“Holy shit, Mom.”
She twists her torso around to smile at me. “It’s old news, honey. I’m just sorry you had to be born to someone like me. You deserved a better life, and I just couldn’t give it to you.” She shifts her gaze to Becca. “I didn’t know how to trust you. I wanted to, but…I’ve never trusted anyone. I never even told Ben about how I grew up.”
“Well, maybe it’s time to try,” Becca says. “Stay here in Nashville. Put down some roots.”
Mom laughs, a slightly bitter sound. “People always say that. ‘Put down roots.’ I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.”
Becca moves to stand beside Mom. “It means…let us be your family. Come over for lunch. Have drinks with me. Don’t run off. Just…stay here.”
Mom doesn’t answer for a long, long time. When she does, her voice is hesitant. “Family. You really want to be my family?”
Becca laughs, pulls Mom in for a hug. “We already are, Kate.”
“Oh.” Mom glances up at me. “Oz?”
I lean toward Kylie, who wraps her arm around my waist. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got at least one reason to stay here.”
Becca turns to me, frowning. “Only one?”
“At least one, I said. And…I like the idea of family, too, honestly.”
* * *
Six weeks later, and I’m out of my casts, back to normal. And I’m nervous as hell. I’m sitting in a barber’s chair, an apron around my shoulders. A pretty, friendly woman has her fingers in my hair, waiting for me to give her the signal to start. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, staring at my long auburn hair. It hasn’t been cut since before junior high. I let Mom trim the ends once, two years ago.
Kylie doesn’t know I’m doing this. She thinks I’m looking at effects pedals. Which, I did. I even bought a new one. I’ve got a new job, working for Andersen Mayer at his office. I’m his assistant’s assistant. I also work at the garage, with Colt’s friend. It’s a good job, pays well, and I’m learning some useful skills. It’s good to be busy, to be done with college. I know an associate’s degree doesn’t do shit, but it’s a degree I earned, on my own. I might go for my bachelor’s, might not. Kylie graduated high school with crazy honors, obviously, and is thinking about where she wants to go after she finishes her degree at NSCC.
Kylie and I are still planning on pursuing music, but we feel like we shouldn’t rush it. Let it happen in its own time. In the meantime, I’m working a lot, playing guitar and learning new songs, even messing around with writing my own. I haven’t burned in months, and I haven’t smoked pot since before the accident. I don’t even have any. Kylie watched me throw it away, watched me give my pipe and papers to Dion.
“You have beautiful hair, Oz,” the stylist says to me. “Maybe you’d think about donating it?”
“Donating it?” I ask.
“Yeah. Locks of Love is a charity that takes hair like yours after it’s cut and turns it into a wig.”
I shrug. “Sure. Sounds good.”
She smiles. “Cool.” Her fingers run through my hair once more. “So. Ready?”
I take a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah. Let her rip.”
I watch as the scissors snip through my hair, watch as a huge hank of hair flutters to the floor. Holy shit. My head feels so light all of a sudden. She’s not done, though. She cuts and cuts and cuts, until I’m sure I must be bald. I’ve got my eyes closed, refusing to look until it’s over.
Finally, after trimming the hairline at my neck and above my ears with a pair of clippers, she steps back, blows my skin clean with a hair dryer. Styles it with some kind of paste. Fiddles, blow-dries, twists, plays. Finally she unsnaps the sheet and turns me around.
“So what do you think, Oz?” Even she sounds nervous.
I open my eyes, and I’m honestly stunned. It’s short. Like, there’s nothing at all on the sides, buzzed close to the scalp. There’s a messy ruff on the top of my head, artfully mussed, dark, spiky. Holy shit, I f**king love it. I run my hands past my ears, down the back of my neck, up the back of my head, feeling the soft bristles under my palm.
“It feels like my head is ten pounds lighter.” I turn my head from one side to another, pluck at a strand of hair, play with it. “It’s amazing. I feel like a different person.”
“You had a lot of hair.” She sounds almost wistful. “You had a gorgeous head of hair. I mean, it was thick and you had, like, no split ends or anything. But you look amazing, I have to say. You do look totally different.” She tilts her head, touches my shoulder. “Now you just need a less…icky shirt.”
I’ve got a metal shirt on, of course. I don’t think I own anything else. This one has a spray of blood that turns into a flock of birds, and the name of the band written in barbed wire–style font. It’s pretty graphic, I guess.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right. If I’m gonna look clean-cut, I might as well go all the way, huh?”
“Exactly. There’s a resale store a few doors down that has some nice stuff. You should take a look.” She leads me up to the counter and cashes me out.
I thank her, leave her a tip, and step out into the late spring warmth. I check out the resale shop and find a short-sleeve button shirt, plaid and preppy and ugly as f**k, but it fits and doesn’t look half bad on me. Especially after I find a pair of faded, well-worn blue jeans, just tight enough. Add a plain tan leather belt, and a pair of Doc Martens, and I look like someone totally other than the metalhead punk who left my apartment this morning. I toss my old clothes onto the passenger seat of my truck and let the engine idle as I send Kylie a text.
Yeah, my bike was pretty much totaled, so I used the insurance money to buy an old black F-150. Colt helped me fix it up, replacing and souping up the engine, beefing up the exhaust, switching out the tranny. The truck is almost as old as I am, but it’s smooth and powerful and rumbles like a beast.
Meet me at the park, I text Kylie. I have a surprise for you.
I head out, and a few minutes later, my phone chimes. I wait till I’m at a red light and then read the message. Sure thing. C U then.
It drives me nuts when Kylie uses text-speak, so of course she does it just to f**k with me.
I find a spot for my truck in the parking lot and shuffle out across the overgrown soccer field, an old quilt under one arm. We found this park a few weeks ago. It’s hidden at the back of a subdivision. There’s a few swings, an old merry-go-round, some benches and a play structure and some splintery picnic tables gouged with initials and swear words. No one ever comes here, so we like to lie in the field and talk, write songs, kiss. A bit more than kiss, late at night, sometimes.