Count My Lies

Chapter 17

17

That night, after dinner, my mom falls asleep with her plate in her lap, snoring quietly. Her chest rises and falls in slow, steady exhales. Careful not to wake her, I take the dish from her and set it quietly in the sink.

I don’t want her to know what I’m going to do. She’d look at me with disappointment, shake her head. She wouldn’t believe me that it’s different this time. It doesn’t seem different, but it is. It’s not like the last time, with the box of red dye, dye so red it stained our towels. My relationship with Violet is different. Different, different, different. Even with the discovery of the burner phone, I feel like I know her better than I’ve known anyone for a long time. She’d tell me to do it; I know she would.

In the bathroom, I hold the box to my head, like I’d done at Violet’s. It looks darker now than it did this afternoon, at least three or four shades darker than my current color. I hesitate, but only for a moment. Then I open it.

Thirty minutes later, I step into the shower to rinse the dye from my hair. It runs down my face, into the drain, black as ink. My heart beats excitedly. I did it. Steam rises around me as I imagine what I’ll look like when I get out. When the water at my feet turns clear, I shut off the faucet and wrap a towel around my head like a turban.

Quickly, I put on my pajamas and return to the bathroom to unveil the color. The reveal is markedly underwhelming. My hair hangs in wet, stringy clumps. It’s so dark it’s almost black, especially stark against my pale complexion, nothing like Violet’s soft, chocolatey color, warm and rich. It reads a little Wednesday Addams, which, of course, is not the look I was going for.

It’s too long, I decide. It would look better if it was shorter, like Violet’s. And it needs bangs.

Heartened, I reach into the drawer and take out a pair of scissors, then comb my hair until the front pieces cover my eyes. My hand is steady as I cut. The scissors close easily with a quiet snipping. Hair falls into the sink.

Then I gather it into two pigtails. Holding my breath, I cut about three inches off the first one. And the second. My hair lies in two big piles in the basin. I take out the rubber bands and wince. The right side is about a half inch shorter than the left. I cut a bit, then a bit more.

Finally, I put down the scissors. I stare at myself in the mirror. I want to cry. The length, as you might have guessed, was not the problem. Now, the color is wrong and the length is a mess. The bangs are jagged, too long, but I’m afraid to cut them any more and make it worse.

I should blow-dry it, but I don’t. Dyeing it took longer than I expected and it’s late, so instead, I run a brush through it and tie it in a loose low ponytail. Suddenly, I’m exhausted. Maybe it’ll look better in the morning, when it’s dry. Or it won’t.

Defeated, I climb into bed and flip off the light.

As soon as I wake up, I go to the mirror. I cringe when I see myself.

My hair is frizzy and matted from sleep. Now that it’s dry, it’s even more obvious that I did a terrible job applying the color; my roots are much lighter than the ends, some patches more saturated than others. It’s a shade or two too dark for my skin tone. I look pale as a ghost, my eyes rimmed purple from the late night like a tired raccoon. Like the girl from The Ring .

Sighing, I brush it into a high bun on top of my head. The bangs hang limply into my eyes. Truly fetching. I find a wide headband in the back of a drawer and put it on, pushing the strands out of my face. With the bangs out of the way, I put on a little makeup, use the brow liner Violet gave me, the concealer and blush from Duane Reade. When I’m done, I look marginally better, but not good. Ugh.

I walk out into the living room, then stop. My mom is in the kitchen, filling the coffee filter with grounds. I feel my stomach sink. I’m not ready for her to see my hair, to see what I’ve done. I consider darting back into the bathroom, waiting until she’s retreated to her room, but before I can, she looks up.

Her eyes flick to my hair, then meet mine. She walks out of the kitchen, crossing the living room to where I’m standing. She sighs, her mouth set in a thin line. “Sloanie,” she says, shaking her head. She’s seen pictures of Violet; she knows what this is.

I bite my lip, working the soft tissue between my teeth. The room suddenly feels stuffy, the air thick. “It’s different,” I say, looking down at the ground.

And it is. The last time I dyed my hair, it ruined everything.

I wouldn’t have made the same mistake again. I couldn’t bear it if Violet looked at me the way Allison did, slack-jawed, eyes rounded, horrified by the sight in front of her. Horrified by me.

I’ll never forget the expression on Allison’s face. I can see it so clearly, even now, as if it happened yesterday. I was in her apartment, cross-legged on the floor of their oversized master closet, my back to the door. It smelled like laundry detergent, a fresh, comforting smell that made you feel at home. In fact, I’d felt so at home, so caught up in the moment, that I hadn’t heard Allison come in. But when I turned, she was in the doorway, hands on the frame as if bracing herself.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she asked, almost in wonder. Her voice sounded funny, warbled with confusion.

I didn’t have a good answer. I just sat there wearing her dress, her shoes, her earrings, my freshly dyed hair gleaming.

“Your hair…” For a moment, she didn’t say anything else. Then, “Those are my clothes.”

“I just…” I began, but what could I say? I just what ? “You’re home early,” I said finally. My voice was weak, pleading. I could see that she was angry, even though I hadn’t meant any harm.

I adored her. I looked up to her. And I wanted to be just like her. Why couldn’t she see it was flattery, nothing more?

Her eyes moved from me to the rest of the closet. All the drawers were ajar. I’d gone in to find a scarf, something to complete the outfit, but once I started looking, I couldn’t stop, sinking to my knees as I combed through the contents, searching for I don’t know what. One drawer, I discovered, had a cache of old photographs. They spanned years, some from college, Allison’s face young and bright, her arms around friends, laughing, some of her and her husband when they’d first started dating, from their honeymoon, of him and her both naked, photos of her in lingerie. Now, the pictures lay around me, scattered like confetti. Her eyes landed on one of her in bed, dressed only in a pair of black panties. I felt my stomach turn.

She wasn’t supposed to be home until Monday. No one was. They were spending a long weekend with her parents in Boston. The whole family was going to a Red Sox game that evening. I was there when she bought the tickets. Should we sit here or here? she asked me, pointing to the seats on her computer screen.

Her eyes returned to me. The color had drained from her cheeks.

I thought I might faint. I’d been so caught up, I hadn’t even heard the front door open. Did I say that part already?

I’d come by to check on their cat, Nibbles. I was only there to refill her food, to make sure the water bowl was full. Allison offered me an extra hundred bucks on top of the coming week’s pay if I stopped by, but I waved her off. I didn’t have any plans; I was happy to help a friend out. Don’t forget that—I thought we were friends .

I planned to leave as soon as I fed Nibbles. I just had to use the bathroom first. Normally, I’d use the one in the hall, but that day, I found myself walking into Allison’s bedroom.

I stood in front of her sink when I was done, washing my hands, staring at myself in the large oval mirror. I looked almost like a different person, my hair shining, fiery red under the bathroom lights.

I’d dyed it only the day before. It wasn’t something I planned, either. None of it had been planned. I know that sounds like I’m trying to buck responsibility, but it’s the truth. We’d had an early release from school; it was the Friday before a holiday weekend—Labor Day, I think, which is why Allison and her family were traveling—so I decided to stop at the drugstore for a few things: shampoo, cotton balls, a replacement pair of tweezers for ones I’d misplaced.

On the way to the register, a box of hair dye caught my eye, a red- maned woman on the front. It wasn’t the first time I’d wondered how I’d look as a redhead; looking at Allison, it was hard not to imagine what it would be like if you were the one with hair like hers, who you might be if you looked like that.

Casually, almost without thinking, I put the box into my basket. It wasn’t the exact same shade as Allison’s, but it was close. An hour later, I was toweling off my damp, newly dyed hair.

Seeing myself, I was pleased. Of course, the color wasn’t as flattering on me as it was on her, but it looked good. And here’s how stupid I was: I thought Allison would be tickled by it. People will think we’re sisters! I imagined her saying, smiling at me. I repeat, how stupid I was.

Then, standing in Allison’s bathroom, I saw a tube of mascara on the counter and thought, I wonder how I’d look with a little makeup . So I opened it. One thing led to another. I dabbed her perfume on my wrists, brushed my hair with her brush, slipped a pair of hoop earrings into my lobes. Before I knew it, I was stepping out of my jeans and into one of her dresses.

It was fun, pretending, for a moment, to be her, to feel what it was like to wear her clothes, her shoes, her jewelry. I’d meant nothing by it, really.

I wanted to tell her that, as she stood in the doorway staring, but I couldn’t open my mouth. Not with the way she was looking at me. Then she spoke. “Get out. Get the fuck out.” Her voice was strangled.

I rose clumsily from the floor, trembling, my movements jerky. As I started toward the door, still in her dress, her stilettos, I stepped on the swath of fabric swirling at my feet. I lurched forward. My arms shot out as I stumbled, reaching for something, anything, to steady myself. It was only by chance that I grabbed the marble jewelry stand atop her dresser. I took another step before regaining my balance, teetering in the pencil-thin heels, my arm outstretched, pointed at her.

Both Allison and I stared at the heavy weight in my hand. When she looked back up at me, there was fear in her eyes. My jaw dropped open. I shook my head. No, I would never. But then, for the briefest millisecond: if I did, she wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about this, about what she thought I was doing in her closet.

No, I would never. I released my grip and the stand thudded to the floor, a heavy thunk against the soft carpet. Then I bolted, our shoulders brushing as I left the closet. I wondered if she could smell her perfume on me and thought I might be sick.

I went straight to my room when I got home. I locked the door—something I almost never did—and didn’t answer my mom’s knocking. When I finally opened it later that night, my mom wrapped her arms around me, holding me tightly. I told her everything.

The next morning felt brighter, more promising. It was a misunderstanding, my mother and I repeated to each other over breakfast. She reached across the small table in our kitchen and patted my hand. A simple misunderstanding. Although it wasn’t, not exactly.

When I returned to work, the long weekend over, the school director was waiting for me outside my classroom. Her normally cheery face was grim. She glanced up at my dyed hair, then away as if she’d seen something she wished she hadn’t. Nervously, I made a stupid joke, something dumb about the odds of running into each other like this, but she didn’t smile. She’d gotten a substitute for me, she said, and could I please follow her? We walked down the hall, side by side. Neither of us said a word.

When we sat down, I tried to explain, but she held up a hand, shaking her head. She talked, but I barely heard her. She droned on and I tuned in every so often. She had no other choice, she said at one point, then, something about unacceptable behavior. Then, effective immediately . I looked up from the spot I’d been staring at on her desk. Her eyes wouldn’t meet mine. I’d have the chance to say goodbye to my class, then I’d be escorted out.

This time, when we walked down the hall, I walked behind her, instead of next to her, shamefaced, trying not to cry. I’d worked there for six years. Six years and with one misunderstanding, it was over.

When I left the school, pushing through the heavy double doors, I thought that was the end, that that was the worst of it. I’d get a new job, I told myself. At a different school, in another borough. I was wrong, of course. The next day, two police officers knocked on our apartment door and charged me with stalking and menacing in the third degree.

At the station, they told me I could call a lawyer of my choosing or the court would appoint one to me. I ended up with the latter, as I couldn’t afford anyone else, especially now that I no longer had a job. The first time I met with my attorney, it was in a shitty office building in midtown. He was young and his suit was ill-fitting—too big in the shoulders, pant cuffs that dragged on the floor—an overstuffed messenger bag slung over one shoulder. I thought he could help me. I thought he wanted to.

“I didn’t break in,” I insisted, before he had a chance to open his mouth, “she gave me a key. I was there to feed her cat. We were friends. I would never hurt her.” And I wasn’t lying to him. We were friends. Sometimes, if the kids were asleep when she got home, she’d uncork a bottle of wine and pour herself a glass at the kitchen counter, a tea for me, and we’d talk, about her day, about mine, our families, stories about growing up, some true, some not. Then, when it was late, she’d walk me to the door and give me a quick hug, tell me she’d see me the next day. We were friends .

My attorney listened wearily, nodding as I explained, but I don’t think he heard me. His eyes were vacant, a half-lit neon motel sign, flickering every so often. He was overworked, I’m sure, buried by cases just like mine, overtired and underpaid. When I was done, he took a breath and told me he’d worked out a deal with Allison’s lawyer, that I should take the plea. They agreed to drop the menacing charge if I pled guilty to stalking in the fourth degree, a misdemeanor. No jail time, but there would be an order of protection in place, of course, he said. Of course. Of course, tacked onto the sentence like it was the only thing that made sense. “An order of protection?” I repeated, voice hoarse, watery. He nodded. “It would prohibit all contact between you and Ms. McIntyre.”

I asked to be excused to the bathroom and walked down the speckled linoleum hallway, my shoes squeaking, and threw up in the toilet. The retching echoed off the walls.

As soon as I sat back down, he repeated himself: I should take the plea. Employers can’t ask about a criminal record during the hiring process, he said. It was a best-case scenario. If this went to court, I could face felony charges. “Take the plea,” he said for the third time.

I looked at him, gaping like a stupid fucking fish. Had he already forgotten what I did for a living? I was a teacher. Any reputable school would run a background check. A misdemeanor would show up. Everything shows up. And no one would hire a teacher with a stalking charge, against a parent, no less. If I accepted the plea, it would be like tying a noose around my own neck, or at least, letting him tie it for me.

But in the end, that’s what I did. What else could I have done? Which was why I’d spent so long out of work, how I’d ended up as a nail tech instead of at the front of a classroom. Because of a box of hair dye. More or less.

So I know why my mom is looking at me the way she is. I’d be looking at me that way, too, if I didn’t know any better. But my friendship with Violet is different.

“This is different,” I repeat. There’s a pleading note in my voice.

My mom doesn’t say anything else. Gently, she puts her hand to my cheek, then nods and goes back to the kitchen.

My shoulders slump. I wish I could make her understand. I wish I could put into words how lonely I’d been before I met Violet. Allison and her kids were like my family. Mockingbird was my home. Without either, it felt like I was drowning.

I was finally coming up for air when I met Violet. There she was, like a life buoy, bobbing on the surface. I grabbed on and breathed in, my lungs full for the first time in months.

But the best part about Violet is that she needs me like I need her. She’s told me so. Over and over again. Maybe I misread things with Allison, maybe I mistook courtesy for friendship, but I’m not wrong this time. I know I’m not.

I straighten and smile to myself. This time is different.