I stood in a shaft of Saturday morning sun that was streaming through the bathroom window. The light turned my normally mousy-brown hair to a glistening spun gold in a way I hadn’t noticed before. It looked almost as if the color had lightened overnight to a beautiful honey blonde.
Shaking off the distraction of my hair, I inspected my face. I saw no injuries or scrapes and still no evidence of the abrasions that had been there the evening before. In fact, I was as good as new, the skin on my arm, hip and leg having healed as well.
“What is going on?” I asked my reflection.
Having no answers, I pushed the troubling thought aside and focused on the day ahead and skirting Dad’s questions about where my scratches had gone.
After a quick shower, I dressed and went out to the garage, knowing Dad would already be out there. And he was. Still working on the exhaust, too.
With an internal sigh of gratitude, I slipped into our routine. For once, it was welcome and comforting.
After lunch, I was helping Dad with the Flowmaster mufflers, tightening up some bolts he had started for me while he held the muffler assembly in place. He had been grilling me about engine parts. Any time we worked on a project, he used the time to teach me everything there was to know about the subject and then quizzed me relentlessly about it until we were finished. Today was no exception.
I had both hands on the wrench, straining to make the bolts as tight as I could when Dad threw me a curve ball.
“So, Carson, is there something you’d like to tell me about your hair?”
At first I was confused by his question then I remembered the lighter, more golden tint I’d noticed in the light that morning. I didn’t think anyone else would detect it.
“No. Why?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
Just the way he said it was enough to irritate me. “Notice what? I haven’t done anything.”
“Carson Marie, you know better than to lie to me.”
“I’m not lying. When have I had time to do anything to my hair?”
He was thoughtful for a second before he answered. “Last night I guess.”
“Well I didn’t. I think it’s just getting lighter.”
“Overnight?”
“I guess so, Dad. What’s the big deal?”
My temper was escalating by the second.
“No big deal. You know how I feel about that kind of thing. And you know I’d better not catch you in a lie, young lady.”
“I’m not lying!” I was shouting, suddenly fuming.
I was jerking at the wrench furiously when it slipped causing me to mash my fingers against the floor of the trunk. I dropped the wrench, barely able to hold back the string of obscenities that rushed to the tip of my tongue. I was positively livid; a reaction way out of proportion to what was happening, but not one that I seemed to have any control over.
Within seconds I heard Dad yelp. When I looked down at him, he was shaking his fingers.
“What did you do?”
“I don’t know why, but that muffler got hot all of a sudden. Really hot!”
I could see that it was beginning to take on a reddish glow like metal typically does when it is superheated. As quickly as it had come, my anger dissipated, eclipsed by concern for my dad.
We rolled out from under the car, each examining our injuries. Neither was bad. I felt sure we’d live.
“Maybe it’s time for a break. How about some lunch,” I suggested.
As soon as we went inside, I poured myself a huge glass of water before I fixed us each a sandwich. I was suddenly parched.
After that we ate in silence, neither of us willing to broach the subject of my irrational anger. As I nibbled my sandwich, more thirsty than hungry, I couldn’t help but wonder where all this temper was coming from. And the language! I never used bad language and was shocked that it had come so quickly to mind.
When we were finished, we headed back out to finish the exhaust. When it was done, thankfully, Dad let me off the hook and said we’d start on the suspension Monday. I had a free night.
I decided to go for a run before taking another shower. I changed into my running clothes and shoes and hit the pavement. I thought of my options for a free Saturday night. It only took about a half mile to realize that I had few and those weren’t very appealing. Homework, science fair project prep, call Leah or lock myself in my room.
What a depressing thought! I shook off that funk, unwilling to let it ruin one of the few things I truly enjoyed. I redirected my thoughts and let my mind drift to the incident with Stephen Fitchco the previous evening. I wondered what he would be doing on a Saturday night. I doubted his options would be as boring as mine.
All too soon, I was back at my mailbox with no better choices than when I’d left. Resigned, I decided to shower and spend the night locked in my room.
The next morning I woke feeling like I hadn’t slept at all. I had fallen asleep before I had a shower and then dreamed the same dream about the bloody snow and the stranger. It took a lot of effort to drag myself from the comfort of my warm bed and make myself get into the shower.
I spent a little extra time on my right shoulder, having seen a smudge of grease on it as I undressed. I scrubbed the spot with my loofa, knowing that would get it off. The rough sponge could remove anything, and I mean anything, including several layers of skin if I wasn’t careful.
Spontaneously, I decided the rest of my skin could use a nice exfoliation, too, so I squirted some shower gel onto the sponge and went to work buffing the remainder of my body.
I stepped out of the shower feeling soft and smooth from head to toe. Unable to see my reflection because of the steam, I took my lotion into the bedroom to complete my morning ritual.
Just to be sure I’d gotten the spot off my shoulder, I walked to the full length mirror on the back of my door and turned halfway around where I could see my back. Not only was the smudge not gone, it seemed to have gotten bigger and was turning a reddish orange color. It had a teardrop shape to it, fat on one end and dramatically tapered on the other. It reminded me of a flame, licking up toward my neck. Maybe I’d burned myself and not realized it. After all, Dad said the muffler had been hot.
As I turned back to face the mirror, I noticed how the light shone on my skin, even without lotion. I walked over to the window and held my hands up. My skin looked different. Better. Luminous. I turned my hands over then held out my arms.
My skin was practically flawless. It looked like a thin, peaches-‘n-cream veil covering a pool of shimmering liquid. I looked at my belly and legs and they, too, were covered with the same sheen. The tone and texture were absolutely perfect, looking airbrushed like I’d seen on models in magazines.