At the Stars(8)

Here I am, miles from home. Still the same. Wasn’t going someplace new supposed to make me feel different?

I can’t sit in a hotel room all afternoon and evening eating muffins that are over-spiced with cloves and thinking about what’s wrong with my life. I have to do something. I have to take action, even if I don’t know what action to take.

With no plan other than getting away, I pull the door shut and pocket the old-school key. Then I freeze and spin at the sound of a scuff on the pavement behind me.

“Hey. It’s my new neighbor.”

I turn to find the ridiculously thin blond boy who checked me in standing halfway out of the doorway of the room on the corner. I guess “boy” is the wrong word. He’s probably at least out of high school, maybe even older than I am judging by his height and the tired lines around his mouth and eyes.

The guy is wearing long sleeves even in the late June mugginess, and skinny jeans with one of those rock-band inspired metal-studded belts. He reminds me of someone I would have known from school, from the clubs I went to on occasion on the weekends. A rare occasion. It was never really my scene.

“I guess I must be.” I smile at him, because in spite of my whole don’t-trust-strangers rule, he was the one who readily gave me a dirt-cheap rate on the room when Jake told him I was in a tight spot. Plus, I’m pretty sure he was checking out Jake way more than he was paying any attention to me.

He swaps his cig to his other hand. “So. I’m AJ.” He saunters forward, swinging his hips like a guy who knows he’s got legs for miles and owns that fact.

I wish I had his confidence. Or his posture, for that matter.

“Cassie.” I take a step and accept his outstretched hand. The handshake takes me by surprise, the way it’s firm but also sort of elegant. He gives my hand a squeeze and pulls me toward him rather than the standard herky-jerky up and down motion that most of us barbarians use.

“Hey. Does anybody call you Cassandra?”

Not even my mother did. I shake my head. “Nobody.”

“Can I? I think it sounds classier, don’t you?” He gestures from my messy hair down to my sneakers. “You’ve got old soul written all over you. Like a performer from another era. Just look at the way you stand. Those hips. Those shoulders. All that hair.”

Um. I lean back when he reaches toward me. I’m rubbing my tender scalp again, trying to tame the mass of waves he’s pointing to. “I... guess. Funny, I was actually on my way out to find a place to cut off all of ‘that hair.’ I’ve had enough of the maintenance.”

I’ve had enough of my old life, period. I keep that part quiet.

“Uh-huh.” He stamps out the smoke. “Change is good. I see it.” With that lilting agreement, he reaches up and tosses my hair with his fingers, murmuring to himself. “You could rock a pixie cut. You’ve got the face and the body. Or a cute bob. Shorter in the back, longer in the front. That’d be hot.”

“You think so?” The idea, the “new me” thing that sounded so good in my head when I walked out my door a few minutes ago, is now making my palms sweat. What he’s talking about is a lot of hair to whack off. I sort of hadn’t pictured anything so drastic. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

Then again, drastic is burying your mom, selling everything you own to pay for the funeral, and using what you have left to drive yourself across the country. What’s a super-short haircut?

“Maybe I could call you Cass. Short hair, short name. You’d look great.” He makes the statement appreciatively but matter-of-factly, still rustling my hair and moving it from side to side. Tucking it behind my ears. Parting it one way, and then the other. I get the feeling he’s more interested in my hair than anything else about me, but I’m not so sure I mind. It’s nice to have a problem smaller than my car or my mom to worry about—and let’s be honest, he had me at the studded belt.

I shrug. “Well, I saw a barber shop down on Main Street. I’m not sure they can do a pixie cut or an asymmetrical bob. I was just gonna have ’em, you know, take it shorter.”

AJ looks at me like I’d suggested giving myself a trim with garden shears. “You can’t go there. They’ll butcher you. Let me. I can do this. I have scissors in my room. Professional ones.” Spinning on one foot, he tugs me toward the door.

“Wait.” I tug back. He’s stronger than he looks, but so am I. “I have muffins in my room. From the bakery. You should have some. You can cut it over here, right?”

This guy looks so skinny. In a match between him and a stiff breeze, the competition would be fierce. I’ve gotta feed him.