Page 12 of Crash into me
“Fiji.”
I don’t believe that. “And you didn’t want to go toFiji?”
She returns to her magazine, licking her manicured finger to turn the page. “Believe it or not, Skyler, I wanted to stay with you.”
Again, I don’t believe it. “So, you guys want to watch me,” I decide.
She shakes her head. “No,” she says with a sigh. “Do you want me to leave?”
I think about this for a moment, I’m obviously not going to tell her to go, but this is so … abnormal. We’re never alone together. “Are you wanting to like … hang out?”
A smile brightens her features. “We just got a new heater for the pool if you’d like to swim later?”
I’m in a bit of shock; this has never happened.
Typically, it was always me and Kate lounging by the pool. I mean, it is beautiful. All of our property is, but it’s rotted underneath. Rotted, because they make this place look perfect, but it’s all a bunch of decay.
“That would be nice.” I look down at my scars. “Do you think it’s okay for me to get in?”
She looks at me with what seems like a mother’s expression of worry, and her fingertips brush against one of my healing wounds. “It’s a saltwater pool, so it should be good for it, I would think.”
“Well, let me go grab my swimsuit then.” I smile. Should I invite Kate? Maybe not, I mean … we’ve never done anything like this, Mom and me. Maybe it will be fun.
“Oh,” she adds, “first we need to go to your appointment.”
“What appointment?” I wonder.
She frowns, then gestures to my hair. “We need to get that out of your beautiful blonde hair.”
“Oh,” I reply numbly, grabbing my faded red streak. That night with Foster was full of laughter and love. “So that’s why you stayed?”
She coughs, growing irritated. “I could have just as easily sent a hairdresser here while I sat on a beach somewhere, but I didn’t.”
She’s not wrong. “Do I have to?”
She nods, standing up from the table. “Yes, a new hairstyle will make you feel so good!” She pulls her fingers through her freshly curled, highlighted locks. “It always makes me feel better.”
“We are not the same.” I breathe. My heart races as the words come out, but I know she won’t hit me. She leaves that for him to do.
She laughs it off. “Get dressed.”
I slide against the marble floors and up the winding mahogany steps towards my wing of the house.
I really, really don’t want to do this. But I’m thankful my quick movements don’t hurt as much anymore, just a little pain to go with living. Fitting.
We take her Bentley to the salon, an extravagant place that has floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I long over them, wishing I could twirl in front of them in ballet slippers, versus stripping my identity from my hair.
I look at my mom’s reflection; I’m a spitting image of her.
“Oh, darling,” The thin, older woman grips the faded streak in my hair. “We’ll get this fixed right up.” She throws a smock over me, pulling out her shears. “A few inches off and blonder. Is that good?”
I nod absentmindedly, unable to cope or think. My reflection is getting to me, toying with me.
There’s the door. You’re about thirty minutes from where Foster lives. Go to him.
My fingers dig into the salon chair as she trims my hair. Mom makes sure to tell everyone why I look the way I do, the scrapes and all, but she announces that it was in a crash in a Range Rover, not a motorcycle.
“Out of school for the summer?” the woman asks as she chop, chop, chops.