I can’t go back to class with my hair like this. The teachers will know something bad happened to me, even if I deny it, and eventually they’ll figure out what happened in the showers of the girl’s locker room. Kayla won’t get in trouble. Evil chicks never do. But the others will, and I’ll have made enemies out of all of the It Girls, even the nicer ones who went along with this but didn’t really want to. Then Kayla will have what she really wanted—an army of spiteful little monsters, all of them looking for any way to make my life even more miserable. Kayla may not be book smart enough to be in AP classes, but I realize a few hours too late that she is a genius when it comes to malice.
I have to get out of here. Go home. Try to fix my hair before anyone sees. I’ll get in trouble tomorrow for skipping class—I’m sure Kayla’s aware of that—but there’s no help for it.
I run.
I’m fast enough that no one can see me although they would be able to feel the rush of air as I blow past them. Luckily everyone is inside their classrooms and I don’t cause a disturbance. I race through the empty hallways, vault over the metal detector at the entrance to the school, and I’m out on the streets.
This is the tricky part. Central Park West isn’t the easiest place to navigate at Scion speed; there are too many people and a collision is almost inevitable. If I were to collide with full mortals at this speed I could kill them. I only have a few blocks to go from school to home. I hurl myself over the bumper-to-bumper traffic, my arms and legs reaching and striding like I’m running on air, before I touch down on the opposite sidewalk. I leapfrog over the pedestrians and the stone wall before their eyes can focus on me, and smack down on the packed earth of Central Park.
Trees rush past, blurring. In seconds I’ve cut diagonally through the park and I’m at West 59th at the bottom of Central Park. I see my building and slow down to a walk. I can make it the last block at a normal pace.
People stare. They tilt their heads down as I pass, trying to see my face under the curtain of my remaining hair, like they always do. And they notice the hack job. Some even notice the red tear streaks on my cheeks. I push past them all, even the kindly ones who only want to help. I know from experience that if I give in and accept anyone’s compassion I’ll have a stalker the next day. That’s the worst part of my curse. Needing to act like such a bitch all the time.
Rich, the doorman at my building has spotted me, and waves. Now I can’t alter my face to avoid the stares. I should have thought of changing my face before I slowed to a walk, but ah well. Live and learn. As I come through the front door Rich notices my hair. His face is aghast. I put my finger to my lips as I rush to the elevator, my big doe eyes begging him not to tell. It’s unfair, really. I don’t like manipulating people, but right now I have no choice.
I get inside our huge penthouse apartment and hurry past my stepmother’s tacky gilded furniture, crystal chandeliers, and silk upholstered walls. I swear, my stepmother thinks she’s Marie Antoinette or something—if Marie Antoinette had a Texas drawl and an obscenely obvious boob job. I used to feel bad for her. It isn’t easy following my mother who, like me, had The Face. And then Rebecca, my stepmother, sent me finishing school. Any goodwill I had toward her went right out the window with that stunt.
I get to my room and rush straight to the bathroom. I have scissors under my sink and take them out. I don’t have many options with my hair so short up front. I have to cut it all down nearly to the scalp. I think about shaving it, but then stop myself. A bald girl will attract even more attention than one with severely short hair. When I’m done I realize I have the same haircut as Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby.
It looks good. Great, even. In fact, I probably look better with short hair because you can see all of my face and the fragile-looking curve of my neck. I look ethereal.
I am so screwed.
Frustration strangles me. I can’t get away from myself. It’s like I’m trapped inside a movie that I’ve been totally miscast for. I’m not a fragile doll, or a man stealer, or a bitch, or a temptress, or any of the one-dimensional characters people think I am when they look at me. I look down at the heart-shaped charm around my neck. It’s a powerful relic, handed down an unbroken line of mothers and daughters for 3,300 years. It can alter my appearance at will and make me look like any woman in the world, but it can’t make me comfortable in my own skin.
I dig out the make-up kit my stepmother gave me three Christmas’s ago. I peel the plastic off and open it. I gob on the black eyeliner, mascara, and shadow. I’ve never put make-up on before so I just wing it. When I’m done inking out my eyes and whiting out the red of my full lips, I turn to my closet. It’s stuffed with very understated clothes in the finest materials—lots of merino wool kilts, cashmere sweaters, and tailored couture blazers for private school in Massachusetts.
I hack the hem off one of my kilts, cut the neck off a soft T-shirt, and rip holes in a pair of black tights. My stepmother has a pair of black leather boots with tough-looking silver buckles on them. I get dressed and take the boots from her closet. I take a black leather jacket while I’m at it, and turn to look at myself in her full-length mirror. I’m still beautiful, but at least now my outside looks as angry as I feel.
I want to see some graffiti. I want something clever and dangerous in my life. Something that hovers right on the edge of dirty. I leave my apartment and go outside, my head held high. Well, higher at least.
The last time I saw one of those special tags, it was downtown around Greenwich Village. I head west and hop on the A train, planning to get off at Spring Street. I don’t like the subway. Someone always tries to chat me up, or worse, rub up against me. I stand with my back against the end of the car, glaring at anyone who comes too close. I think the eyeliner and the boots are working. People actually leave me alone for once.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of those special tags at the deserted end of the Washington Square station. I race to get off the train before the doors close. My heart starts pounding as I stride toward it. It’s gorgeous.
Big and bold, it’s a mural of a beautiful young woman. I slow down as I get closer. Her hands are bound and her head is shaved like a medieval martyr. She’s even wearing a crown of thorns, sticking cruelly into her otherwise smooth brow. She’s crying black tears. The stylized stenciling underneath the portrait says “Innocence Lost” in jagged, electrified letters. I stare at her face.
It’s me.
This is impossible. There’s no way this artist would have had time to make this mural since I cut my hair and painted my eyes. I just stepped out of my apartment ten minutes ago. Who did this? I look in the bottom right-hand corner of the mural for a signature and see the letter A. After the A is a 3-D rendering of a pile of jacks. A-jacks.
Ajax.
That’s a Greek name. A Scion name. There is no Ajax in my House, the House of Atreus. He is my enemy.
The paint is still wet. I have to get out of here right now.
The mural is on the downtown platform. I run to the stairs to go around to the uptown side, and as I’m striding up the steps I hear whispers. Sobs. My vision blurs with rage. Not anger, or frustration, but a white-hot hatred that takes my breath away.
The Furies are here.