusion. And I could tell it was eating her up inside.

She sighed, then caught my eye again and tried a new angle. "Your mom gets angry when you go into her room."

This was true. One time I thought I heard a baby crying. It sounded like it was coming from Courtney's room. I opened her door and stepped in. Courtney smacked the snot out of me. I explained I thought I heard a baby crying and she told me it was probably the wild feral cats fighting outside. They got loud and made odd noises that could be mistaken for a baby crying. Soon after that she put the lock on her door. I mentioned the lock to Lan when we were younger and she comforted me with hugs. I suspected there was something Courtney didn't want me to find, private parent things, but I didn't know what. She was a private person. "That's not that unusual. I think a lot of parents have that rule," I said.

"She acts like she has something to hide. Do you think it's a mound of sex toys?" Lan had that ornery glint in her eye. "Because I doubt it."

Lan was right. I didn't imagine Courtney doing anything sexual. She was prudent and boring. I bet she didn't even own a pair of thong underwear. I rubbed my temples and tried to get the image out of my head.

Courtney had her weird obsessive behaviors, and Lan, Rachel, and Vicky had normal families that didn't intrude on every inch of their lives. Maybe Lan didn't understand that not every parent was the same... or maybe she had a point.

"You have to stand up to her." Lan's eyes bored into mine.

"Lan, it's not that simple," I said.

"If you can't, I will," she replied.

I imagined her coming over and telling Courtney off. That would be a disaster. Courtney would probably forbid me from hanging out with her just like she did with other kids my age that she thought were bad influences.

"Knock it off," I yelled. "Butt out of my life." Joslyn and Mary turned around to stare again. I smiled, trying to make it appear that I was just playing. I lowered my voice. "You have no idea what it's like, ok? You have a perfect little family with your parents, your Auntie, your grandparents, and they're all supportive of you."

Rachel and Vicky nodded.

Lan gritted her teeth, her eyes shot between each of us. "Is that what you guys think? I have everything easy? I have to get my driver's license after school today, because my family needs me to take over delivery driving for Auntie Kim so she can run her salon." She let out an exasperated breath that made her bangs fly up. "It's not what I want to do with my life, but it's been decided for me. They expect me to work and keep my grades up. They have my life planned out. They want me to get a business degree and help them run their restaurant and forget about being a psychiatrist. We can't go on vacation either, because we won't have anyone to run the restaurant while we're gone."

I frowned. "I'm sorry." Lan didn't have it easy. When she was little her parents didn't want to pay for daycare so they made her sit in the restaurant after school rolling silverware. She eventually convinced them to let her do chores at home, and she would be responsible alone while they worked late into the night.

The bell rang and Lan, Vicky, and Rachel gathered their things while I sat there.

"Aren't you coming?" Lan asked.

I hadn't decided what I wanted to do next, but I wasn't going to class, and students were not allowed to wander the hallways without a pass when class was in session. I grabbed my backpack and followed them out of the cafeteria. Vicky and Rachel turned into the science hallway and waved goodbye to Lan and I, and when we got to our class I stopped outside. "I'm not going."

Lan eyeballed me. "What do you mean you're not going?"

I shrugged. "I'm in a funk. I haven't been to a class all day and I don't feel like going now."

"You've never ditched before," Lan said.

She was right, I hadn't. "There's a first for everything." I backed away, waving.

There was surprise behind her eyes, like she had just witnessed my halo fall off. "Um, well... okay," she said, pulling her thumb and fingers down the straps of her backpack.

I slipped into the crowded halls, and considered going to the library to hang out, but then I found myself by the counselor's office, which reminded me—I needed to see my counselor. I pivoted into the office where the secretary sat behind a desk to my right, and to my surprise, Peyton sat in one of the seats. My body hummed with desire at the sight of him. He was bent over with his hand covering his forehead and his fingertips forged into his glossy hair while he stared at the phone in his lap.

I was startled by the secretary's voice. "Can I help you?"

My heart jumped into my throat. "Oh!" I leaned in and put my hand on her desk. "I was wondering if I could see my counselor, Mrs. McMillan."

"Have a seat, and I'll check." She swiveled toward Mrs. McMillian's office but was interrupted by the phone on her desk. She answered.

I turned to Peyton. There were two seats to either side of him and a row of chairs facing him. He sat up.

"Didn't we have ceramics together?" he asked.

I smiled back and nearly choked. Yes."

His lips were sexy—the way they moved—I wanted to kiss them, and his hair was long and brown with waves like pictures of Jesus', only he wasn't devout as far as I knew. He was once busted in middle school for selling Ziplock baggies of what he convinced other students was pot. It was actually oregano. He wasn't known for being honest.

He stared at the side of my head. "That's a bold haircut."

I ran my fingers through it. He probably hated it; after all, his hair was shinier, longer, and more luxurious than mine. If we ever dated—which would never happen because he was out of my league—but in a parallel universe where the girl gets the guy of her dreams, everyone at school would probably still compare his locks to mine and I couldn't bear that blow. I scooted back in the chair, and glanced at the clock out of nervousness as his eyes raked over me.

It was silly, but I felt I owed him an explanation. I looked back at him. He seemed to be waiting for me to respond, so I repeated what I had heard other women say when they cut their hair short. "It's light weight... easy to take care of."

There was a short pause. I squirmed as he watched me with those sensual eyes. "I like bold," he finally said. The corners of his pink lips gently curled up. "You must be confident and dauntless."

My hands flooded with warmth suddenly. Never had I expected to have my ego built up by my biggest crush a day after my hair had been mowed off. Dauntless—like my favorite faction in the Divergent series, which was what I wanted to be—but wasn't. I chuckled only because he was cute suggesting such a thing.

He leaned toward me, and I caught a whiff of his woodsy cologne. It made me want to edge closer. He unlocked his phone. "Are you on SnapStory?"

My happy thoughts vanished as I shook my head. If I had a phone, I would be downloading the app right now. This would end our friendship—before it even started. "I don't have a phone."

He paused for a moment, like he was made of stone. "Wow. Must be rough. How do you do it?"

I shrugged and was pleasantly surprised that he felt my pain instead of poking fun of me like other insensitive peers.

His forehead creased with concern. "What if there was an emergency?"

This was the question everyone seemed to ask. "I would ask someone to call 9-1-1 for me."

He arched an eyebrow. "What if you were being chased?"

"I'd better be quick." I didn't want him feeling sorry for me so I added, "I'll get my own phone... as soon as I get a job. I like being independent."

The conversation started to die and I tried not to stare at his gorgeous face. He spread his hands over his knees. His fingers were twice the thickness of mine, and his nails were trimmed short and neat. One of his knuckles was bright red, like it had been scorched.

"What happened to your hand?" I reached for it, but he pulled it away and sheltered it from my touch. I pulled back, embarrassed.

"I had a bit of an accident. The skin singed off." He examined it.

Compassion overflowed my heart. "Ouch. Does it still hurt?"

"No, it's fine." But it was clear he was only saying it.

"Were you baking?"

He laughed hard enough that his shoulders quaked. "I make candles actually. I was pouring the hot wax into the mold when I spilled some on my hand. If you don't get it off your skin quick, this is what happens." He held it up for me to see the red blotchy spot.

Suddenly, I spotted an opportunity to open up a larger conversation. "You make candles. What kind?"

"All kinds. Tapers, tea lights, pillars, votives, scented, just to name a few. " He rested his wrists on his knees and laced his fingers together. "I actually have one..." He opened his Rasta backpack and pulled out a blue lotus flower that fit in the palm of his hand. It was adorable.

I placed my palms on my cheeks and gawked like a child that had just discovered candy. "Can I hold it?"

He nodded and placed it into my palm. I was holding something Peyton had made, and even if it was only a piece of wax, I loved it. Just to hold it gave me a thrill that radiated through my chest. "How much?" I didn't have money, but I would get it somehow just so I could have the little trinket.

He winked. "Keep it." Then he leaned back and stretched, man spreading. I wondered if he did it on purpose, knowing I would feast my eyes on that space between his belt and his shirt where his belly button peeked out for a moment. He sat back up. His legs were long enough that his knees lifted higher than the seat of the chair he sat in.

I bit my nail, not wanting the conversation to end. "Is this your hobby or...?"

"Sort of. I sell them sometimes."

I stared into his eyes boldly. I had never flirted so hard but he seemed not to mind the attention. I hoped I wasn't making a fool of myself.

And then he said it.

"You should come over sometime. I'll show you how it's done."

Just the thought of being invited to Peyton's house made me gush inside. I told myself to calm down. Breathe. I was just invited to Peyton's house. I smiled. "I'd love to."

He seemed taken off guard by my forwardness. For a moment I thought I had come on too strong, and then he smirked at me—that expression that shows hunger behind the eyes that I had only seen in movies. "Later next week. I'll let you know when."

The receptionist called Peyton, and he gathered his backpack and went into the office, enticing me with his eyes as he went.

My face fell as soon as he was out of sight. How would I manage to sneak over to his house without my mother finding out? I didn't know, but what I did know was that this would happen no matter how tall of a mountain I had to climb—I would clamber over this Peyton conquest.