“He’s cute,” I say. It’s an understatement and we both know it. He’s gorgeous.
“We should double-date.” Whitney claps her hands together in delight at this idea.
“He already asked you? I didn’t know you already had a date.” I’m obviously confused. Of course Whitney Stone would have a date to the dance. Stupid me.
She laughs. “I don’t yet, silly. It’s still three weeks away.”
“But you will,” I say, slowly.
“Of course.” She says it like I’m brainless. “And you will, too. You’ll see.”
“What about Briella?” I ask. Whitney and Briella are still best friends, right?
“I imagine she’ll go with Wolf.”
“No, I meant don’t you want to double-date with her?”
“She can come with us if she wants. . . .” Whitney’s voice trails off dubiously.
Am I replacing Briella as Whitney’s new BFF? When Whitney’s friend-spotlight shines on you, it’s a whole lot of work.
“Lawrence will see you now.” Startled at the sudden interruption, I look up to see the blonde is back, waiting expressionlessly by the opening to a long hallway.
Suddenly I have no desire to see the mysterious Lawrence McIntire, but I’m committed now. All I can do is self-consciously tug down my comfortable, now oversized, brown sweater, pull up my baggy jeans, and follow Joy, the receptionist, down the long corridor.
The cream-colored carpet is so thick my tennis shoes sink into it with each step.
“You don’t belong in a place like this,” Skinny says.
In the room off to the right, a red-haired manicurist adds the final touches to a white poodle’s toenails as the tiny woman holding him looks on in delight.
“I think you were right, Monique. Misty Rose is just the right color for both of us,” I hear the woman exclaim as we continue down the hall.
Farther down the hall on the left, a white lab-coated attendant in pink high-heeled pumps applies cucumber slices to a reclining woman in a giant pink smock. Her face is covered completely with some kind of green mud.
“The process has begun,” announces Lab Coat. The green goo cracks slightly in what I assume is a smile. “Just wait. You’re going to be simply amazed at the outcome.”
Lab Coat looks up at us as we pass and frowns.
“What is someone like you doing here?”
I’m starting to panic. Idon’twanttodothis. Idon’twanttodothis. It’s all I can do to keep from turning and running back down the hall and out the front doors.
We stop at the end of the hallway in front of two closed, elaborately carved wooden doors. Joy grasps the gold brass handles and looks back over her left shoulder to see if we are following. Unfortunately, we are. After throwing back the doors with a dramatic flourish, Joy waves us into the room.
A clutter of scissors, brushes, sprays, and gels are scattered across a single table on the wall opposite the doors. A large barber’s chair is placed right in the center of the room. On the wall beside the doorway is the only decoration — a six-foot stuffed shark mounted with a mouth wide open and full of teeth, ready to gobble up anything that swims, or walks, by. There are no mirrors. I feel my left eye begin to twitch.
“Please make yourselves comfortable. I’ll tell Lawrence you’re ready for him.” Joy glides out, leaving us standing in the middle of the room alone.
But only for a few minutes.
“Whitney, my dear! How wonderful you look.” Lawrence sweeps into the room with a whirl of a gray smock, gathering Whitney into his arms for a quick hug. As he pulls away, he fingers a strand of her hair. “I think you’re due for highlights.”
“Not today. I brought you a present.” Whitney nods toward me, and Lawrence turns to focus all of his attention on me. I stay by the door, hoping for a quick escape.
Lawrence is over six feet tall, with a biker’s build. The sleeves of his gray smock are cut away at the shoulders, revealing bulging arm muscles circled with a tattoo of barbed wire. His thick black hair is well past his shoulders and tied back into a pony-tail with a brown leather strip. Bright blue eyes contrast sharply with at least a day’s growth of stubble.
“Turn around please. . . .” His voice is strangely soft, almost a whisper. He continues his scrutiny while I comply. “Not so fast. Slow down.”
Suddenly he stalks across the room and grabs a handful of my hair. He feels the texture and weight with one hand, his face deep in thought. To my astonishment, his eyes suddenly fill with tears.
“Look up toward the light.” Lawrence’s voice breaks. Is he actually going to cry?