This is what I wanted…

Funny how when I imagined this in high school, I wasn’t sitting alone in my room, staring at my packed bags and wishing for time to speed up so I could return home faster.

I was going to take a shower, freshen up before I could finally call a cab to take me to the airport, but I had a feeling something was…off. I’m meticulous. It drives my sister nuts, which is weird, because I probably get this trait from my father, and Cass is so much more like our father. This one trait seems to be the one thing I got from him that she didn’t.

When I grabbed my basket from under my sink, I noticed the bottles were out of order. Honestly, if someone took the time to put them back as they found them—I may have never noticed. But they didn’t, whoever they are; and I did notice. I unscrewed the cap on my conditioner first, pouring a little over my fingertips, rubbing them together and sniffing. Everything there seemed normal, so I did the same with the shampoo. I thought I was being crazy until I felt the tingle on my palm.

It’s been exactly thirty minutes since I’ve done the test on the small strip of hair I clipped from the back of my head, and the longer I wait, the more washed out that color becomes—the gold dissolving and whiteness taking over. The chemical smell is faint; whoever did this—they knew what they were doing.

Ashley walks by my room quickly while I’m cleaning off the small strip I’ve bound together, dipping it in a cup of cold water and holding it to the light just to confirm it’s different.

“Hey, come in here,” I say, not bothering to look at her as she passes. She’ll either stop, or she won’t. I half expect both.

“Oh…you’re still here,” she says; those words hit me in so many ways.

“Uh huh,” I say, now flattening the strip of hair on a paper towel at my desk, folding it over to dry it well. I hold it up again against my own hair, noticing the massive difference in shades. Even though I’m not really focusing on Ashley’s face in the background, I see her swallow. With a slow blink, I change my focus, reopening my eyes on her. I have found one of they.

“Bleach…or something else?” I ask. Ashley takes in a quick breath, preparing to lie.

“What?” she asks, exaggerating her pinched brow.

Looking to the side, I let out a sigh. She’s never going to own up to her part, let alone throw Chandra under the bus with her. “Never mind,” I say, tossing the hair back on my desk and turning my attention to my bags and belongings.

Ashley lingers for a few seconds, but finally lets her balance fall back toward the hall. Her coyness pisses me off. I can’t help but cast one more line to see if I can catch her.

“Hey,” I say, and she pauses. I walk toward her with my small basket of hair products, holding it out to her. Her eyes grow a little wider, and she sucks her bottom lip in. “My flight leaves soon, and I’m not packing these. It’s expensive product…if you wanna use the rest.”

Her eyes flash to mine, and for the first fraction of a second, there is panic. But frostiness takes over. “I think we both know I don’t want any of that,” she says, tapping her finger over the bottles. Her lip curls into a smirk, a sign she’s telling me without telling me—giving me a warning, and also letting me know whose side she’s on.

I breathe in deeply, filling my chest, my lips pushed together tightly, and my eyes never once leaving hers. Her newfound power and confidence trying to stand against mine. “No, Ashley. I suppose you’re right,” I say, letting my lips slide into a smirk. “You don’t want any of this.”

Her pupils give her away. I know as tough as she’s being in front of me, she’s scared shitless of choosing wrong. I don’t like her enough to tell her it’s too late, she better cling to Chandra with all she’s got. Once you burn me, you don’t get back in. That’s how my circle works.

She slides her hand along the edge of my desk as she turns to leave, pulling the knob of my door behind her, and shutting me off from the world on the other side. I don’t let my smile slip until I hear the door click. But when it does, I allow myself to feel the rejection.

My fingers work on their own accord, scrolling through my messages, landing on Houston’s, and hitting VOICE DIAL before I’m able to really think it through. By about the fifth ring, I’m aware of what I’m doing, and I’m feeling foolish—readying my arm to pull my phone away from my head so I can hang up before leaving a really desperate message.

“Hey—” Houston answers, his voice sounding a little out of breath.