The Difference Between You and Me(59)

“I don’t know….”

“No, a counterdance! A dance to end StarMart! This is the perfect idea! We can have it in the parking lot! Or in Huckle’s backyard! Or both! And we can have music and snacks, and people can give a dollar to get in, and we can gather all the money and donate it to someone, like to Arlo and Charlie for their new organization.”

“Arlo and Charlie don’t have an organization.”

“Not yet, but what if we raised a bunch of money for them? And they could use it to fight StarMart? This is an awesome idea, Jesse. Admit it: a counterdance is an awesome idea.”

“I hate dances,” Jesse says. “They’re totally gender-oppressive and awful.”

“Yeah, but ours wouldn’t be. Ours would be tolerant and open. We could invite everybody, not just the school. We’ll send an Evite to every single name on the petition! We can even put it in the paper and invite the whole community. Oh my God, I’m so excited, this is perfect. This is perfect!”

Esther has taken a little notebook out of her book bag and is writing something across the top of one page in big letters.

“To do!” she crows.

“It sounds like a lot of hard work,” Jesse says listlessly.

“Yes, I love hard work.” Esther is scribbling furiously in her notebook now, bearing down with her pen so hard that the paper tears a little as she writes. “Okay, so first category on the list: supplies. One, tent. Giant tent. No idea where we can get a giant tent. We’ll find out. Two, folding chairs. I have a couple, and I know where we can get some more. Three—hey, excuse me, what are you doing?”

Jesse is holding a fistful of shaggy blonde hair up off the top of her head with her left hand and beginning to saw away at it with the Swiss Army Knife in her right. “Haircut?” she explains.

“You can’t do it like that!” Esther puts her pen and notebook down on the bed beside her and jumps to her feet, appalled.

“This is how I do it,” Jesse says. “I cut my own hair all the time.”

But Esther says, “Give me that.” She crosses the room swiftly, takes the Swiss Army Knife from Jesse, snaps it shut, and puts it down on Jesse’s cluttered desk.

“You can’t cut your hair with a blunt instrument, it damages it. My mom would have passed out if she saw you doing that.”

“Your mom was into hair?”

“She was a cosmetologist. When I was little she used to see ladies privately at our house, for cuts and wash-and-sets and stuff. She used to let me take out their curlers when they were done sitting under the dryer. Their curls were all dry and hot and crispy before she combed them out.”

“Ew,” says Jesse.

“Yeah,” Esther agrees. “My mom always said that you can make someone a better person by giving them the right hairdo. She thought that a lot of people were depressed just because they didn’t know how to do their hair right.”

“It’s sort of true, though. The second my hair gets too long I feel kind of embarrassed by it or something. I feel grossed out. That’s why I started cutting it myself. I couldn’t wait around for my mom to take me to Styles by Felice every time I needed a trim.”

“Let me cut it for you.” Esther reaches out and runs her fingers through Jesse’s scruff-head, teasing it up and smoothing it down. It’s a surprising gesture. Jesse almost pulls away, but stops herself.

“You?”

“Relax, I know what I’m doing. You need to wet your whole head. And find me a pair of real scissors. No jackknifes.”

When Jesse comes back from the bathroom, head dripping, towel around her neck, and scissors in her hand, Esther sits her down in the desk chair and stands behind her. She towels Jesse’s head off roughly, making it flop around on her neck like a scarecrow’s. Then she says, “Don’t worry. This will only hurt a bit.”

“Short,” Jesse warns her. “Really short.”

“I know, I know. Really short.”

Esther moves around Jesse, tugging at her hair so hard that her head jerks back and forth in the directions Esther pulls it in. It doesn’t hurt, even though it’s rough, and Esther’s hands on her head are warm and strong. After a bit Jesse surrenders to the yanking and pushing. Her head gets heavy on her neck, and she starts to slip down a little in her chair.

“Tip your chin down,” Esther commands. Jesse does. “The last time I was touching somebody’s hair, I was shaving my mom’s head for her. That was a while ago.”

Jesse’s face is tipped down and to one side. She stares at her own chest. “Oh.”