Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 49 - GIRL ON FIRE

-----Betty-----

A week has passed since the hospital. Tomorrow, I have to go back to school.

I pull the blanket off and swing my legs over the bed. My toes touch the cold floor. I don't stretch. I don't yawn. I just stand. The hallway is quiet. The curtains are drawn. Light spills through them, pale and dusty. The house smells like garlic and soy sauce. The floor creaks as I walk. I find them in the kitchen. Dad is in a faded shirt, stirring a cup of coffee. Claire is beside him, smiling with her lips, not her eyes. On the table: pancit in a plastic tub, the clear lid fogged from the heat. A paper bag of pandesal sits beside it, already half open.

"Betts," Dad says. His voice has a soft edge, like he's afraid it might crack. "Breakfast? Claire brought pancit and pandesal."

Claire smiles again, the same way. I stare at the pancit. The noodles look pale. Too much oil. I stare at Claire. She's wearing pastel again. Her hair is tied back.

There it is again. That storm. It lives somewhere behind my chest. I don't know its name.

"I'm not hungry," I say.

I turn to the door, grab the handle.

"Mom's pancit is better," I add. Then I leave. I turned the ignition. The engine clicked, then growled. I reversed slowly out the driveway. Claire was still at the window, holding her mug like a prop, her face loooked worried as she is looking at me or maybe at my car. Dad didn't follow.

I didn't stop driving until their faces were gone from the rearview mirror. The streets were quiet. A few tricycles. People on the sidewalk walking dogs, carrying umbrellas. The sky looked undecided, half gray, half blue. I kept going. The salon wasn't crowded. A soft chime rang when I pushed open the glass door. Cold air blasted my face. The sharp scent of chemicals hit my nose, peroxide, hairspray, bleach. I walked straight to the counter.

"I need hair color," I said.

The stylist looked up from the magazine she was flipping through. "Oh! Sure, what shade are you thinking? Maybe something subtle? Like ash brown, or chestnut?"

"No. I want burgundy. Bright. With platinum highlights."

Her eyes blinked a little too fast. "Burgundy... with platinum? That's a pretty bold mix. It might come out really..."

"I said what I said."

"Okay," she said slowly. "Just making sure. It's going to need bleach. Your hair might get dry. You sure you want both done today?"

"Yes."

She scribbled something on her clipboard and motioned to the chair. "Alright. You're the boss."

I sat down. She tied a black cape around me and ran a comb through my hair.

"Did something happen? Usually people pick bold colors after breakups or... life changes," she said, casually.

I stared at the mirror. "I just want it done."

She nodded. "Fair enough."

The bleach stung a little on my scalp. My head smelled like a swimming pool. Three hours passed. The color clung to the foil like spilled wine and melted silver. When it was all done, the mirror reflected someone I didn't recognize. I handed her the bills. She smiled nervously, like she didn't know if she should say more. Outside, the sun had already shifted. I walked to the mall. Air-conditioning again. Neon lights. Perfume spritzers. Crowds. God, I hate crowds. Like I feel suffucated when I am surrounded by many people, smiling, laughing like they are mocking me.

I walked into a clothing store. Racks of skirts. Racks of jeans. I pulled pieces that felt sharp. Not soft. Not pastel. Black. Denim. Burgundy to match my hair. Graphic tees with jagged words I didn't read. I didn't try anything on. I just bought them. I left the mall with four brown paper bags. The handles stretched under the weight and left red lines on my fingers. One of the bags creaked as I shifted it to the other hand. Outside, the air was thick and heavy. It smelled faintly of gasoline and car exhaust. Heat shimmered off the concrete like invisible waves, warping the lines of the sidewalk. Somewhere, a dog barked. Horns blared in the distance. I walked past rows of closed stores, roll-down metal gates clattered as vendors shut for lunch. A little boy kicked a soda can across the pavement. The clink of it echoed after me.