A banner week for me. Getting short-listed for the director spot. Nate asking me about the dance. My first period. And now my first criminal act.

After I fixed myself up, I dug into my backpack for my brush and emerged instead with the tube of hair color. I lifted it. My reflection in the mirror grinned back.

Why not add "first skipped class" and "first dye job" to the list? Coloring my hair at the school bathroom sink wouldn't be easy, but it would probably be simpler than at home, with Annette hovering.

Dying a dozen bright red streaks took twenty minutes. I'd had to take off my shirt to avoid getting dye on it, so I was standing over the sink in my bra and jeans. Luckily no one came in.

I finished squeezing the strands dry with paper towel, took a deep breath, looked . . . and smiled. Kari had been right. It did look good. Annette would freak. My dad might notice. Might even get mad. But I was pretty sure no one was going to hand me a twelve-and-under menu anymore.

The door creaked. I shoved the towels in the trash, grabbed my shirt, and dashed into a stall. I barely had time to latch the door before the other girl started crying. I glanced over and saw a pair of Reeboks in the next stall.

Should I ask whether she was okay? Or would that embarrass her?

The toilet flushed and the shadow at my feet shifted. The stall lock clicked open. When the taps started, though, her sobs got even louder.

The water shut off. The towel roll squeaked. Paper crumpled. The door opened. It shut. The crying continued.

A cold finger slid down my spine. I told myself she'd changed her mind, and was staying until she got things under control, but the crying was right beside me. In the next stall.

I squeezed my hands into fists. It was just my imagination.

I slowly bent. No shoes under the divider. I ducked farther. No shoes in any of the stalls. The crying stopped.