Thomas’s eyes didn’t leave Tallulah as he played his first song, and then his second and third. Even though the room was full of people, Tallulah felt like it was just the two of them. All of her worries melted away, because it was so clear from his words, his gaze, the music that flowed between them, that the moment in the rain had been real. This beautiful boy saw her—wanted her—like she wanted him.
After his final song, Thomas ignored the cheers and attempted conversation of everyone else, and strode straight up to Tallulah, enveloping her in a hug. She took his hand and led him outside, the night brightened by a full moon.
“I didn’t know . . . that you felt that way.” Tallulah sighed. “The other day . . . I thought it might just be me.”
“Don’t you see?” Thomas said, wrapping his arms around her. “Ever since I moved here . . . it’s always been you. It always will be you, Tallulah.”
Then he pressed his soft lips against hers.
Chapter Four
I wake up at five a.m. On purpose.
It’s not because I’m a morning person. I’m not. And it’s not the excitement or anxiety I feel about the first day of school.
It’s because I have to do my hair.
I’ve spent the past sixteen years figuring out how to do my hair. With a white mom, it didn’t come natural, but she did a better job than most. She never sent me out of the house with frizzy messes that would make old Black ladies at the grocery store purse their lips and shake their heads. No, she studied my aunties and my granny when we would visit them in Georgia, taking notes and asking questions as if she was working on her thesis. And she learned how to sculpt my hair into perfectly conditioned puffballs and braids laid straight and even on my scalp.
When I started sixth grade, I begged Mom to let me press my hair. She resisted. She never let me relax it growing up, even though all my cousins did and my granny suggested it a few times. The chemicals didn’t feel right to her, and “Your hair is beautiful just the way it is,” she always used to tell me. But I wanted my hair straight. Straight and smooth—like Meghan Markle. Of course, I didn’t know who the heck Meghan Markle was back then, but when I saw all the frenzied royal wedding coverage a couple years later, it was the first thing I thought. That. That is what I was going for.
I never really got it, though. Mom eventually gave in and took me to the shop every two weeks to get my hair freshly pressed. And she even let me use the relaxers that burned my scalp but made it possible for me to stretch out my appointments even further. But I never quite achieved the Meghan Markle dream. I always had bangs that frizzed every time I sweated and ends that broke off and refused to grow.
I pull the satin cap off my head and survey what I’m working with this morning. My hair is short now. Just a couple inches. And it’s not straight anymore. It’s curls that are wild and infuriating and exhilarating and magical, all at the same time.
After studying natural hair accounts on Instagram and watching beautiful curly-haired girls on YouTube for months, I finally did the Big Chop in June—cutting off all my processed hair and leaving an inch of my natural pattern, the promise of something new. I felt less scared knowing that I was going to a new place, that I would be starting over at Chrysalis, where people wouldn’t know the difference and notice or, even worse, comment.
I thought it would be more convenient. I could jump into the pool when I wanted to and I didn’t have to worry about the rain. But I wasn’t suddenly overwhelmed with pool party invites, and it doesn’t rain much around here anyway.
And I thought it would be easier. I could just wash it and go. But a wash-and-go, I’ve learned, does not involve simply washing and then going. It’s washing and conditioning (sometimes deep conditioning), detangling and conditioning again, smoothing and rubbing, oiling and gelling. It’s a process. A ritual. It’s the reason why I’m up at five a.m.
I’ve tried doing my wash-and-go at night, like the natural hair influencers on YouTube suggest, but when I go to bed with my hair wet, I wake up with a troll doll situation going on—hair flat on the sides and exploding on the top. And it never looks right when I dry it with a diffuser . . . it gets all poofy on the back of my head like a poodle. So I planned to wake up early enough to let it air-dry this morning, to ensure I could have the perfect Day One hair on the first day of school. And today is going to go exactly according to plan.
I wash my hair first and then condition, finger detangling as I go. It’s hard to maneuver around the tiny shower in the bathroom that Miles and I share. Every minute, an elbow or a knee seems to collide into the many bottles lining the edge, knocking them on my toes and making me curse.
After I’m finally done, I step out of the shower, place a towel over my shoulders, and then divide my hair into four sections so I can start raking in my current rotation of creams and conditioners. I have to handle each section differently, delicately, because while most of my hair is 4A, the very top is more 4C, and the right side is definitely 3B. They each have their own specific hand movements and saturation of products to get the curls all uniform.
Like I said, it’s a process.
Someone bangs on the bathroom door, making me jump and drop the tub of cream styler that smells like roses on the orange shag rug. I scoop it up frantically like it’s my child—that stuff is too expensive to waste.
“Tessie, let me in! I have to goooooo!” Miles’s muffled voice comes through the door, and he bangs on it some more.
“Not right now. Use Mom and Dad’s!” If I step out now, he’ll be in here for who knows how long, and then I’ll be all off schedule. Usually I would just let him in. But not today.
“But I really have to go! Please!!!!”
“No,” I say firmly, and he squeals and screams as he runs off to the other bathroom in the house. I feel guilty because he’s going to wake Mom and Dad up and I may have triggered a tantrum, but I so rarely do what’s best for me. I’ll apologize at breakfast, and it’s just today, I tell myself. Because today, like my hair, will be perfect.
After patting my hair dry, I go back to my room, text Caroline a string of emojis to say good morning, and put on the outfit we finally decided on last night: an off-white lace shift dress with a medallion pattern, tiny gold hoop earrings, and pointy tan mules.
The dress will contrast with my skin, making it glow when I sit outside for lunch, and the golden highlights in my hair will shine like a halo in the SoCal sunshine. And a boy, maybe one who caught my eye in the hallway earlier, will see me sitting there, sun goddess incarnate, and come over to talk. And on our first date, he’ll bring me roses the same exact shade of cream as my dress, because the image of me from that day is still singing in his brain. And it will until our wedding day, years later, after I’ve published my first book and he’s put out his first solo album (he’s a musician, of course), and yeah . . . that’s good. I’m gonna type that up later.
I can hear raised voices through the closed door—Miles’s yelps and Dad’s stern directives and Mom’s placating coos—but I don’t go out to see what it is. I plant myself on the bed, letting my hair dry and reviewing my schedule for the millionth time. I don’t want to get sucked into whatever crisis is happening and mess up my chances for a good day.