by Malinda Lo
“Aw, that’s so sweet.”
“Sweet?” Reese was skeptical. “That I’m on the debate team?”
“That you think I look like I’m in a band.”
“Oh.” Reese felt a twinge of embarrassment. “Um, yeah. Well, pink hair?”
“Do you like it? I’ve had it for a while. I’m getting kind of tired of it.”
“It’s—it makes a statement.”
Amber laughed, and everyone in the vicinity turned to look at her again. “I can’t carry a tune, and I don’t know how to play a single instrument. But I’m good at dyeing my hair. How about you? Ever think of going pink?”
Reese smiled. “I can honestly say that I have never thought of going pink.” Amber’s smile turned into something of a smirk, sending an unexpected quiver through Reese.
“You should think about it,” Amber advised. Before Reese could come up with a response—she felt like she was missing something in the conversation—Amber leaned over and picked up Reese’s coffee, taking a sip. She made a face. “Ugh. How can you drink that?”
Reese let out a half-strangled laugh. “I put in too much sugar.”
“Do you want another one?” Amber started to get up.
“No, no, it’s fine.”
“Okay,” Amber said dubiously. “You want some of mine?” She pushed the frothy drink toward her.
Reese shook her head self-consciously. “No, thanks.”
Amber sat back in her chair, crossing her legs. “So, where do you live? I don’t know the city very well yet. Is there anything I should do while I’m here?”
As the morning progressed, they talked about San Francisco, its neighborhoods and tourist traps; the way the fog rolled in at night and turned summer into crisp, chilly autumn within minutes; the fact that cafés were crowded all day, even during the middle of the week when people were supposedly at work or school. But every time the conversation drifted toward the June Disaster or how it had affected the city, Reese found a way to change the subject. She didn’t know how she could possibly explain that she had been in a medically induced coma for almost a month. It was a little soon, she thought, to bring that up.
As people began to come out of the café carrying plates of sandwiches and salads, Amber pulled out her phone and said, “Oh my God, we’ve been talking forever! It’s past noon.”
Reese picked up her coffee cup and was surprised to find that it was empty. “I guess I should go,” she said, reluctant.
Amber stood, slinging her bag across her chest. “Yeah, I have to go too. But this was really fun. We should hang out again. Maybe you can show me around or something.”
“Sure. That would be cool.”
“What’s your number?”
Reese dug out her new phone and stared at it. “I don’t know. I just got this number.”
Amber laughed. “Here. Call me.” She grabbed Reese’s phone, their fingers brushing against the gleaming plastic, and quickly dialed. Amber’s phone began to ring, and she handed Reese’s phone back to her. “Great, I got it,” Amber said. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
She remembered the appointment with Dr. Wong, but she didn’t want to tell Amber about it. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Well, just text me when you’re free. I’ll be around.”
“Okay.”
“Cool! It was great to talk to you.” Amber dropped her phone into her bag and then stepped closer to hug her.
Caught off guard, Reese returned the hug awkwardly, their bodies pressing briefly together. Amber smelled like cupcakes, and long after she had waved and headed off in the opposite direction, the scent lingered in Reese’s memory: buttercream and the sweetness of sugar.
CHAPTER 14
After dinner, the phone rang. Reese’s mom looked up from her laptop and said, “Can you get that, honey?”
Reese had been loading the dishwasher while wondering what she should say to Amber tomorrow. So, you wanted me to call you? Hey there, tour guide reporting for duty? She dried off her hands and was about to pick up the phone when she saw the caller ID: Rick Holloway. Her father. She let it ring another couple of times—and caught her mom giving her a pointed look—before she answered. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, sweetie. I’ve been hoping to catch you. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” Reese said automatically. She took the phone out of the kitchen, heading into the living room where she sat down on the leather armchair.
“Your mother told me that she made an appointment for you to see Dr. Wong tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” Maybe she should offer to take Amber on a tour of Alcatraz or something. Didn’t newcomers to San Francisco want to do that?
“Well,” her dad said, “I think that’s a good idea.”
“Sure,” she said, half-listening. Then again, visiting a creepy old prison didn’t really sound like a great introduction to the City by the Bay.
“Have you been having any headaches or any other pain?”
“It’s not that bad.” What else was there to do? Fisherman’s Wharf? The only times Reese had been there were when out-of-towners came to visit, and they insisted on dragging her and her mom to see the disturbing pile of barking sea lions.
“I want you to watch out for them, though. Head injuries can have long-lasting consequences.”
“I’m fine,” she said curtly. An awkward silence ensued, and she felt a stab of guilt for not being friendlier.
Her father sighed. “You know, Reese, I want to be here for you. You can call me anytime. I know I haven’t been so great in the past, but I really want you to give me a chance. When your mom called to tell me about your accident, I thought—” He cut himself off and laughed bitterly. “I thought, What a dick I’ve been to you and your mom.”
Reese almost dropped the phone. All thoughts of tourist possibilities vanished from her mind. She had never heard her father talk like that before.
One of her most vivid childhood memories was of coming home from school during the third grade to find her mom sobbing on Julian’s mom’s shoulder because Rick—her husband at the time—had been discovered having an affair. Reese hadn’t entirely understood it then, but over the years she put together the story from overheard conversations and a few uncomfortable discussions with her mother. Her father, it seemed, was a bit of a philanderer. Reese had looked that word up in the dictionary when she heard Julian’s mom use it, and she remembered her mother’s retort: “However you dress it up, he’s still a cheater.”
Two years ago, Reese’s father had been profiled in the Seattle Times. It painted a picture of Rick Holloway as a successful entrepreneur who spent a good portion of his money on romancing young women. In an interview with the Times, he didn’t apologize for it, saying simply that he appreciated feminine beauty, and he was lucky enough that some women appreciated him too. The article had been published along with a series of photographs of her dad attending various galas, accompanied each time by a different woman. All of them were in their early twenties, beautiful as models, wearing skimpy dresses and heels so high, Reese couldn’t figure out how they could possibly walk. There was no mention at all of his ex-wife and teenage daughter.
Reese remembered reading the article online in her room, door closed, hoping that her mom never, ever saw it.
“I want you to know that I love you,” her father continued over the phone. “And I hope you can find a way to forgive me.”
In the silence, she could hear him breathing. Waiting. Her fingers tingled as she held the phone so gingerly, it could have been a bomb. “Dad, I—” She didn’t know what to say.
“I know I just laid that on you. But remember what I said, and believe me. I mean it.”
She took a breath. “Okay.”
“I’ll let you go now. Call me whenever, all right?”
After they hung up, she sat there, stunned, cradling the phone in her hands and studying the edges of the coffee table. The wood was a little beat-up from where she had crashed into
it several times as a kid on her Big Wheel, which she shouldn’t have ridden in the house but did anyway.
Her mom came into the living room and sat down on the couch. “Are you all right?” she asked, reaching out to take the phone away from her.
“Yeah. He—he apologized to me.”
“Well, that’s something.”
Reese looked up at her mom. She was wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a tentative smile. “Has he ever apologized to you?”
The smile disappeared. “Yes. He has.”
“Do you forgive him?”
Her mom’s face paled. “Now that’s a different story. Some days I do. Some days I don’t. How do you feel about it?”
“I don’t know.” Years ago she had carefully constructed a mental box into which she stuffed all her thoughts and feelings about her dad. She had nailed that box up tight and tried to forget about it. Now it was as if her father himself had arrived with a crowbar to pry it open. Even though he had apologized, it didn’t make her feel better. It made her remember all the times he had screwed up and not apologized. All those times she had heard him tell her mother she was overreacting instead of admitting that he had done something wrong. Her head began to tighten, and Reese rubbed a hand over her forehead, closing her eyes.
“Well, you don’t have to figure it out tonight.” Her mom glanced at her watch. “In fact, it’s getting late. Why don’t you sleep on it and see how you feel in the morning?”
Reese had been keyed up before the phone call—all nerves, running through a hundred different options for tomorrow—but now sleep seemed like a brilliant idea. When she was asleep, she wouldn’t have to think about anything her father had said.
CHAPTER 15
She woke up with the haze of the dream hanging over her: red streaking down golden walls that were gently heaving like lungs. Her mouth was fuzzy and her head throbbed, making her feel clumsy and heavy as she got out of bed.
Her father. The memory of his phone call rose up unbidden, and she groaned. She didn’t want to think about him. One apology didn’t make up for the past. She threw off the sheets and headed downstairs, hoping coffee would clear her head.
Her mom had left a note on the coffeemaker: I’ll be home at 11:30 to take you to Dr. Wong.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and saw her phone sitting on the counter nearby. She was going to call Amber today, but she still hadn’t figured out what to say. She felt as if she were taking a step down a new path, one she hadn’t planned on and therefore had no map for. She normally didn’t make friends easily, but this was… different. She wanted to call Amber. Anticipation sparked in her. But she would wait until after the doctor’s appointment. She didn’t want to seem too eager, although she wasn’t entirely sure why.
Her stomach growled. She had been so hungry since she got back. She took out eggs and bread to make herself breakfast, and her mouth watered as she melted butter in the pan, dropping in the eggs with a sharp sizzle. When they were cooked over easy, she layered them on top of toast and sliced in, watching the yolk ooze out in an orange slide of viscous liquid.
Exactly like her dream.
Her head started to pound so hard, she dropped the fork onto the plate, splattering the yolk all over the table. She doubled over, her stomach threatening to flip inside out as sweat rose on her skin. What is going on with me? One minute she was fine, and the next she felt like she might vomit. She took several quick breaths, trying to calm herself down. When she felt stable enough to stand, she made her way to the first-floor bathroom and pulled out a bottle of ibuprofen, washing down three pills with water from the faucet that she cupped in her hand.
In the mirror she was wild-eyed, water dripping from her chin. She wiped her face off with the towel and ran a hand over her tangled hair. She was still hungry, but she didn’t think she could eat those eggs anymore.
“Overall, you seem very healthy to me,” Dr. Wong said.
Reese was sitting on the paper-covered exam table dressed in a flimsy hospital gown that fastened with Velcro. As she shifted in place, the paper beneath her rustled. She stared at Dr. Wong. “I’m… fine?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a relief,” Reese’s mom said. She was seated in the chair by the door.
“What about my headaches?” Reese asked.
“You could have post-concussion syndrome. Have you been feeling irritable or emotional lately?”
Reese was startled. “Yes.”
Dr. Wong nodded. “Those are symptoms of PCS, which isn’t unexpected, since you’ve suffered a brain injury. We’ll have to keep an eye on that. I’m going to send you down to the lab to draw some blood, and I’ll run some tests.” She handed Reese a form. “Meanwhile, why don’t you start keeping track of your headaches, and I’ll check in with you again when we get the test results next week.”
After Dr. Wong left, Reese got dressed. “Well, I’m glad we did this,” her mom said. Reese didn’t answer; she’d have to look up that PCS thing later on. Could that really explain what she had been feeling? “Let’s go down to the lab,” her mom said. “I have to get back to work soon, but I’ll drop you off on the way.”
All the way home, Reese felt the press of her phone in her pocket, silent and still. She didn’t know what she would say to Amber, and the uncertainty was making her increasingly jittery. Upstairs in her room she turned on her computer instead, checking the Hub for messages from David, but there was nothing. Her stomach sank. She sat on the edge of her bed and swept her finger over the touch screen on her phone, pulling up Amber’s number. She settled on something simple, and texted: Hi. What are you up to?
When she hit Send, the fact that she would have to wait for an answer from Amber too almost made her physically sick. Impatience gripped her like a fever, and she began to pace back and forth. But it was only a few minutes before her new phone rang, playing an extremely loud and obnoxious melody. She hadn’t yet set the ringtones. She silenced it and saw the message on the screen: Nothing much. Wanna come over and hang out? I’m at 659A Sanchez.
Reese couldn’t breathe for a moment. She tapped back: OK. And then she stood there in the center of her room and realized she had now committed herself to going over to Amber’s house. Heat flushed her skin. She had to change; she couldn’t wear the ratty old T-shirt she had worn to Dr. Wong’s office. She went to her closet, flipping through shirts and skirts and pants. She put on a new pair of jeans, then decided they looked too new. She pulled on a pair with a hole in the knee. She laced on her blue Converse sneakers and then stood in front of her closet to assess her sorely inadequate collection of tops. Why did she only seem to have worn-out Cal shirts, or tees screen-printed with the names of obscure bands that made her look like a pretentious idiot? She finally settled on a plain blue ringer tee and a hoodie for when the fog rolled in. She stopped in the bathroom and examined her reflection.
She needed to brush her hair. When she finished, her hair looked smoother, but it was too long. Irritated, she pulled it into a ponytail. That was better. Her eyes had dark smudges beneath them—she hadn’t been sleeping well recently—but there was nothing she could do about that. She thought it would look ridiculous if she put on makeup. But she did put some lip balm on. She shoved her phone and her wallet into her pockets and ran downstairs, grabbing her keys from the hall tree as she left.
Amber was staying in her uncle’s top-floor flat on the crest of Sanchez Street west of Dolores Park. She answered the door in a white tank top with a towel around her neck, her hair damp with some kind of pale blue cream. “Hi!” she said brightly, giving Reese a stiff-armed hug. “I don’t want to get this stuff on you. I’m bleaching my hair. Come on in.”
She headed upstairs, and Reese followed, shutting the front door behind them. Amber was barefoot, and her jeans hung low on her hips. Reese saw the tops of Amber’s blue polka-dotted underwear peeking out. She caught herself wondering if Amber’s bra matched and then blushed furiously. She tried to focus on climbing th
e stairs without tripping on her suddenly shaky legs.
The flat was furnished in the kind of pristine minimalism that reminded Reese of photographs in decorating magazines. The stairs led into a wide front living room with windows overlooking the street. The floor was made of some kind of expensive-looking dark wood, and there were only a few items of furniture. A modern, rectangular sofa in a nut-brown suede; a glass-and-steel coffee table; a white shag rug beneath. The back of the living room opened into a kitchen with stainless-steel appliances and slate-gray countertops.
“I’m in the bathroom!” Amber called.
Reese followed her voice down the long hallway that stretched from the living room to the back of the flat. The first door was half open and seemed to lead to Amber’s bedroom; Reese caught a glimpse of an unmade bed and blue curtains before she moved on. The second door opened into the bathroom, where Amber was bending her head over the tub with a detachable showerhead in her hand.
“Sorry,” Amber said. “This took longer than expected. I was trying to finish up before you got here.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’ll be done in a sec. What’d you do this morning?”
“Um, not much.” Reese watched Amber rinse off her hair, mesmerized by the sight of the blue coloring coming off in the stream of water. The droplets slid down Amber’s neck and dripped onto her tank top. Her bra did match.
When Amber finished, she toweled off her head and straightened up. “What do you think?” Her hair was no longer bright pink. It was now white-blond and sticking up all over the place.
“It’s… different,” Reese said.
Amber frowned. “Do you like it?”
“I—yeah. I like it.” It made Amber look older, more sophisticated. Then again, it was hard to look sophisticated with pink hair.
