Chapter Thirteen: Timeless by Rosaline Saul
I turn toward him, and I wonder if I should. I know I do not want to be at home when my dad fetches his things. I do not want to live through another fight. I do not want to see him walk out with all his worldly possessions and be left behind like an unwanted carpet. I say, “Okay, where do you live, north side or south side?” Here everything is determined by north or south.
“On
the north side.”
I think for a moment where I should meet him. “We could meet
at the mall. It is about halfway in between, I suppose.”
He smiles a pleased smile, and it dazzles me. “At ten?”
“Ten
is perfect. I better be off then.”
He turns away from me, hesitates and then turns back. He
says, “Heather.” His voice sounds imploring, almost like a prayer.
I look back at him curiously.
“Your
hair suits you. You are beautiful.”
I gulp and smile widely. Turning away from him, I can feel
his eyes burning into my back as I walk away feeling elated. Why would a boy
telling me I am beautiful bring such blissful ecstasy to my being? I have had
many boyfriends. Some I have pursued and caught, and others have made their
advances at me first and I had fallen for them. This is not the first boy who
has shown an interest in me, but I have never told a boy I love him, and I have
never gone all the way. Boys think I am easy because I am usually so happy go
lucky, but they discover soon enough there is no pot of gold waiting for them
at the end of my rainbow. I am waiting for that boy where I will feel the love
bubble out of me. Where I will be able to say I love you spontaneously, without
having to wonder if I should. Now, though, with me realizing there is no such
thing as everlasting, forever love, this will never happen. For-never will I
find true love.
That evening when I walk into the kitchen, my mom looks up
to greet me with her usual, “Hi. How was your day?”
She looks back down at the newspaper, not expecting a reply.
I actually see her hesitate and her mind rewind. She looks up again and pulls
her eyes together as if the harsh kitchen light is playing tricks on her eyes.
A deep frown furrows her brow, as she asks carefully, “Your hair?”
My hand comes up to my hair. I love the way the ends brush
across my fingertips. I say nothing though, as I wait for the explosion of
fury.
The night before, I was already in my room when she got home
and the one time when she looked into the room to ask me if I already had
dinner, my room was dimly lit, so she did not notice my drastic hair
transformation.
She stands up from her chair and walks closer to me. She
lifts her hand and takes a strand of my hair between her fingers. As if
touching it will confirm her suspicions it has gone from light brown to
midnight black.
“Why
Heather? You had the most beautiful hair. You cut it as well!” She exclaims as
if she just notices it.
“I
felt like a change. Black suits my mood now.”
She clicks her tongue. “Silly girl. Do you know how
difficult it is to get black out of your hair again? I’ll have to take you to
see Anna tomorrow.”
Anna is her hairdresser and gossip buddy. They meet every
second weekend so my mom can get a touch-up on her roots and a catch-up on her
gossip.
Trying to avoid going to see Anna and have her change my
hair, which I have grown to love, I say without thinking, “Dad is coming
tomorrow.”
Her face drops instantaneously. Her eyes cloud over with
sadness, as she pulls her shoulders square and steps away from me. “Oh, yes. I
forgot about that. How hungry are you?”
She dishes up our dinner and then for the next few hours I pretend this Friday is still the same as it always used to be. My mom and I are watching Gossip Girl, our dinner plates balancing precariously on our laps while we eat silently. My dad is working late as usual.
It is still dark outside when I wake up. I turn onto my back
and notice a dark shadow hanging in the top corner of my room. Opening and
closing my eyelids rapidly, clearing the sleep from my eyes, I squint my eyes
and look up at the corner again. The shadow is still there.
I reach my hand toward my bedside lamp, not moving my eyes
away from the dark gloom. I click the light on, and the shadow disappears. I
sigh with relief. Probably just the dark in the room playing tricks on my eyes
or the tension and stress from my parents getting a divorce is making me see
things.
I slide out of bed and tiptoe to the bathroom. I take a quick, hot shower, washing my hair as well and I wonder if I will be able to dry it as dead straight as Angie did.
When I am back in my room, I pull on a pair of black jeans and a black sweater, with a sharp V-neck. I sit down in front of my dressing table and then I start the process of drying and styling my hair. It takes me forever and when I finally give up, I realize hairdressers must have a magic wand or wrist. My hair is as straight as I will ever get it. I will have to invest in a decent hair-straightener.
