"It's - it's different," Tasha admitted. "Not exactly like the picture on the box, though. It's more . . . orange."

"I think I'd call it dark gold," Amy said.

Tasha's head bobbed up and down. "Absolutely. It's gold. And it's interesting. Personally, I think it's a lot better to be interesting than just ordinary pretty."

They both heard a door slam downstairs, and Amy jumped. It couldn't be Tasha's parents - they didn't slam doors.

A few seconds later Eric bounded up the stairs and appeared in the doorway. "Hi, what's . . ." He wasn't able to finish his question with "up." He froze and stared at Amy.

Amy didn't need supersensitivity to realize that there was no admiration in his expression. Eric was clearly aghast.

"What did you do?" he cried out.

Amy tried to sound casual. "I dyed my hair. It's no big deal. I just felt like a change."

"Have you gone crazy?" Eric asked bluntly.

She touched her hair self-consciously again. "You don't like it?"

"No."

"Well, that's too bad," Amy said defiantly. "Because I do. And if you want to break up with me because you don't like my hair, then go right ahead. I don't care."

"I didn't say anything about breaking up," Eric objected.

"You're thinking it," Amy accused him. "You're thinking that you don't want to see me anymore."

"No, I'm not," Eric replied. "But you're right, I might not see you anymore. Because I'm thinking that your mother is going to kill you."

"Don't be ridiculous," Amy said loftily.

But Eric wasn't far from wrong.

6.

"Amy! How could you do something like that!"

Amy had never seen her mother so angry. It was unnerving. She coped by acting nonchalant. "It's no big deal, Mom. It's not like I had it cut. You never said anything about not coloring it."

"But you shouldn't have done something like that without asking me first!"

Amy knew her mother was right, which made her more defensive. "I couldn't ask you! You'd just have said no!"

"Of course I'd have said no! You're much too young to be dying your hair. And it could be dangerous!"

Amy rolled her eyes. "How can hair color be dangerous?" she shouted. "Will I get split ends or something?"

"Don't you use that tone of voice with me, young lady. You know perfectly well why it could be dangerous. You're not like other people. We have no idea how certain things might affect you, how your body could respond to particular chemicals! Amy, doing something like this to yourself - you could harm yourself permanently! You could kill yourself!"

Amy hadn't considered that, and the thought sent chills down to her toes. But she refused to let her mother think she was right. "Or maybe it could turn me into a real normal person," she shot back. "Only I could never be real and normal, could I? Because I don't even have a real and normal mother."

Nancy stood very still, and Amy wondered if she'd gone too far.

She had.

When Nancy finally spoke, her voice was calm and deadly serious. "Amy, I may not be your real mother, and I may not be a normal mother. But I'm the only mother you have, and you are legally my daughter. That gives me the right to tell you that what you did was wrong. And it gives me the right to punish you. You're grounded for a week."

All her superior skills couldn't help Amy come up with a response. So she did the only thing she could think of. She turned away and stormed up the stairs to her room, where she slammed the door and threw herself on her bed.

She didn't cry. She was too angry to cry. She'd never been grounded before in her life. Of course, she'd never done anything as stupid as this in her life. Even so, she would never, never admit that she could see her mother's point of view.

Dinnertime came and went. Amy hadn't budged from her room, and Nancy hadn't come up to get her. Fortunately, Amy had a candy bar stashed in her desk drawer, so she didn't starve. But she wasn't feeling particularly full when she went to bed that night.

Maybe that was why she didn't sleep well. She didn't have any weird dreams, but she kept waking up and feeling unlike herself. The third time she woke up, she decided she was thirsty. And she didn't want water from the tap in the bathroom - she wanted the bubbly kind they kept in the refrigerator.

Tiptoeing down the stairs and into the kitchen, Amy took out a bottle of mineral water and poured some into a gla.s.s. It was very refreshing. As she drank a second gla.s.sful, her eyes went to the window that faced the street. She almost choked, and her hand tightened on the gla.s.s so she wouldn't drop it. Someone was out there. Watching her.

She'd heard about deja vu, when a person experienced something they were sure they'd been through before. But it had never happened to her. Now, looking at the window, she remembered a time when she'd seen someone out there, staring at her.

That time the person had turned out to be a photographer hired by the organization to find her and take pictures of her. She recalled the flash of the man's camera as he tried to photograph her from across the street in the dead of night.

This person wasn't holding a camera. Amy concentrated and focused her vision to overcome the distance and the darkness. With some effort, she could make out the figure across the street.

And she recognized her, even though the woman wasn't driving a bright blue convertible sports car. It was definitely the woman who had asked her for directions and had approached her at the mall.

The name came back to her easily. Camilla.

What was she doing out there? Why was she watching Amy? Amy didn't have the slightest idea. That last time, with the photographer, she hadn't known why he was lurking there either. She'd been afraid. . . .

Funny how she didn't feel afraid this time.

7.

"Where's Tasha?" Amy asked Eric when she found him standing alone on her doorstep the next morning.

"She left early. She wanted to use one of the fast computers in the media center." He was staring at Amy. "Didn't you wash your hair this morning?"

"Of course I washed my hair. I wash my hair every morning."

"Isn't that stuff supposed to wash out?"

"No," Amy replied shortly. "It grows out." Determined not to feel self-conscious, she'd decided to pretend this was exactly how she wanted her hair to look. She'd even worn her black jeans with a black T-shirt to go with her new look. Her orange hair was pulled back tightly in a ponytail, and she'd fixed stick-on rhinestones to her earlobes.

"Did your mother go ballistic?" Eric asked.

"I'm grounded."

"You're grounded!"

Amy nodded glumly. "For a week."

Eric looked at her in dismay. "That means you can't come to my game Friday night!"

"I can't go anywhere."

He sighed. "I guess I can't blame your mother. I mean, this is the kind of thing you expect to get grounded for."

She looked at him in annoyance. Was he actually taking her mother's side?

"At least it's only for a week," he continued. "But it's too bad you're going to miss my game. I think I play better when I know you're watching me."

Now she was getting really irritated. He wasn't just backing her mother, he was only thinking about himself. She'd planned to tell him about seeing Camilla the night before, but faced with that att.i.tude, she didn't bother. He'd probably insist on going back and telling Nancy right that minute.

She hadn't told her mother about Camilla either. Nancy had been running around that morning, trying to get ready for some early meeting, and they'd barely spoken. And after the confrontation over her hair, Amy wasn't in the mood to share any confidences with her mother anyway.

Eric misread her silence. "You know, your hair really doesn't look all that bad," he said kindly.

"Thanks a lot," she muttered. She figured Eric was so concerned with himself and his upcoming basketball game that he probably missed the sarcasm in her voice. Personally, even though she wasn't thrilled with her hair color, she knew it was a big fad among the girls at school to use strawberry or raspberry powdered fruit drink to make a more permanent color change. She often saw girls walking around school with pink-tinged hair. Her own orange locks wouldn't look that outrageous.

"I was grounded once for a month," Eric was saying now. "I can't even remember why now. Really, a week isn't so bad."

She let him go on thinking she was upset about having orange hair and being grounded, when she really had much bigger things on her mind. Like finding out exactly who Camilla was. And why she was so interested in Amy.

Amy just couldn't believe Camilla was involved with the organization. Sure, the organization had top-notch agents. She remembered, all too well, the man her mother had dated for a while, the one who'd seemed so wonderful. Amy had really liked him. And he'd turned out to be one of them.

But Camilla had exuded warmth and sincerity. Still, Amy had to be realistic. Camilla could be an enemy. Amy didn't know what to think. So as she went into the school building, she tried not to think at all.

The hair was helpful. She got a lot of attention. Most of her cla.s.smates approved of anyone who did or wore something wild, so the majority of the comments were friendly. But she wasn't at all surprised when she reached her homeroom and Jeanine gaped in a way that was definitely not complimentary.

"Amy, what happened to you?" Jeanine said reprovingly, and loudly enough for anyone within a ten-mile radius to hear. "If you want to change your hair color, you should really go to a professional." She circled Amy, examining her hair critically. "You've got about six different shades here," she declared triumphantly. "And you missed spots."

Jeanine's little fan club erupted into a chorus of giggles. Amy ignored them. "A beauty salon is very expensive, Jeanine. Some of us don't get the kind of allowance that's lavished on you."

Now it was Amy's turn to receive support from some cla.s.smates. No one liked the way Jeanine flaunted her wealth.

Jeanine scowled. "I hope Tasha doesn't think I'm rich. Like I said yesterday, she gets one week to find my parents." After a moment she added, "Well, maybe two. But only if she shows me she's making progress by the end of the first week. Tell her that."

"Tell her yourself," Amy said.

Jeanine gave her a hurt look. "Amy, this is a very difficult time for me." She placed a hand over her heart. "You could try to be a little more understanding and helpful." She punctuated this with a sniff, as if she was struggling to hold back a sob.

Like she was the only person in the world who had problems, Amy thought. She wondered how Jeanine would react if she heard of Amy's predicament with Camilla.

The mere thought made Amy shudder. She certainly couldn't expect any compa.s.sion from Jeanine. Instead, Jeanine would probably relish creating even more problems - really big problems - with any information that came her way. Yes, there were good reasons to keep her secrets very secret. Thank goodness she had Tasha and Eric to talk to. And her mother, of course. Well, at least she used to be able to talk to her mother.

It wasn't an easy day for Amy. Comments and compliments about her hair couldn't distract her from the more serious issue on her mind. In the cla.s.srooms that faced the school parking lot, she kept her eyes peeled for a glimpse of the bright blue sports car. She was reprimanded by teachers several times for not paying attention.

When she had a cla.s.s in a room without a view, she came up with a variety of excuses to step out so she could take a peek into the parking lot. Teachers in those cla.s.ses kept asking her if she was feeling okay.

At lunchtime Tasha wasn't at their usual table in the cafeteria. Amy found her in the media center, glued to a computer and munching a sandwich she'd brought from home. She barely acknowledged Amy's presence.

"This computer is so much faster than mine," she murmured. "I can get into a Web site in less than half a second."

"How's it going?" Amy asked.

"Okay." Tasha looked at Amy. "I heard you got grounded. That stinks."

Amy appreciated her friend's sympathy. "Yeah. It's just for a week, so I'll survive. Listen, in homeroom Jeanine was saying maybe she'll give you an extra week."

"Great, I'll need it."

Amy wasn't sure whether Tasha was referring to the extra time or the extra money. Probably both. In any case, Tasha was practically twitching with impatience to get back to her work, and Amy decided to tell her later about seeing Camilla.

But Tasha stayed at school to use the fancy computer for the hour that the media center remained open after cla.s.ses. And Eric had basketball practice. So Amy walked home alone, with ample time to ponder her situation.

Fortunately, when she turned the corner onto her street, something distracted her. A police car was parked practically in front of her house.

Her step and her heartbeat quickened at the same time. Wild notions ran through her head - maybe Camilla had tried to break into her house and a neighbor had seen her and called the police. . . .

But there was no sign of the mysterious Camilla. The Candlers' next-door neighbor, Monica Jackson, was outside talking to two police officers.

Monica was an artist, and practically every week she chose a single color and devoted herself to wearing it. This week she was in shades of violet - and that included her hair. When Monica had first moved in, Amy had thought she was a little strange, but now she was used to her. And since this was Los Angeles, where there were a lot of offbeat people, the police officers didn't seem startled by Monica's appearance at all.

Whatever had happened to Monica couldn't have been too terrible, because when she saw Amy approaching, a huge smile broke out on her face and she clapped her hands. "Amy, sweetie, I love your hair!"

"Thanks," Amy said. "What's going on?"

Monica's smile vanished. "I was in a little accident. Not my fault, of course."

Amy could now see Monica's banged-up old car in the driveway. It was a little - no, a lot more banged up than before. There was a fresh dent in the front pa.s.senger door.

"I was sideswiped by a creep in a black limo," Monica told her. "Then the creep took off. He hit and ran." She turned to the police. "That's a crime, right?"

Amy hoped the limo driver wasn't the brother of Eric's friend. But that wasn't too likely. Los Angeles was crawling with limousines.

"Can you do something to find him?" Monica pleaded with the police.