“Oh,” Ruby says. “It must be the mineral kind. My mom makes me wear it, too, because I burn like crazy. You have to rub it in really well. Otherwise it does, you know, that.”

“Thanks, Ruby,” I say as the bus pulls up to the school. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom to fix this. See you at lunch.”

“Do you want me to come?” she asks in a small voice.

“No. No, it’s okay.”

I keep my eyes on my shoes as I weave through the halls and into the first bathroom I see. I look at my chalky face under my ridiculously crooked bangs in the mirror, then grab a handful of paper towels, soak them in water, and begin to scrub.

“Emma?”

I whirl around to see Ms. Singh standing in the doorway.

“Did you know you’re in the staff bathroom?” she asks gently.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I had a sunscreen emergency.”

“A sunscreen emergency,” she echoes, nodding. “Right. Are you good now?”

“Um, yeah,” I reply. “Except my bangs. But I can’t really fix those.”

Ms. Singh takes a few steps toward me and brushes lightly through my bangs, studying them. “It’s not so bad,” she says. “Hold on a minute. Stay here. If anyone else comes, tell them you have my permission. All right?”

I nod, and she disappears through the door. A few minutes later, she comes back holding a small pair of scissors. “Trust me?” she asks, holding them up.

“Should I?”

“My mom was a hairdresser. I learned some things.”

Trying not to think about how weird it is to get a haircut from your teacher in the bathroom at school, I close my eyes.

I feel the scissors snip through my hair, but not in the same way I did it this morning. Ms. Singh has a lighter touch and cuts kind of upward instead of straight across.

“Um, Ms. Singh?” I say, eyes still closed. I feel like this will be less awkward if one of us is talking.

“Yes?”

Snip.

“You’re an English teacher.”

Snip, snip.

“Can’t get anything past you, can I?” she says with a little laugh.

“Do you like to write? Like stories or poetry or anything?”

The snipping stops for a moment. “Sure,” she says. “Sometimes. Why do you ask?”

“Well, how do you decide what your story is supposed to be about?”

Snip, snip, snip.

“That’s tricky,” says Ms. Singh. “But I guess I would say that you should write about what’s in your heart. About something that’s important to you.”

“Yeah. That’s good advice.”

Snip.

“Are you writing a story?”

“Kind of. Yes.”

I decide to leave out the fact that I have a mysterious pen pal who is helping me write it.

“That’s wonderful! There, now look,” Ms. Singh says, squeezing my shoulders.