"Okay ... how are things going at Pennsbrook?"

"'h.e.l.l is empty, / And all the devils are there,'" she quoted.

I shook my head. "I don't know that one."

"That's okay. It's The Tempest, and I changed a word, but you get the idea. Pennsbrook is h.e.l.l, Cara. I'm a Cubby Crew of one, with no chance to reinvent myself because I'm surrounded by zombieheads who made up their minds about who I was before I even knew. I would give anything to have the opportunity you have now. I'm just as interesting a person as the Supreme Populazzi-so are you-but I'll never have the chance to prove it."

Claudia's eyes bore into me, finishing her thought without saying it. I did have that chance. After ten years I was finally away from everyone who had labeled and categorized me and put me in a cubby-and now I was doing the same thing to myself.

"Pretty fancy speech just to get someone to dress like the undead," I said.

"Did it work?"

I walked back to the girl at the counter and handed her my credit card. "We're ready now."

Of course, Hot Topic was only our first stop in the day's transformational odyssey. From there we went to Sephora and grabbed several soft black eyeliners, thick black mascaras, smoky-colored eye shadows, and black nail polish. This time I didn't hesitate. I presented my credit card with a smile.

The next stop was more difficult. After we pulled into the parking lot, I had to close my eyes and breathe deeply to still my pounding heart. Claudia put her hand on mine. "You don't have to do this part, you know. It's okay if you can't."

I took another long, deep breath, then opened my eyes. "No," I said. "I want to."

We walked inside the shop. I strode the three steps to the front desk and smiled at the perfectly coiffed and painted woman behind the counter.

"Hi. I'm Cara Leonard, and I have an appointment for a hair relaxing."

I couldn't imagine myself without curls. From the time I was three years old, they'd been my trademark feature. I could wear them up, I could wear them down, I could tuck them behind a headband, but they were always there. People I hadn't seen in years would recognize me on the street because of my hair. My curls defined me; even my personality was curly, bouncy, springy, and playfully twisted.

But the look I wanted didn't include curls, and a simple blow-out wouldn't get me the style I needed. If I was going to go for it, I had to really go for it. Claudia had done tons of research on the best curl relaxers in Philadelphia and found Yumiko, the guru of the field. She used only a special relaxer from j.a.pan that wouldn't damage the hair and wore out after two to three months.

I must have looked terrified when I sat in Yumiko's chair, because after she ran her hands through my curls, she looked at me in the mirror and gave me a big hug. "I promise you," she said, "you'll love it."

I had absolutely no reason to believe her, but I did. I took a deep breath, smiled, closed my eyes ... and didn't open them again until she was completely finished.

"Cara," I heard Claudia say, "it's over."

I didn't want to open my eyes, but I did ... and found a complete stranger staring at me in the mirror. She had the same wide, amazed expression I knew I was wearing, but otherwise she was totally alien to me.

Claudia bent down next to my face and looked that strange reflection in the eye.

"Claudia?"

She shook her head, then a smile broke across her face. "I love it. It's a whole new you."

Chapter Thirteen.

I couldn't stop staring at myself in the mirror.

This wasn't ideal, since I was driving to school and almost caused a slew of accidents, but it was unavoidable.

I still wasn't over the hair. I'd had three days to get used to it, and it still shocked me every time I saw it. It was straight. Totally straight, not at all frizzy. It was layered for body, much thicker on the top than on the bottom, and hung down past my shoulders. The color had changed from a chocolate brown to an inky black-a fact I couldn't forget because it was constantly in my face. I had long bangs now, and they swept over my right eye and cheekbone. I could wear them long and broody, or I could tuck them behind my right ear if I wanted to do something wild and crazy like, oh, see.

I loved it. I felt like I had entered the witness protection program and was embarking on a whole new life as someone I didn't yet entirely know. It was absolutely thrilling.

My parents were far less thrilled, but they hadn't freaked out anywhere near as much as I'd thought they would, mainly because Claudia and I had decided to spare them the full effect. We hid all my shopping bags in my room while Mom was making dinner and Karl was locked away in his home office, then revealed the haircut as a little something new I tried on a lark-a very temporary lark that would reverse itself within three months. Karl quickly did the math and realized I'd be back to my normal self in plenty of time for my April lunch with Dean Jaffe, so he was fine with it.

I got off easy because Karl was still on a high from my last report card. Also, my PSAT scores had come in over Christmas break. I'd landed in the ninety-sixth percentile, and qualified to enter the National Merit Scholarship Program-news that Karl had immediately broadcast to anyone even remotely connected to the Northwestern University admissions process. At that moment Karl loved me unconditionally, no matter what temporary insanity had made me straighten and color my hair.

Mom was worried. She kept asking if the hair change was my way of acting out on deep, hidden anxieties about the move and the new school. I a.s.sured her again and again that it wasn't.

Karl stuck up for me. "Her performance says it all, Lo-Lo."

Claudia and I smiled. Nothing ended an argument like Karl calling Mom Lo-Lo. It was Karl's response to her claiming she didn't like it when he screamed "h.e.l.loooo" for her across the house. Instead of changing, he just made the call into a pet name. Mom hated it, and as she laid into Karl for the zillionth time, I knew I was off the hook-at least until the credit card bill came.

Now, three days later, I was ready to reveal my new look at school. I'd started the day in my usual Gap finery, said an early goodbye to Karl and Mom, and driven straight to Wegmans. My mom loved Wegmans because it was the best supermarket in the area. It was huge, pristine, and filled with fresh, amazing food. I liked that, too, but today what I really liked about it was that it had an enormous ladies' room. I locked myself into the ma.s.sive handicapped stall and changed for school: a black patterned T-shirt over super-skinny black jeans with a black stud-and-stone embossed belt, black flats, and a tight-fitting black and white zebra-striped hoodie.

I emerged from the stall and gave thanks to the G.o.ds of Wegmans that they'd decided to build a long gla.s.s shelf above the sinks: the perfect staging area for my makeup. I slathered on the eyeliner, shadow, and mascara, and topped off the look with a touch of pale lipstick. I stood back to get as much of my body as possible; the only strike against Wegmans was no full-length mirror. I brushed my hands through my chunky-fabulous hair, mussing it up to perfection.

I looked nothing like myself. I looked deep. I looked interesting.

I looked like a DangerZone.

Awesome.

I ran out of Wegmans and smashed the speed limit to get to school in time. It was only as I was about to race into the building that I had a panic attack.

If I had even dreamed of showing up at Pennsbrook looking like this, I'd have been laughed out of the building within seconds. Was there a chance that would happen here? Claudia had said no. She said I was still too new. I had only one true friend at Chrysella, and he was in on the new me. No one else knew the old me well enough to judge. The other Theater Geeks sort of did, but if Archer didn't act like it was a big deal, they wouldn't either. For all the rest of the school knew, this was my preferred way to dress. Or I could be one of those girls who just likes morphing her look.

Whatever. Claudia had said the key was owning it. As long as I owned it, no one would question.

Okay, then. I'd own it.

I ran in just as the bell rang, threw my books in my locker, dashed into English cla.s.s ... and directly into the crosshairs of the one person who would never let my new look go unquestioned.

"Trick or treat," Mr. Woodman said as I took my regular top-of-the-table perch. I pressed my lips together in a grimace and hoped he was finished.

He wasn't. "How appropriate that you dressed up for The Crucible. I can only imagine what you'll wear when we start Moby-d.i.c.k. Any thoughts?"

I knew he wanted me to do my usual thing. It wouldn't have been hard: he'd set me up with a giant white sperm whale. But I didn't like that he was calling me out for the way I looked. It wasn't cool.

"No thoughts," I murmured.

Mr. Woodward's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Oooh. Are you a good witch or a bad witch?'"

Great. Now he was quoting The Wizard of Oz. I didn't respond. I just slinked off the table and into my chair.

I could feel Archer staring at me. The whole time he was away, I'd texted him everything about my ongoing transformation, but I guess seeing it was pretty jarring. I was dying to talk to him about it, but I had to wait.

"Hey," he said in the hall after cla.s.s, "you have a little something on your face." He reached out as if he was going to brush something away with his thumb, then said, "Oh, wait, that's just a ridiculously insane amount of makeup."

"You say that like you didn't help engineer the look, Professor Higgins."

"Maybe I'm having second thoughts."

"Now you're having second thoughts?"

"Look at yourself. You don't even look like you."

I grinned. "I know. It's kind of cool, right?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Because!" He took a deep breath and calmed down, then added, "'I've grown accustomed to your face.'"

He looked at me pointedly, like that was supposed to mean something beyond the words themselves. It didn't.

"My face is still here," I said. "It's just slathered with stuff."

He didn't answer.

"Archer, come on! This isn't a big deal! We talked about it. The look is a tool so I can get to know a really interesting guy. Is that so horrible?"

"Is what so horrible: the theory or the actual look?"

"Either! Just ... are you still going to help me or not?"

"I'll help you," he said. "Meet me here at the start of fifth period."

He slouched off, and I happily let my mind wander to the next phase of NateGate. Nate had lunch fifth period, just like Archer and I. Yet as I'd discovered, Nate preferred sitting outside and playing guitar to actually eating.

Archer's plan was that he'd go to Nate with some trumped-up excuse to chat. I'd come along, Archer would introduce me, and ideally something approaching a conversation would ensue.

Archer was under absolute orders not to leave Nate and me alone. He had to stick around and make sure I didn't do anything to embarra.s.s myself and ruin everything. He was fine with that, but it meant the conversation had to be quick. Halfway through fifth period, Archer was due to meet the rest of the Theater Geeks and run lines for that afternoon's spring musical auditions. The show was Little Shop of Horrors, and Archer was going for the role of Seymour, the male lead. Little Shop was one of the few musicals I knew really well. The movie version was one of Karl's favorites, so he'd had us all watch it together a zillion times. I knew Archer would be perfect for Seymour, but I also understood he'd be way too nervous to function if he didn't get in this last practice.

One minute into fifth period, Archer and I crunched over the partly frozen gra.s.s, on our way to Nate's favorite rock. We could already see him, strumming, lost in his music. His back was to us. As we got closer, I felt a hot crawl of nerves race over my scalp. I stopped in my tracks.

Archer wasn't the only one having second thoughts.

I'd spent the past three weeks so involved in the excitement of becoming someone new, I'd kind of lost track of the reason. Now here it was: this complete stranger was in front of us, and I was supposed to make him my boyfriend. Did I even want him for my boyfriend? I knew nothing about him. The things I did know were all superficial: the clothes and the music he liked. And if anything, learning all that stuff had brought me closer not to Nate but to Archer, since he's the one who'd taught me.

I stopped myself. That was a dangerous train of thought. And it wasn't like I really knew nothing about Nate. I knew he was talented, and pa.s.sionate, and ... well ... really hot. If I got to know him better, I'd probably find tons of other things I liked about him. I just needed to give it a chance.

"Are you okay?" Archer asked.

"Yeah ... how do I look?"

Archer raised an eyebrow. I rolled my eyes.

"Aside from the obvious, how do I look?"

"You look cold. Are you sure you won't wear my jacket?"

He had an incredibly cozy-looking wool trench coat, but it was nowhere near as cool as my close-fitting hoodie. Right now "cool" trumped "cold" in a huge way. I shook my head.

Archer shrugged, and we closed the distance between us and Nate.

"Hey, Nate," Archer said.

Nate looked up, but he didn't stop playing. He gave Archer a half smile that wiped out all my second thoughts. Then he turned to me.

Wow.

It sounds crazy, but I swear, the way he turned, it was clear he'd just meant to note who was with Archer, then turn right back again. Then he saw me, and it was as if his eyes stuck. He didn't smile, didn't stop playing his guitar, but he focused. On me. Oh. My. G.o.d.

"I'm Nate," he said.

I almost blew it right there. It was a sheer act of will that stopped me from bursting into giggles and babbling, "Of course you're Nate! I've only been studying you for several weeks and using every bit of my energy to plot and plan for this very moment, and now you think there's even the slightest chance I wouldn't know who you are?"

Thankfully, I did none of this. I remembered what Claudia had said. This was the new me. I had to own it. The new me didn't giggle and gush. I didn't even smile. I simply raised my chin in acknowledgment and responded with a single word: Cara.

It was my turn to get Nate's half smile. Oh, wow. Now I understood why you couldn't look directly at an eclipse. The head-on effect had to be like this: completely dizzying and disorienting.

Archer jumped in, taking Nate's attention long enough for me to catch my breath. "I checked out those Brubeck sessions online. Great stuff."

"Yeah," Nate said. "Cool, right?"

He bent back over his guitar. Archer looked at me. He had said what he'd come to say; I'd been introduced. Were we done?

Were we? I'd kind of imagined something more, although if I listened to my imagination, I'd expect Nate to leap off his rock at the first sight of me, pull me into his arms, and swear he'd never met anyone as enthralling as me in his entire life.

I had a very vivid imagination.

Archer and I had already turned to leave when I realized something: I knew the song Nate was strumming. It was on my reprogrammed iPod. I knew it ... and I loved it. It was actually one of my favorites.

"Hey," I said, nodding to Nate's guitar. "I know that song. 'Disenchanted,' right? My Chemical Romance."

Nate didn't stop playing, but he rewarded me with another gaze from those eyes, which I was beginning to believe had their own gravitational pull.

"Yeah," he said.