"Does it damage your hair?" Mom turns off the engine, making no move to get out.

"It hasn't damaged Jordan's."

Mom's lips are pressed into thin white lines. "Why are you doing this, Resa?"

"Doing what?"

"Is this because of that boy?" Mom grips the steering wheel, her knuckles paler than her lips.

"No." Yes, only not in the way Mom thinks. "I just didn't want orange hair anymore."

"And the earring and nail polish?"

"Just wanted a change." I shrug.

"Are you done, or will you come home with a nose ring next week?"

"Urgh, Mom." I roll my eyes and get out of the car, slamming the door behind me. Mom stays put, and I stalk into the house.

"Wow, Resa." Dad's in the kitchen making his signature coleslaw. "What happened?"

"I dyed my hair, that's all."

"But why?" He puts down the knife, wipes his cabbage-smeared hands, and comes toward me, reaching tentatively for my dark strands.

"Because I was sick of being a carrottop."

"Oh, sweetheart, your hair was lovely. It suited you. This...." Dad hesitates. "It makes you look different."

"Different good? Different bad?"

"Just... different. It'll take some getting used to." He kisses my forehead and returns to the chopping board. "Where's your Mom?"

"Still in the car recovering from the shock."

Dad nods. On my way to my bedroom, I hear the front door open and shut. Dad's probably gone out to console my mom. If she's going to have a meltdown about my change of hair color-just wait til I mention I want a breast reduction. Maybe all these little changes are good for her, gradually easing her toward accepting the bigger changes yet to come, and they're not going to be a b.l.o.o.d.y nose ring.

Mom looks as if she's been crying but says nothing about my hair or her bloodshot eyes at dinner. She burns the steaks. Something must be really wrong because Dad doesn't complain, and he usually would've given Mom a lecture about how to cook the perfect sirloin the way his mother did. It's my turn to do the dishes. Dad tells me he'll do them and gives me a wink. Leaving my parents to their whispered conversation and soapy water, I retreat to my bedroom and stare at my phone.

To SMS or to call, that is the question.

Twenty minutes later, I've typed and deleted umpteen versions of the same SMS, so I take a deep breath and call him instead. Gabriel answers on the second ring. I cut right to the chase, hoping to avoid any awkward discussion about G positions and kisses.

"There's an art expo at the school next Tuesday evening. Only the best works from grade ten to twelve will be on display. I was wondering if you wanted to come. It's a uniform event."

There's a moment where all I can hear is his breathing. "I have karate. What time?"

My heart shrinks two sizes. "Starts at six, but you can come anytime before nine."

"Is your work going to be on display?" he asks.

"No, I don't do art."

"Oh." He sounds disappointed.

"But Jordan's will be." Not sure why Gabriel would care about that.

"Okay, I'll be there, but I'll only make it closer to seven."

"That's great. See you then." I'm about to hang up when he says my name. "Yeah?"

"You coming to cla.s.s tomorrow?"

"Sure."

"Good. See you tomorrow." He hangs up, leaving me wishing we'd spoken about the piano lesson, because now I have to face him with the kiss hanging over us like a guillotine.

Gabriel

I'VE SKIPPED SKIPPED karate practice this week, partly because of my face and partly because I don't want to get naked in front of others with fresh burns on my leg. Scars people can ignore. Fresh wounds are harder to pretend don't exist. I lean against Nathan's car, squinting up at the ultramarine sky. Not even 9:00 a.m. and it's already spiking above twenty-five degrees. Will this summer never end? karate practice this week, partly because of my face and partly because I don't want to get naked in front of others with fresh burns on my leg. Scars people can ignore. Fresh wounds are harder to pretend don't exist. I lean against Nathan's car, squinting up at the ultramarine sky. Not even 9:00 a.m. and it's already spiking above twenty-five degrees. Will this summer never end?

Nathan dumps his gear in the back before studying my face. The bruise is yellow now, barely visible except to those who are used to giving and receiving punches.

"You didn't get that at the dojo," he says.

"Wouldn't be the first." I turn away. He grabs my chin and pulls my face toward his so we're eye to eye.

"Who's. .h.i.tting you?"

"It was an accident."

"Someone at school? Are you being bullied?"

"I'm a black belt, remember?"

He releases my chin. "Your father, then?"

"It was an accident." I look down, studying the pockmarked tar.

"Is that what he told you to say?"

"No. It's the truth." This time, at least.

"You should at least defend yourself, or do you let him hit you too?"

I meet his gaze, hating the look of pity in his eyes. "What the h.e.l.l do you know?"

"Nothing, Gabe, except what I see in my dojo week after week. You think I'm the only one who notices Sempai getting the c.r.a.p beaten out of him?"

"So what?"

"Nothing." He opens the door and slides in behind the wheel. Reluctantly, I get into the pa.s.senger seat. "But," he continues, "I know when one of my students is in trouble. I let you take it at the dojo because it's controlled and I can stop it if it goes too far. Knowing you get hit at home, that's different." He starts the car.

"It's not like I'm being abused or anything. Tons of kids get smacked around."

"Sure, my dad used to take off his belt and tan our backsides if we so much as put our elbows on the table. Doesn't make it okay."

I stare out the window, watching the street vendors setting up their roadside stalls: wood-carved giraffes and rainbow-colored beanbags, pirated DVDs and ethnic jewelry made in China. I can't help feeling nervous every time we stop at a robot. Even in broad daylight, I half expect men with masks and guns to descend, and I wasn't even in the car with my mom when it happened.

"Have you got someone to talk to?" Nathan asks.

"Like a shrink?"

"No, I mean like an adult who isn't your dad."

"I am an adult. Ag, it doesn't matter."

Muscles tighten along his jaw. "Of course it matters. Have you spoken to anyone since your mom died?"

"Jesus, when did you get a degree in psychology? So I let people hit me. I'm not going to kill myself." Although throwing myself out of the car right now is rather appealing. I'd be crushed instantly by the taxi in the lane beside us. Probably wouldn't even feel the breaks and abrasions before the tires crunched over my skull. My hand finds the door lock and pops it open.

"How's piano going?" Nathan asks, catching me off guard. "When's that big exam again?"

"Whenever I'm ready."

"When's that?"

"Who knows?" The practical part is easy; the theory and everything else is not.

"How many pieces have you got?"

"Four."

"Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, and?" A sly smile spreads across his face.

"Beethoven and Bach, yes. Then Schumann and Rachmaninoff." I lock the door again and take a deep breath before going into detail. Not that Nathan knows much about art music, but he listens, and that's enough.

TREASA DYED DYED her hair. She's destroyed the one thing that made her truly magnificent, making herself ordinary instead. Goodbye Celtic princess; h.e.l.lo bad dye job. The dark hair is at odds with her pale eyebrows and gingerbread freckles and just looks wrong. She's not my girlfriend. We kissed once. If she wants to dye her hair or even shave it all off, it's none of my business. her hair. She's destroyed the one thing that made her truly magnificent, making herself ordinary instead. Goodbye Celtic princess; h.e.l.lo bad dye job. The dark hair is at odds with her pale eyebrows and gingerbread freckles and just looks wrong. She's not my girlfriend. We kissed once. If she wants to dye her hair or even shave it all off, it's none of my business.

"You like it?" she asks. I don't know how to answer that when we're surrounded by a dozen others in the gym hall about to start tossing one another onto the mat.

"It's different."

"I think it looks awesome. Makes her look older, s.e.xier." Jordan winks at me, and I want to smack her. Older? A little, maybe. s.e.xier? No. Just harder and less like the lovely girl I've been pretending not to like as much as I do.

"She looks more like you." It comes out more bitter than intended, and Treasa looks confused while Jordan narrows her eyes at me and purses her lips.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jordan asks.

"Older, s.e.xier." I shrug, hoping it's enough of a backpedal.

"I'm thinking of cutting it too," Treasa says as she rakes back her curls into a ponytail.

"Don't."

"Why not?" She c.o.c.ks her head, waiting for an answer.

"Because...." I open and close my mouth, not sure I'm even ent.i.tled to an opinion here. Sensei summons me, and I give her an apologetic smile before slinking away. Would her having shorter hair make any difference to me? Would it change how I feel about her? No, because I don't have feelings for her.... I do... but I don't want to, and.... Easier to just let Sensei throw me to the ground repeatedly than think about Treasa.

DEAR M MOM,.

I wish you were here. I need some advice about this girl. She's different and a little odd, but I like that about her. She's smart and sings and isn't half-bad at karate. She's a bit young but doesn't seem immature at all. Thing is, there's a lot she doesn't know about me, and she called me "perfect." How do you tell someone you're not without disappointing them? I don't want to disappoint Treasa, but I feel like I should tell her the truth, that I'm the reason you're dead. I'm pretty sure she wouldn't look at me the same way if she knew. I don't deserve her looking at me in any way.Better to just forget all about Treasa, but I can't. She makes my world seem less gray and c.r.a.ppy. When she had her red hair, she was a literal splash of color on the world-not so much anymore, but she's still got those sad eyes and ginger freckles. Part of me wants to be perfect for her, and that's what's killing me.

My hand cramps up from pressing too hard with the pen. I let my gaze linger on a photo of Mom sitting on the beach near Durban, where we went every holiday, the wind whipping her hair into a blur in the background. She's smiling. Looking at her so alive and happy hurts catastrophically.

I bury the shoe box and memories under my bed and turn to my unfinished sonata instead. The second movement is finally taking shape, thanks in part to Treasa and the music she conjures in my mind. Maybe being with her wouldn't be such a bad thing. Maybe we could take it slow. No harm in holding hands and the occasional kiss, right? Maybe she won't hate me that much when I tell her the truth.

Treasa

JORDAN'S NOT NOT nearly as nervous as I am, and I'm not the one baring my soul to the world by exhibiting my art. We've been busy all afternoon in the main library, clearing away tables and setting up the installations. Hannah and her posse have ignored us, speaking in monosyllables only when they need something like an extra easel or more duct tape, content to skiff us the rest of the time. Candyce is conspicuous by her absence. Thought she would've been here cheering on Hannah, but it seems she's left that to Gillian. nearly as nervous as I am, and I'm not the one baring my soul to the world by exhibiting my art. We've been busy all afternoon in the main library, clearing away tables and setting up the installations. Hannah and her posse have ignored us, speaking in monosyllables only when they need something like an extra easel or more duct tape, content to skiff us the rest of the time. Candyce is conspicuous by her absence. Thought she would've been here cheering on Hannah, but it seems she's left that to Gillian.

Lethi, Sibo, and I pin up charcoal sketches on the backboard, forming winglike extensions on either side of Jordan's central work-the one I have yet to see.