Taylor notices that Mae's locker again reads whore.
The word had been wiped clean last week but is back in thick black strokes, more aggressive than ever. Taylor only notices because she stops to tie her sneaker before first period; in a way she is comforted by the continuity. It's been over a week since Mae has been in school, and this is her locker's new face.
“So you are sick,” says a pair of rose kitten heels. Taylor glances up from her laces and into Shelby's disapproving expression. “Why else would you be dressed like..the way you're dressed?”
“You must hate it, huh?” Taylor, who woke up this morning and decided over toast to put no effort into her appearance, knows she resembles a stranger. She stands easily. Gone are her precarious heels, replaced by gray sneakers. Instead of a short skirt, she stuffs her hands into a worn sweater that balloons over a pair of slouchy pants. Most strikingly, a thick shock of flame red hair rises from her bare face before cascading down her back. “I figured you would. By the way, I don't think I can sit with you during lunch. I have to study for Spanish, since I suck at it, which you know.”
Shelby narrows her eyes. “Are you lying? You have Spanish first period.”
“Oh and I have to study for Biology.” Also a lie, but with Taylor's hands stuffed into her favorite sweater, even lies feel comfortable.
“Who will I sit with, then?”
“You could sit with the cheerleaders?”
“Dammit, Taylor.” Shelby's voice drops. “I'm not sitting with slutty cheerleaders.” She glances around purposefully, as if looking for a more important person to talk to, but ultimately clomps over to her locker.
Taylor shivers and shuts her eyes to recover. Deep exhale. She feels alone and invisible in the hall (neither is true), and disquietly content. Her heart rate slows. Her feet steady. She opens her eyes to Grant Medina's smiling face.
“I love your hair,” he says by way of greeting, as Taylor tries to remember whether they kissed in Ethan's library at that fated party. “How did it get so...big?”
“This is what happens to my hair when I just leave it alone.” He is more attractive than she remembers: tall and lean, with a light dusting of dark freckles. Her mouth prattles on without consulting her brain. “Usually I spend hours straightening it, but—”
“Can I touch it?” Grant reaches out and rubs a curl tenderly between two fingers. Taylor's shivers return. The first bell rings, and Grant tugs on the guitar strap stretched across his chest. “Where you headed?”
“Depends on where you are.” Why did she say that? She longs to punch herself in the face.
He laughs, but possibly with her instead of at her. “I usually play guitar in the band room during lunch. If you finish eating early, you should stop by.”
Then he is gone and Taylor, who has not moved and is now late for Spanish class, will not be hungry until dinner.