Chapter Eighty. Melanie
CHAPTER EIGHTY
MELANIE
Sabrina skips offstage in her silver unitard, ponytail swinging, grinning like she just nailed the Olympics. The curtains close with a swish, and Mr. Magnuson’s voice carries out over the crowd: “Next, Hannah Campbell.”
I set the laptop in the empty seat beside me and knot my hands in my lap. I’ll have to decide what to do about that later. For now, the curtains part, and there she is. My daughter.
For a heartbeat, I don’t understand what I’m seeing. Hannah stands center stage, the construction lights gleaming on the curve of her bare scalp. Completely bald. The shimmer of her dress only makes the starkness sharper, her head glowing under the harsh yellow beams.
Rage fills me so fast I feel dizzy. This has to be a trick.
One of those mean pageant girls with their whisper campaigns and cruel little schemes—did they corner her backstage, did they shave her head just to humiliate her?
My throat burns with the scream I want to let out, my body pitched forward in my chair, ready to storm the stage.
The audience ripples with whispers. A cough, a muffled laugh. Heat flashes across my skin, because they’re laughing at her, my baby, and she looks so small, so exposed.
And then Hannah opens her mouth.
Her voice rises clear and steady, cutting through the gossip like glass breaking.
A hymn she used to hum to herself at night, soft as a prayer, now filling the rafters.
The crowd falls silent. I feel the hush like a blanket settling over the room.
I can’t breathe for how beautiful it is, for how brave she is.
My daughter, who never lets anyone hear her sing, standing bald-headed under the lights, singing like there’s no one in the room.
As Hannah finishes, the crowd erupts—chairs scraping back, feet stomping, applause rolling through the room like a tide. I realize I’m crying, and I don’t care who sees. I’ve never been prouder in my life.
And then, before the sound has even quieted, the curtains open again. Sarah Lynn walks out. Her head is shaved too, shining under the lights. She takes her place at the center of the stage, chin lifted, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
And I realize: it wasn’t a prank. It wasn’t cruelty. It was a choice. Something they did together.
But I feel a dark presence at the corner of the stage. Kennedy Claire stands just out of the ring of light. She isn’t clapping, isn’t smiling. Her gaze is pinned on Sarah Lynn with a fury so cold it makes me shiver. And then, slowly, her eyes flick toward Hannah.
Like she’s already decided who to blame.