Donya nods. “I would write your letter to Jamie. Explain how you feel. What you need from her. Give her some time to digest her anger about you and Dawn. Go from there. You can contact Dawn if you want to. You’ve formed a caring, supportive relationship with her, and you don’t have many of those. You don’t have to isolate yourself.”

I bite my lip.

“We can meet again tomorrow if that works, Siri. Talk to Jamie tonight. You can do it.”

87. A Girl Has Some Work to Do

JAMIE

September 9, Wednesday Evening

New Jersey

I got a job here! I start on Monday. That’s pretty cool.

When the stylist (Maggie, originally from Kansas, but moved out to New York to get a taste of city life and hone her craft) peels away the black salon cape, I finally look like myself.

Outside, strolling the streets of New York alongside the hustlers and the blaring horns, I feel like myself again. Confident. Grounded. Like I might have the power to turn this shit show around. Maggie has faith in me. She laughed at my jokes quite a bit too.

It’s bizarre how something as simple as a haircut and color can catapult you into a new mindset. Yes, it is indeed used to drive the protagonist forward in every movie ever, and it’s become a laughable cliché, but it’s a cliché for a reason. It’s real. It’s kind of like that feeling you have at the start of a new year. The illusion of a fresh start. Like you hit the reset button on you, and you’ve earned permission to be better.

I thought of five more potential set joke ideas while my hair was soaking, so I use the train ride home to draw them out of my brain and into my notebook.

I walk home to Papa’s from the train station. He told me last night I’m welcome to stay as long as I want, and gave me a copy of his key. The man really is the sweetest, and it’s a damn shame I haven’t been able to get to know him till now. His car is in the driveway.

“Hey, Pops!” I greet, pushing open the front door.

I don’t know why I’m so shocked to see Siri in the kitchen with him, but I freeze up like there’s a bear in the room. She’s making dinner … and it smells amazing. Like, brie macaroni and cheese?

Siri spins toward me in a black feather-patterned apron. “You’re home.” She points at me with a wooden spoon. “I’m making your favorite: weird brie mac and cheese and grilled-apple sandwiches.”

I blink at her. “Um … yesterday I screamed at you, and then assaulted you, correct?”