Thirteen
My hair is blue.
Bright, Cookie Monster blue. And not just streaked with it, either—I’ve done that before. All of it is blue, from the roots to the tips. Every strand.
Blue.
I look like a Muppet has crawled on to my head and died.
“Viggo will hate it,” I moan. “He’ll never get back together with me with my hair like this.”
“And we care … why?”
Jed passes me a chip. We’re sitting on my front step. I have a towel wrapped around my shoulders and we’re letting my hair dry in the cool night air. Jed has cooked bake-in-the-oven fries for breakfast.
At three am.
Apparently the walk to the chemist made him hungry. And I’m not complaining. I’m in the mood for some serious comfort eating. “Why are you being so mean about Viggo now?” I ask. “He’s meant to be your best friend. You we
