Page 19 of Beautiful Trauma
Eleven
Sergio shook the heavy conversation from his mind. “That was too deep, bestie. We need to do something ridiculous to cleanse our palettes before everyone else wakes up. Hey! Let’s dye your hair!”
“Are you on drugs?” I asked, making a face.
He gave me a pointed look. “I don’t do drugs, and I rarely drink. I’m high on life, baby!”
“We have nothing to dye it with.”
“We’ll get the driver to stop at a twenty-four-hour pharmacy. Come on, it’ll be epic!”
“This is going to take the rest of the night.”
“It’s all good.” He waved off the thought. “Sleeping is for the dead. I’ll tell the driver we need to make an unscheduled stop.”
“I’m sure he will love a detour,” I quipped, sure that he would not like this at all. That poor man just wanted to get to our destination so he could sleep.
Sure enough, Sergio got him to stop at an all-night pharmacy. We hopped out of the bus and headed into the store on a mission to dye my hair. Sergio bounced down the aisles the way Wyatt bounced around the kitchen when we baked cookies.
Sergio contemplated the collection of colors. “Do you have any boundaries here?”
“Nah. I’ll wear a wig if you make me look ridiculous.”
“Then I choose this one.” He held up a box of dye. The color was black but with a strong blue undertone. On my light brown hair, it was going to be a drastic change.
I crossed my arms. “If Eli hates it, I’m blaming you.”
“Nah, you’re gonna look hot. He’ll be thanking me.” As we passed by the candy aisle, he picked up some licorice before we checked out and headed back onto the bus.
Sergio wasted no time getting down to business. I grabbed some iced coffee from the fridge and mentally prepared myself for a zero-sleep kind of day. Sitting me in the chair at the table, he pulled the plastic glove-like things over his hands. “Can’t let these beauties get dye on them. Might freak out the ladies.”
As he applied the dye to my hair, he just started rambling about his family.
“Did I ever tell you about my parents?”
“No, Sergio. We haven’t discussed them. Why?”
“Their relationship is like a weird romance novel. My mom is Mexican. As in, she was born in Mexico,” he stated. “My dad was born in Italy. Neither of them spoke any English. They met at an English as a Second Language class.”
“That sounds… awkward. How did they communicate?”
“Poorly, that’s why they aren’t together anymore.” He chuckled. “But their bodies were doing all the talking, if you get my drift.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I think I can read between those lines, yes. So do you speak Spanish or Italian?”
“Not a single word. Wait, that’s a lie. I know some random words in Spanish. You bet your ass I know what a chancla is.” He wiggled his sandal-clad foot.
“Also known as the only footwear I’ve ever seen you wear.”
He spread the dye through my hair haphazardly around my head. “I don’t like shoes.”
Thinking about Wyatt and how he frequently kicked off a shoe in the backseat of the car, I said, “I bet you drove your poor mother crazy.”
“I was the perfect child!”
“Sure. The well-behaved kids always end up drummers in rock bands.” I rolled my eyes.
“Such a stereotype, Cee. I’m disappointed in you.” He gave my hair a playful tug.