Breathe Me || Completed

17.1

17.1 - Chris

The first thing we do is cut Chris's hair.

It doesn't take all that long. He sits on a bar stool Samantha dragged in from the kitchen, hair draped back over the bathroom sink. Sam sits up on the counter, running her fingers through Chris's wavy brown locks. "How short do you want it?" she asks.

Chris shrugs. "As short as you can get it."

So Samantha puts down the scissors and delves into the bathroom closet instead. She reemerges with a small maroon case in her hand.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Clippers," she says. She opens the case and inside is an electric shaver and many colorful attachments for different lengths of hair. Samantha chooses the longest one first. "Just for the initial shave," she tells Chris.

I sit down on the edge of the bath, biting my lip as Samantha affixes the attachment to the shaver. Chris has is eyes closed, lips pressed together. "You sure about this, Chris?" I ask. He doesn't look too sure.

But Chris nods, still not opening his eyes. "I've always wanted to do this." He sort of laughs.

"At least you won't be recognized," mumbles Samantha, staring at Chris's roots. "We need that now that there's so fucking many of us."

I wince. "Sam. It's just three."

Samantha places the razor on Chris's forehead, the blades catching onto strands of hair, and then suddenly and earth-shakingly as construction equipment, the razor begins to vibrate, shearing off every lock of hair it touches. Samantha just grimaces, moving the razor slowly over Chris's head, holding it steady with her other hand on his ear. "Three is a lot," she says.

Chris opens his eyes, meets mine. I'm supposed to defend him, I guess, but it's hard to argue against someone who states every word as pure fact. So I say nothing.

"Look, I won't cause you guys any trouble," says Chris. "I promise."

Samantha mutters something to herself, starting on another strip of hair. She's giving Chris what looks like a reverse mohawk. "How much money do you have?" she demands.

"With me?" asks Chris. "I have fifty dollars. It was for gift shops and stuff while we were here . . ." He sees Samantha's disapproving glare and adds, "Back in Concord I have at least one hundred dollars saved up, if we can go back and --"

"No!" snaps Samantha. "We're not fucking going back. We're already putting ourselves in danger by staying here."

She's right, of course, but Chris's face falls. "Oh. It's really not that far, though, if we could just--"

"I said fucking no," says Samantha.

Chris's gaze falls to me once again. "What do you think, Sally? Couldn't we use the money?"

I swallow. Ugh, not this, not this, not this. They're both looking at me, one set of eyes pleading and the other icily furious. The clippers buzz in Samantha's hand like a threatening weapon.

"I don't know," I squeak.

"Look," says Samantha, going back to her shaving. "I'm not really sold on taking you will us at all, anyways. All you're gonna do is slow us down and make us easier to identify. Why should we take you?"

Again, soft olive eyes are begging me, say something, defend me. But Samantha's words are so strong and irrefutable. My throat feels dry.

Chris says, "I promise, you don't have to pay for my food or anything. I'll take care of myself. Just. . . I can't go back home. I won't. I hate having to pretend to be someone I'm not. I don't think I can do it anymore, even if it's just for two more years."

"Then why don't you run away on your own fucking time," grumbles Samantha. "Leave us out of it."

"Because . . . Haven't you ever just wanted to be with people who accept you? I haven't had, y'know, real friends in a long time. I just thought--"

"Well whatever you thought, you thought wrong," says Samantha. "I'm not your fucking friend."

I look around Sydney's bathroom, thinking how similar she and my icy blue-eyed goddess are. Am I the Kayla to Samantha's Syd? I think of the pictures on the dresser. No, I don't think so. We could never love each other that innocently, that sweetly.

Chris looks down at his hands as his hair piles up in the sink like the corpse of a road-killed animal. "Well," he says.

Finally, I clear my throat and force myself to speak. I don't know where the words come from, but they leap from my throat strong and clear as a hurricane: "You're my friend," I say. "And you're coming with us."

Samantha lets the clippers fall to her side. She turns to look at me, dark, deep blue eye raging with a new storm, this one directed right at me. "Excuse me," she said. "I didn't realize you were in charge here."

"Well, I didn't realize you were, either." Where is this fearless voice coming from? How am I glaring back at her, ricocheting back her own intensity, when on this inside my heart is quaking with terror? "We're supposed to be in this together," I say to Samantha. "And if Chris wants to come, I don't see why not."

Samantha waves the clippers in the air, practically screaming, "How can you not see why not? Haven't you been listening to anything I just said?!"

"And weren't you listening to anything he just told you?" I say, the ferocity in my voice startling me. "Samantha, you wanted to get away so, so bad. You know how that feels. Why can't you just take your head out of your ass for one fucking second and use your experience, your life to fucking help someone for once instead of just moping around and being a total bitch all the time?"

There's a lot of silence. Then Samantha leaves.

I shave the rest of Chris's head myself.