Hello August, Please Be Good To Me

Chapter 21: Thick Hair, Kinda Care

My dad won't let me leave the house, which is fine because Justin won't talk to me anyway, and I'm just about ready for earth to swallow me up. I caught the street bus back to my neighborhood, near the library, and walked the rest of the way home, leaving a message for Justin not to wait for me. And that I was sorry. Again. No calls, and no texts. My dad was on the couch watching TV when I stepped in the house, and he muted it, turning to face me. I was right. He was upset. He didn't yell, but instead leaned over with his arms on his legs and hands over his head. "Lyric," he began, "who is Justin?" So I checked my phone again, hoping, wishing, and told my father about my boyfriend, in less than fifteen seconds, all the while images of the tense car ride filling my head. "I want to talk to have a talk with him, but until then, no more leaving the house the house whenever. And when I call you, I expect you to answer, not leave a message, AND THAT GOES FOR YOUR BROTHER TOO!" his voice carries into the back room, where Danté apparently is. I could bring up the fact that I'm eighteen. I could argue that I'll be going to college sooner than later. I stand my ground and I could say plenty of things but I stay silent. My phone is still silent. I'll be in this house forever because Justin won't even talk to me, let alone go through whatever questionnaire my dad has (that my brother and his girlfriend never went through).

In my room, I take the dying flowers in the vase and throw them away. I don't need a reminder of my emotional state. I go in the bathroom begin the process of washing my hair. The wet coils hang low, wetting the back of my shirt, and I lather shampoo and conditioner together, combing out my hair in sections. I've always been tender-headed and I never let anyone else do my hair if I can help it. My arm starts to ache, and there are multiple times I stand with my hands on my hips to give my arm a break before starting again. When I start it after two, and when my hair detangled, dry, and shrunken from the blow dryer, it's nearly six fifteen. I plug in my flat iron and go through my hair, which takes another three hours. My brother jokes about burning hair, and my dad flips on the fans, but I don't laugh, and I don't say anything. My focus is my hair. Not the pain of losing Justin. Not my own conflicting emotions. Not my incarceration in my own house. I take a strand of hair, rub a hair cream on it, and pass the flat iron through once. I burn myself multiple times, and the sweat builds under my pits and on my face and chest, but eventually it's all straight. I glance at myself in the mirror, carefully not to stare in my own eyes. I reach in the cabinet and pull out the hair scissors, which are just a pair from the Dollar Store that don't get used for anything else. My hair has been growing, and I've never trimmed or cut it, leaving it to the length almost to my butt. Nobody can ever guess by the way I usually wear my hair, and now nobody will ever know.

The house is dark and quiet except for the now flickering light in the bathroom, and the snip of the blade against my hair. Instead of cutting it a little past my shoulders like I planned, my handiwork leads to my longest strand of hair coming half way down my neck. At random, a thought hits me, and I remember it the next morning, as I'm getting ready. "Dad," I say, keys in my hand. He's up the same time I am, pouring a bowl of cereal. When he looks up at me, he takes a step back and grins. "I like what you did to your hair," he says, but I just stand in the doorway and nod. "I have to go to work," I say in response, and understanding shows on his face, as we both remember last night. "Well, you go to work, and you come home right after," he says, and I nod again. I've grown up my whole life saying 'yes sir/no sir', being as respectful as I can, and I love my dad just like I love my brother. That word love. I head out the door and don't say anything else. I'm at the mall so early that my shift hasn't even started. I walk around the mall, but in a dazed state but I keep taking my phone out my pocket hoping he'll call me just to check up on me. Then I go to his Instagram page, and look at the same twenty photos I've seen plenty times before. Justin with this girl. Justin with that girl. All of them pretty and all of them wishing they were the one dating Justin. I notice that the picture of him and Amanda from many weeks ago is deleted, and for some reason this makes me happy. Then I go to my page, filled with posts of movie quotes I've fell in love with, and the same bio I've had since tenth grade.

I take out my phone and begin to click on Justin's name, but instead change my mind and call Cat telling her to cover my shift because I'm sick. Then I leave the mall and drive to the Regal Theater not too far from the mall. I check the times for a G or PG rated movie, buy my ticket and popcorn, and settle into the near empty theater room. So far I've done an excellent job of not thinking of Justin...

I seize my phone in the middle of the movie trailers and call his number. He doesn't answer. I don't text him. I continue to call his number, hanging up each time the voice mail comes on. It's over. We're over.