I should be in that family picture over the fireplace. I should know Gill and George. I should have been made a part of this.

I plant myself in front of the last picture before the door to Siri’s room: preteen Siri and an old white man with gray hair and clear-rimmed glasses, wearing a collared shirt with a sweater vest, sitting on the front steps. Her papa.

My papa. I don’t remember much about him from before. The way Siri talked about him, they’re close—

“GAH!” An electric doorbell set to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” scares the shit out of me. Who the hell is here?

I abandon the picture. There’s a vague outline of a man through the thin translucent window on the side of the front door.

A knock comes now. “Siri Martine, it’s Papa! Your mother said she dropped you here and had to leave for work?”

I fumble down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“Coming!” I lunge forward and pry open the door.

A second later I’m scooped into a hug by the same kind-faced pale old man from the hallway.

“Sweetheart, we missed you! Great to have you home.”

“Hey, Papa,” I return hesitantly. “It’s late.”

Seriously, it’s ten o’clock. Isn’t that late for old people? Grams is usually in bed by eleven.

He reaches down to where he’s rested a large pink, orange, and white box. He holds it up in offering. “How about some checkers and donuts?”

39. Angst and Salons

SIRI

September 3, Thursday Evening

California

There is bleach in my hair.

Whatever’s happening right now is very confusing. I watched as the stylist picked up chunks of Jamie’s hair in the mirror, but I felt her picking up my hair. She commented on how strange the texture was as opposed to how it looked, and I sat here nonplussed.

Aluminum foil, bleach, and whatever other chemicals they use are all over my head. In my actual, carefully curated, healthy hair. Draining away the color and the nutrients and hydration. I can feel it. The acrid smell and sting of it is on me, not just the glamour. It’s taking all my willpower not to cry.

The only choice I got to make here was the shade of blond, so I went with the gray variety.

What’s going to happen when they take the foil off? Will the illusion hair still be neon orange? Am I going to turn into a lab experiment? Who the underworld knows!

The saving grace of this fiasco is that Dawn can tell I’m in major distress, and she’s trying her best to calm me down. She’s on the salon chair next to me, jabbering away about the week she’s had. She filled me in on all sorts of “Duck Waterfall” news as the stylist mixed and slathered my head with gook.