Chapter 1
ON JANUARY SECOND, I WANTED my hair to look perfect. So I pulled my hair through my big round brush and held the brush tight. With my other hand, I aimed my hair dryer, turned the heat dial to high, and switched the dryer on.
Thin strands of steam shot into the air as my damp hair sizzled. Sure, I could have let that section air-dry. Nobody was gonna notice it—it was on the nape of my neck. But I wanted to look like a beautiful warrior, and a beautiful warrior has meticulously styled hair.
Normally, I wouldn’t have fussed so much over my hair, but it wasn’t a normal day. Winter break was over, and I was going back to school to face my tormentors.
“Rebecca, you up?” Mom shouted from outside my bedroom door.
She was being ridiculous. Of course I was up. Didn’t the sound of my hair dryer prove it? “Yeah.”
“Turn down the music; it’s too loud.”
I turned down my iPod, even though it wasn’t blaring.
“I’ll be downstairs.” There was jumpy optimism in her voice, a mix of anxiety and excitement. I got why she was a bundle of nerves. Calm wasn’t an option after everything that had happened.
I dabbed finishing crème on my fingers and ran it through my hair. I’d been taunted, teased, and pranked until school became unbearable and I tried to commit suicide last year.
I survived. And at the urging of my parents and therapist, I returned to school to file a harassment complaint. But the complaint was dismissed, and the harassment continued. I transferred to a different school, only it wasn’t a school in the greater Boston area. I went on a study-abroad program in Israel.
Two weeks ago, I had come home from Israel a new me. But I didn’t return to school. It had been the beginning of winter break. I had spent the break preparing for the inevitable.
Well, it was finally that day: my first day back at school.
And the new me would have perfect hair.
Looking in the mirror, I was satisfied. There wasn’t a single hair out of place, not even a stray flyaway or split end. I swiped my bangs to the side.
There would be no hiding from them at school. They would see my face.
They were the kids who had tormented me, making school a living nightmare.
Black jeans and a plum V-neck sweater were laid across my bed. New clothes, thanks to Grandma’s generous Chanukah check. Once I dressed, I applied lipstick and mascara. Mom’s Chanukah present had been a trip to a trendy salon, where a stylist had polished my hair and makeup.
I pranced out of my room to the stairs. No need for Mom to worry. My makeover wasn’t limited to my appearance. I had reinvented myself on the inside too; the loser was gone, faded into a bad memory, hardly worth my time or energy.
The stairs creaked as I walked down. In the kitchen, Mom’s new coffee maker hissed. She looked up from her laptop. “Oh, Rebecca… you look stunning. Those honey highlights look great in your hair. Are you sure you don’t want to wear my black boots?”
“No thanks. If I need to kick somebody’s butt, it’ll be in my moccasins.”
She nodded at me. “Do you want to practice one last time?”
My stomach squeezed. “No, let’s go.”
Mom handed me my new phone, which had been Dad’s Chanukah gift. “Remember to hide it in your hand. Don’t let anybody see it. Stay composed, and don’t forget to turn it on. Don’t point it till you have to.”
That was my biggest concern. What if I forgot to press Record? I’d have to trap them again. And once they knew I was trying to trap them, they’d become impossible to catch.
I grabbed my coat. It was worn, the lining ripped from an unraveled hem. “They haven’t seen me for over six months. Maybe they’ll leave me alone?”
Mom knotted her scarf. “I hope so, but I can’t let you walk in there unprepared. That was my mistake before. Derrick’s parents are a piece of work. Denying he did anything wrong.” She put her hands into air quotes. “‘He was only
ON JANUARY SECOND, I WANTED my hair to look perfect. So I pulled my hair through my big round brush and held the brush tight. With my other hand, I aimed my hair dryer, turned the heat dial to high, and switched the dryer on.
Thin strands of steam shot into the air as my damp hair sizzled. Sure, I could have let that section air-dry. Nobody was gonna notice it—it was on the nape of my neck. But I wanted to look like a beautiful warrior, and a beautiful warrior has meticulously styled hair.
Normally, I wouldn’t have fussed so much over my hair, but it wasn’t a normal day. Winter break was over, and I was going back to school to face my tormentors.
“Rebecca, you up?” Mom shouted from outside my bedroom door.
She was being ridiculous. Of course I was up. Didn’t the sound of my hair dryer prove it? “Yeah.”
“Turn down the music; it’s too loud.”
I turned down my iPod, even though it wasn’t blaring.
“I’ll be downstairs.” There was jumpy optimism in her voice, a mix of anxiety and excitement. I got why she was a bundle of nerves. Calm wasn’t an option after everything that had happened.
I dabbed finishing crème on my fingers and ran it through my hair. I’d been taunted, teased, and pranked until school became unbearable and I tried to commit suicide last year.
I survived. And at the urging of my parents and therapist, I returned to school to file a harassment complaint. But the complaint was dismissed, and the harassment continued. I transferred to a different school, only it wasn’t a school in the greater Boston area. I went on a study-abroad program in Israel.
Two weeks ago, I had come home from Israel a new me. But I didn’t return to school. It had been the beginning of winter break. I had spent the break preparing for the inevitable.
Well, it was finally that day: my first day back at school.
And the new me would have perfect hair.
Looking in the mirror, I was satisfied. There wasn’t a single hair out of place, not even a stray flyaway or split end. I swiped my bangs to the side.
There would be no hiding from them at school. They would see my face.
They were the kids who had tormented me, making school a living nightmare.
Black jeans and a plum V-neck sweater were laid across my bed. New clothes, thanks to Grandma’s generous Chanukah check. Once I dressed, I applied lipstick and mascara. Mom’s Chanukah present had been a trip to a trendy salon, where a stylist had polished my hair and makeup.
I pranced out of my room to the stairs. No need for Mom to worry. My makeover wasn’t limited to my appearance. I had reinvented myself on the inside too; the loser was gone, faded into a bad memory, hardly worth my time or energy.
The stairs creaked as I walked down. In the kitchen, Mom’s new coffee maker hissed. She looked up from her laptop. “Oh, Rebecca… you look stunning. Those honey highlights look great in your hair. Are you sure you don’t want to wear my black boots?”
“No thanks. If I need to kick somebody’s butt, it’ll be in my moccasins.”
She nodded at me. “Do you want to practice one last time?”
My stomach squeezed. “No, let’s go.”
Mom handed me my new phone, which had been Dad’s Chanukah gift. “Remember to hide it in your hand. Don’t let anybody see it. Stay composed, and don’t forget to turn it on. Don’t point it till you have to.”
That was my biggest concern. What if I forgot to press Record? I’d have to trap them again. And once they knew I was trying to trap them, they’d become impossible to catch.
I grabbed my coat. It was worn, the lining ripped from an unraveled hem. “They haven’t seen me for over six months. Maybe they’ll leave me alone?”
Mom knotted her scarf. “I hope so, but I can’t let you walk in there unprepared. That was my mistake before. Derrick’s parents are a piece of work. Denying he did anything wrong.” She put her hands into air quotes. “‘He was only
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