Daniel pulls the pouch from his suit pocket and starts to walk over. His dad gives him a brief glance. I’m not sure what was communicated, but Daniel stops moving and sighs.

“You need to go to the bathroom or anything?” he asks. “There’s one in the back.”

I shake my head. He strangles the pouch with his hands.

“Well, this is it. This is the store.”

“Want to show me around?” I ask to help distract him.

“Not much to see. First three aisles are for hair. Shampoo, conditioner, extensions, dyes, lots of chemical things I don’t understand. Aisle three is makeup. Aisle four is equipment.”

He glances at his dad, but he’s still busy.

“Do you need something?” he asks.

I touch my hair. “No, I—”

“I didn’t mean a product. We have a fridge in the back with soda and stuff.”

“Sure,” I say. I like the idea of seeing behind the scenes.

We walk down the hair dye aisle. All the boxes feature broadly smiling women with the most perfectly colored and styled hair. It’s not hair dye being sold in these bottles, it’s happiness.

I stop in front of a group of boxes with brightly colored dyes and pick up a pink one. There’s a very small, secret, impractical part of me that’s always wanted pink hair.

It takes Daniel a few seconds to realize that I’ve stopped walking.

“Pink?” he asks, when he sees the box in my hand.

I wiggle it at him. “Why not?”

“Doesn’t seem like your style.”

Of course he’s completely right, but I hate that he thinks so. Am I too predictable and boring? I think back to the boy I saw when we entered the store. I bet he keeps everyone guessing.

“Shows how much you know,” I say, and pat my hair. His eyes follow my hand, and now I’m really self-conscious and hoping he’s not going to ask to touch my hair or a bunch of dumb questions about it. Not that I don’t want him to touch my hair, because I do—just not as a curiosity.

“I think you would look beautiful with a giant pink Afro,” he says.

Sincerity is sexy, and my cynical heart notices.

“The whole thing wouldn’t be pink. Maybe just the ends.”

He reaches for the box, so now we’re both holding it and facing each other in an aisle that really only has enough space for one.

“It would look like strawberry frosting,” he says. With his other hand he pulls a few strands of my hair through his fingers, and I find that I don’t mind, not one little bit.

“Oh, look. My. Little. Brother is here,” says a voice from the end of the aisle. Daniel jerks his hand from my hair. We both let go of the dye at the same time, and the box clatters to the floor. Daniel bends to pick it up. I turn to face our interloper.

He’s taller and broader than Daniel. On his face, the family bone structure seems even sharper. He rests the broom he was holding against a shelf and saunters down the aisle toward us. His wide, dark eyes are filled with curiosity and a kind of mischievous glee.

I’m not sure I like him.

Daniel stands up and hands the dye back to me.

“What’s up, Charlie?” he asks.

“The. Sky. Is. Up. Little brother,” says Charlie. I get the feeling he’s been using that phrase that same way for all their lives. He’s looking at me as he says it, and his face is more sneer than smile.

“Who. Is. This?” he asks, still only looking at me.

Next to me, Daniel takes a deep breath and readies himself to say something, but I jump in.

“I’m Natasha.” He stares at me as if there must be more to say. “A friend of your brother’s,” I continue.

“Oh, I thought maybe he’d caught a shoplifting customer.” His face is a parody of innocence. “We get a lot of those in a store like this.” His eyes are laughing and mean. “I’m sure you understand.”

I definitely don’t like him.

“Jesus Christ, Charlie,” Daniel says. He takes a step toward Charlie but I grab his hand. He stops and links his fingers with mine and squeezes.

Charlie makes a big show of looking down at our joined hands and then back up at us.

“Is this what I think it is? Is it looooove, Little. Brother?” He claps his hands together with a loud smack and does a laughing two-step dance.

“This. Is. Great. Yes. You know what this means, don’t you? All the heat will be off me. When the ’rents find out about this, I’ll be a Boy Scout again. Fuck academic probation.”

He’s laughing loudly now and rubbing his palms together, like a villain detailing his plans for world domination.

“Wow. You’re an asshole,” I say, unable to help myself.

He smiles as if I’ve paid him a compliment. But the smile doesn’t last long.

He looks at our hands again and then at Daniel. “You’re such a punk,” he says. “Where are you gonna go with this?”

I squeeze Daniel’s hand tighter and pull it to my side. I want to prove Charlie wrong. “Do your thing and let’s get out of here,” I say.

He nods, and we turn away—and walk right into his father. I pull my hand from his at the same time he’s letting mine go, but it’s too late. His father’s already seen us.

Giant Bag of Dicks Masquerades as Teenage Boy, Fools Exactly No One

Charlie is a giant bag of dicks that I’d like to light on fire. I want to hit him in his perfectly smug face. It’s not a new emotion for me, since I’ve wanted to do it since I was ten, but this time he’s finally gone too far. I’m thinking how good it will feel to break my hand on his face, but I’m also focused on the feel of Natasha’s hand in mine.