Chapter Seventy-Nine. Sarah Lynn
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
SARAH LYNN
“Son of a biscuit, it’s freezing,” Sabrina says, shimmying out of the fringed-skirt getup from the opening number, only to pull on a silver spandex unitard for her talent act.
The whole dressing room is lit by one of those garage lights, the kind with a bulb in a wire cage, dangling from an extension cord looped over the ceiling rafter. It sways whenever someone walks past, making the sequins blink in restless patterns.
Space heaters hum from the corners, but cold still seeps in through the walls.
And, yet, despite everything, the space is a swarm of high heels clicking and sequins rustling like wind through foil, chatter layered between laughter and nerves and last-minute touch-ups.
Girls borrowing eyelash glue and doing up each other’s zippers.
It used to be my favorite part of pageants, like a high-octane slumber party.
But for years now it’s only been war prep—sizing up the enemy, steeling myself for battle.
I’m at my vanity station, reapplying blush. Beside me, Hannah swipes on more lip gloss.
Olivia has changed into a simple black leotard for her dance routine. She stands at the floor-length mirror, gathering the spirals of her blond hair into a bun. Her eyes are hollow as she turns to see her profile.
I set my makeup brush down. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Mom was supposed to do my hair.”
My heart sinks. “I can do your hair.”
Olivia opens her hand, her hair uncoiling down her back, glinting golden in the yellow light. “It’s fine,” she says, floating toward her seat at the vanity.
I catch eyes with Hannah in the mirror and sweep blush up my cheekbone again. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Olivia pick up someone’s bikini trimmer. She flicks it on, and the buzz cuts through the chatter.
“What do you need that for?” I ask.
In one motion, she presses it to her hairline and rakes a stripe down the middle of her head.
I nearly choke, my hand flying out like I could stop her.
“What the hell, Olivia?” Hannah snaps.
The room goes quiet but for the hornet hum of the clippers. We all watch in stunned, frozen horror, as Olivia keeps cutting, calm and steady. One blond spiral after another slides down her shoulder, catches on the fabric of her leotard, and then piles on the floor.
When she’s done, she studies her reflection, the single bulb gleaming off the golden stubble left behind.
She clicks the trimmer off. No one moves. Hannah looks at me with wide, terrified eyes.
But I think I get it, actually. I think I understand. When everything is unfair and chaotic, you just want something, anything, to be in your control. Like if the world is going to strip you bare, you want to be able to decide how.
And sometimes the only thing a girl has left is her own body.
I reach for the trimmer, because my friend might be sad, but she doesn’t have to be alone. I meet Olivia’s eyes in the mirror and lift my shoulder in a shrug. “It’s just hair.”
Hannah makes a choking, startled sound. Someone in the room gasps.
The blade kisses my scalp, snags, then glides smoothly. Olivia covers her mouth with her hands, tears swimming in her eyes. She laughs through her fingers, a broken, beautiful sound.
I wink, then I go for it—no hesitation. As the strands fall, it feels like more than hair dropping away. Like I’m sawing off years of someone else’s voice in my ear. Like I’m cutting myself free.