Twenty-One
Kat
Bad Reputation – Joan Jett
If blood were purple, my bathroom would look like a crime scene.
Harper dances around the tiny space, foils covering her head as Bad Reputation plays from the record player in my bedroom.
She holds the little plastic tub in the air, shouting out the words, and she’s dancing like the room is twice the size, her elbows narrowly missing the cabinet door we left open.
This is the type of scene that would have little Kat giddy with glee. A girl’s night with her best friend. Harper has always treated my apartment like home, and because of that, it feels more like home to me, too.
Towels cover every surface, tainted with various shades of purple. The box of dark magenta hair dye lies ripped open on the countertop, instructions abandoned as usual. My tiny sink is already splattered with diluted violet streaks that look suspiciously like a low-budget horror movie.
“Peroxide should come with some type of warning,” Harper coughs out. She waves one hand dramatically in front of her face like she’s fending off frat boys who wear too much cologne.
“It does,” I say blankly.
“Well, it should come with more.”
A streak of bleach sloshes dangerously close to the edge of the bowl as she mixes it.
“You’re going to spill that,” I say, already grabbing a towel.
“Negative thinking, K,” she shoots back.
The bowl tilts another inch, and I toss the towel onto the counter beneath her just in time. She dramatically rolls her eyes as she pulls my head back against her, dragging the brush over my roots. A shiver works its way up my spine at the cold invasion against my warm scalp.
The faint sound of the extractor fan does nothing to dispel the chemical warfare waging in this tiny room. The smell takes me back to the first time I did this, although the circumstances couldn’t be more different. I smile to myself, choosing to ignore the old memory surfacing.
“This is a lot of work,” Harper says after a while, wiping her wrist across her forehead, careful not to transfer any bleach. “Why do you put yourself through this every month?”
“I like the change.” The words roll off my tongue too easily, although Harper seems content with the answer as she continues to brush the blonde dye across my dark roots.
We sit in comfortable silence, the music from the record player eventually fading as the vinyl comes to an end. My legs cramp from being crossed for so long, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to need to be hauled off this floor.
“There, all done,” she breathes as she tosses the plastic tub into the sink.
I uncross my legs and pull myself up, letting the blood slowly flow back into my feet before I stumble. I look at myself in the mirror, already seeing the dark roots turning that familiar yellow shade.
Good thing I bought toner.
Harper comes up behind me, taking a long look at her hair. “If this goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”
I scoff. “I didn’t force you to choose Barney the Dinosaur purple.”
“It was between that and Bear in the Big Blue House blue.”
“Honestly, both on brand.”
Harper laughs, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. She looks at herself in the mirror, her eyes turning a shade darker. Harper has always been one of the easiest people to read. She feels everything loudly, brightly. Her emotions are always so close to the surface.
Most people only see the performance version of her—she would never let them see anything else.
The girl who laughs the loudest at parties.
The one who convinces strangers to dance.
The one who has never known an awkward silence.
But I’ve known her long enough to recognize the quiet shifts.
The way her shoulders drop when she’s tired, how her eyes darken when she’s upset. Tonight is one of those nights.
“You okay?” I ask gently.
“Yeah. I mean, I will be,” she says. “If he calls tomorrow, I’m definitely not answering.”
“I’d be disappointed if you did.”
I set a timer on my phone, and we collapse onto the bathroom floor, backs against the tub. The peroxide smell has dissipated, leaving only a subtle chemical lingering.
“You ever think about how weird this is?” Harper says quietly, and I quirk a brow. “That we change ourselves a little bit, hoping that it fixes the big shit going on in our lives?”
I consider her words, unusually deep for Harper.
“I think it helps,” I say slowly. “Not because it actually fixes anything, but it puts something in your control when the big shit is completely out of your control.”
Harper nods, looking down and checking her phone for the twentieth time this evening. I know when my best friend is hurting. She puts on a brave front all the time, always the frontwoman working the crowd, the light that illuminates a room. But tonight, she’s just Harper.
“If this goes bad, we could just disappear,” I say, breaking the tension.
“Disappear where?” she replies with a snort.
“I don’t know. The mountains. A new identity. We could make sourdough and adopt ten cats. Five for each of us.” A cold pang grips my chest at the thought of starting over. Again. Even though it’s only a hypothetical situation, I can’t imagine a life without Harper now.
“Do we get new names?” she asks.
“Obviously,” I reply, nudging her knee with mine.
“Mine will be Scarlett,” she says confidently.
“Scarlett?”
“Yes, Scarlett. Scarlett is mysterious. Scarlett has secrets.”
“Scarlett owns a tattoo studio, for sure,” I reply.
“I’m totally game,” she says, moving closer to my side, careful not to transfer her Barney dye onto my shoulder. She sits up straight, head held high. “If he doesn’t call tomorrow, I think I’m done,” she says confidently.
“What does done look like?”
She shrugs. “Sad. Annoyed. Probably crying in your kitchen.”
We both burst out laughing, our bodies rattling together.
“But also… lighter?” she adds.
The shrill sound of the timer on Harper’s phone cuts our conversation dead.
“No way, that was five minutes max!” Harper shoos me out of the way of the tub.
“I’m going to make us more coffee,” I say as she pulls the shower head from the wall.
Laughing to myself, I quickly flip the vinyl and set it playing before I make my way through my apartment to the kitchen. The sound of the doorbell makes me jump.
I freeze. My doorbell almost never rings. Harper knows the code for the building, and most of my deliveries get dumped in the communal foyer. For a moment, I wonder if someone has hit the wrong apartment—it wouldn’t be the first time. Still, the uneasy feeling in my chest refuses to settle.
I quickly throw coffee beans into the machine and turn it on. Harper will never forgive me if I forget to make coffee.
Behind me, I can hear the faint rush of the showerhead as Harper rinses her hair, humming along to the music that’s playing from my bedroom.
I tread carefully towards the door and peer through the peephole, finding the area empty, except for a white box.
The unease in my chest reaches a new high as I carefully unlock the bolts.
Everything in my head screams at me to throw this box out.
I stand there for a long moment, staring down at it.
The cardboard is pristine, not a dent or crease anywhere along the surface.
Whoever delivered this handled it carefully.
The thought only makes the unease knot tighter in my stomach.
Packages usually arrive with shipping labels and half-peeled tape, looking like they’d been through a woodchipper.
This one is completely bare: just a white box with a black outline around the edges.
I press my thumb against the edge of the lid.
Curiosity has always been my worst habit.
I open it carefully, and a small card sits on top of a pile of black fabric, tied neatly with a red bow. My hands start to shake.
Kat,
I’m sorry for my absence over the last week. I had business that, unfortunately, demanded my attention. Please don’t mistake my unavailability for disinterest. I am very much looking forward to seeing you again soon.
I saw this and thought of you. I hope you’ll wear it for me sometime.
Yours,
E x
My lips part as my mouth turns dry.
Elias.
My hands tremble harder as I pull out the contents of the box.
Holding it up, it’s clear that this is the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.
It’s a long black lace dress, the shade of night itself.
It has elegant sleeves, and a sweetheart neckline that dips gracefully in the center.
Each side has a slit as high as my hips.
I’ve never worn anything like this before. It’s far fancier than anything I’ve ever owned, or even seen in a store. A quick look at the label, which is entirely in French, tells me it was expensive.
With a smile, I bring the dress inside.
I know exactly where to wear it.