I’m about to get out of the car when Hawaiian Shirt Sam stops me. “Wait.”
“Yeah?” Is he going to want to walk in together? My hesitation from this morning creeps back in.
“There’s, uh . . . there’s some white stuff on the back of your head. Like some hair stuff or something?” He rubs his neck and winces. “It’s just . . . I know you probably would want someone to tell you . . . so you’re not embarrassed.”
My whole face turns red as I feel around the curls on the back of my head. Sometimes the cream I use doesn’t get all the way worked in, especially if my hair is not completely dry yet. So much for the perfect wash-and-go.
“Did I get it?” I ask, turning so he can check. I’m equal parts grateful and mortified. But at least it’s just Hawaiian Shirt Sam and not some cute guy in one of my classes. I would have curled up and died then.
“Not quite.”
“Can you, like, help me? Um, show me where it is?” Desperate times.
“Okay, uh . . .” He lightly takes hold of my wrist. My heart speeds up. “I’m gonna move your hand to where it is. Don’t worry, I won’t touch your hair. I know that’s not kosher.”
That makes me giggle a little bit, breaking the tension. He moves my hand to the spot on my head. “There.”
I quickly work in the product some more, making sure to not lose the definition of my curls.
“Did I get it?”
“Yes. All good.”
I turn back around, and then I’m face-to-face with him, closer than I expected. I should be worried about how huge my pores look this close, or how he can see the cluster of zits on my chin. Those are the types of thoughts that usually spiral in my head when I get close to a boy. But instead I’m distracted. His eyes are the same exact shade of green as Thad’s, who used to be my favorite member of Dream Zone growing up. And there’s a sprinkling of dark freckles under his eyes, so precise they look like they’re drawn on. He smells like butter and sugar.
“Well, here we go,” he says.
“Yep.” I snap out of it. “I better get going. It’s late. I have to find my first class.” I jump out of the passenger side quickly, brushing muffin crumbs off my dress. “Thanks for the ride!” I call back to him. “Meet you here after school?” I basically sprint away, not even waiting for Hawaiian Shirt Sam’s answer.
I guess I can just call him Sam now.
Chapter Six
Turns out that academic classes are pretty much the same at Chrysalis as they would be at any other school, with the exception of my US history teacher, Mr. Gaines, trying to rap along his syllabus to the Hamilton soundtrack. It takes immense physical restraint not to roll my eyes.
The difference is the students, though. They’re nothing like the boring pod people I was surrounded by at South High (with the exception of Caroline, of course). I find myself getting distracted by everyone sitting around me, trying to figure out if the hippie-looking girl in a long floral skirt, with hair full of dry shampoo, is in the visual arts conservatory, or maybe instrumental music. The guy vlogging all of precalc until Ms. Hernandez makes him turn off his phone has to be in film and television.
Another thing that keeps grabbing my attention is just how diverse the school is compared to Roseville. The area got a little more swirl from when Caroline and I first met, but at South High, there was always at least one period in which I was the only the brown face. I am painfully familiar with being asked to speak for the delegation of all Black people in too many history-class discussions, with English teachers who barely spoke to me all year telling me with confidence, “You’ll like this one!” once we got to the one short story by James Baldwin.
At Chrysalis, though, I don’t exchange any knowing glances with the other brown people in the room because there are so many of them, in so many different shades. And though each teacher allows us to sit wherever we want, there isn’t the natural segregation that I always noticed, people sitting with people who looked like them, where they felt comfortable. When this happened, I always felt like I didn’t belong anywhere, white or Black or somewhere else. I always felt like I had to perform what each group expected me to be as a Black girl, so it was easier to just not try with anyone.
But apparently no one at Chrysalis has been informed of the rules. People seem to flock to those who share their passions instead: a group of girls doing scales in the corner before American lit begins, a pair in matching Slytherin robes looking like they’re on their way to their first day at Hogwarts. It’s amazing what a different setting six hours and a few freeways can bring. Here, maybe I can fit in with anyone.
When it comes to lunchtime, though, a lot of that “It’s a Small World” kumbaya positivity disappears, and I’m in the bathroom, panicking like usual.
Caroline and I always sat alone. We had our own little corner outside the D building, where the Wi-Fi was strong and we could pass the laptop back and forth in peace. Every once in a while, one of Caroline’s other friends from Yearbook would join us, Glory McCulloch or Brandon Briceño, but I liked it better when it was just us.
Caroline isn’t here to save me today.
I’m looking in the mirror, trying to calm my nerves and will myself to leave (because eating alone in the bathroom is a whole other level of pathetic that I’m not willing to reach yet), when a girl walks in.
I try not to stare, but she looks like a model. With dewy deep bronze skin, high cheekbones, and a perfect little mole under her right eye that looks like it was drawn on just so, this girl must be used to stares. She’s gorgeous. Plus her outfit is aspiration-worthy. She’s wearing high-waisted, wide-legged black-and-white polka-dot pants and a sleeveless chambray button-up tied in a knot at her waist. There are gold bangles up and down her thin arms, and matching gold wire woven through her long locs. A scarf, in bright shades of pink and orange and green, is tied over the top of her head, a complicated bow in the front like a crown. Her outfit makes me want to take a picture and start my own street-style (or bathroom-style) IG account, if that wouldn’t be so creepy. Of course, she catches me looking in the mirror.
“I love your hair,” she says, her bubble-gum-pink painted lips stretching into a wide smile. “Is that a twist-out or a wash-and-go?”
“A wash-and-go,” I say, smiling back.
“Man, I could never get my wash-and-gos to look like that.” She nods approvingly.
I’m about to say thank you, but that may seem snobby, like I know my hair is great and I have a big ego or something. And then I’m about to compliment her hair, but I’m worried it won’t sound genuine, coming right after what she said, and I don’t want her to think I’m a faker. I need to figure out the perfect thing to say to segue this little interaction into a lunch invitation, because this girl is the stylish, sophisticated friend of my dreams. But then her nose wrinkles and her eyebrows press together, and I realize I’ve been smiling for too long and not saying anything. And I can feel how awkward I’m making it, but I just keep smiling, paralyzed.
This is why I only have one friend. I can’t even respond to a routine compliment without spiraling into a panic.
“Well, see you around,” she says finally, giving me a sorta half wave before leaving, and I put my head in my hands and begin obsessing about what a complete social disaster I am.