Emily tore a tissue from the vanity and held that out to me, too. The color bled onto my skin and I looked like a child who had just eaten a Popsicle. The red made my exhaustion more pronounced, brought out my tired-looking skin, my puffy eyes. Her expression was still inscrutable. I couldn’t tell if she was mocking me or being kind. She had stepped close enough that I saw there was a spatter of freckles, softened by foundation and powder, across the bridge of her nose. “Good girl,” Emily said, taking the tissue from me after I blotted what I could of the mess. “Now let’s get this show on the road, huh?” She had a slight accent that emerged then, a Midwestern pull on her vowels. I wanted to ask her what she was doing here—at the spa, at the casino—but she had already turned and started to walk away.

Emily led me down a hallway that was as bright and sterile as a hospital. We passed through a small room that she called the color dispensary, which was filled with shelves of boxed hair dye. Rings of fake hair hung from hooks on the walls, swatches in every color from bleach blonde to blue-black. The ammoniac smell in the air and rows of small brushes laid out to dry next to the sink reminded me of Ramona. I wondered if she would still use the small room in Matthew’s studio. Maybe now that she had made a name for herself she would rent a studio of her own. An old factory building with huge windows that flooded with light every morning. Exposed brick, wide plank wood floors. Fuck her, I thought. But I still couldn’t make myself believe I really meant it.

Emily stopped so abruptly that I bumped into her back. My hands went out in front of me automatically and I felt the knobs of her spine through her jacket. Blood bloomed in my face, and I pulled my hands back as though I’d touched something hot.

“I’m … God. Sorry,” I stammered.

“Relax, okay? I just wanted to warn you, she’s a bitch to everyone, so don’t take it personally. I’m cutting my hours this fall so I can take more classes, so you’ll be picking up the slack a few days a week—she needs you. But this location has been underperforming since we opened, and it’s her head on the chopping block, so she’s wound especially tight right now. Heads up.”

I must have looked pathetic, terrified. I wanted to ask her what, exactly, was so bad. What was I getting into? But she jerked her head in the direction of another door, paused in front of it, and rapped on the frame. A weary voice permitted us to come in.