JESSE: Your dad grounded you?

HEATHER: Who told you?

Heather knows the answer, but since she was honest, she’s curious to find out if he’ll be honest back.

JESSE: Kerrianne told Mason. Mason told me. For how long?

HEATHER: Until I dye it back or leave for college. So college.

JESSE: That long?

HEATHER: Yup. But you knew that.

She’d expected her dad to be angry, to ground her, but his reaction was way over the top. He yelled, called her horrible names. And even when she explained about the assignment and her reasons for dyeing her hair, he wouldn’t listen. She didn’t expect him to.

JESSE: I was hoping it wasn’t true. It’s just hair dye. It doesn’t change who you are. Maybe I could explain that to your dad?

Will he ever get it? Heather wonders.

HEATHER: I don’t think so.

JESSE: What can I do?

HEATHER: I don’t understand the question.

JESSE: You used to like me. I like you too.

HEATHER: And you show it by being an asshole?

JESSE: I was drunk. It was a party. Parties are supposed to be fun.

HEATHER: Being groped by you was not fun. Having Mason pull you off me was not fun.

JESSE: That was last summer. I thought you’d forgive me by now.

HEATHER: Proof you’re an asshole.

JESSE: I really am sorry.

HEATHER: Why are you texting me, Jesse?

JESSE: I don’t want you to be angry with me.

HEATHER: I’m not angry anymore. I just don’t want to be with you. That’s final.

Heather blocks him on her phone, then tosses it onto her unmade bed. Restless, she gets up, walks around her room that’s both her safe place and her prison. Standing in front of her mirror, she takes a good look at herself. Changing the color of her hair no longer feels like enough. She needs more, but what’s more?

Jesse sits back on the couch. Anger rises, not toward Heather but toward Cade and Logan. He smashes his fist into a pillow, then picks it up and whips it at the wall. It’s their fault Heather won’t give him a second chance. Their fault for planting ideas in her head, and how dare they challenge Mr. Bartley. Traitors.

The memory of kissing Heather on the moonlit beach frustrates him. He wipes his mouth, disgusted with himself, disgusted with her. He stands, rubs his shoes on the carpet. Heather and her blue hair aren’t worth the dirt under his feet.

Heather opens her top desk drawer, takes out scissors, grabs a chunk of hair, and—