Every Shattered Thing (Come Alive) (11 page)

“Yeah. For like a second. And then I remembered Pacey and Kevin and my dad and

well...
money.”
I tilt my head. “Is it an incredible opportunity? Absolutely. Is it realistic?” I shrug my shoulders, hiding my disappointment. “Probably not.”

Emma looks at me for a brief second before turning a corner into the local shopping center. “Just promise me one thing, Stephanie.”

“What’s that?”

“You won’t ever forget that ‘impossible’ is merely a dare.”

I stare at her for a brief second before bursting into laughter. “What are you, Hallmark?”

She smiles. “Got through three interviews before they decided on someone else.”

Her words are ringing in my head as we pull into a parking lot. Emma knows me well. I can’t ever say no to a dare. I continue laughing and look around at the nearby shops.

“Okay. First stop is a haircut.”

“Emma, you just got your hair done a couple weeks ago.” I glance at her short trendy red hair and wonder what else she can do with it before she goes bald.

“This isn’t a haircut for me. It’s for you.” She grabs her purse and gets out of the Jeep, motioning for me to follow. I’m glued to my seat.

“What do you mean,
for me.”
I ask, still confused.

Emma comes over to my side of the car and leans against the open door, pointing out my faded, torn jeans and shirt with sleeves two inches too short. “Stephanie, when was the last time you went shopping?”

“Last week. Dad needed help with an anniversary gift for mom so I went with him to Walmart.”

“No. When was the last time you went shopping for
you.”

I think for a moment before answering, suddenly realizing just how long it’s been. “Um...it was in elementary school. First grade—before the first day. My mom took me to Goodwill to shop for shoes.” I keep my face planted firmly where my eyes are focused on the hole forming in my shoes passed down to me from my mother about two years ago.

Emma attempts to hide the look of surprise but isn’t very successful. She just grabs my hand and pulls me out of the SUV and stands in front of me until I look at her.

“Tonight is not about me. It’s about you. You are going to get a haircut and some make-up and some clothes. Consider it an early Christmas present from Jude and me.” She looks at me in a no-nonsense stare and I know there’s no fighting this.

I roll my eyes and cross my arms over my chest. “Fine.” I say. I pull the rubber band out of my hair and let the brown mane fall below my shoulders. I obediently follow Emma into the salon and grimace. Am I excited? Yes, absolutely. But the thought of someone seeing these split ends and mousy color is embarrassing. I take a deep breath and look around at the pink walls with pictures of Marilyn Monroe and Lucille Ball and begin to relax. The hairstylists in the middle of their work are funky and laugh, talking to their clients. A girl walks past me with hot pink hair and I can’t help but stare.

Absentmindedly I touch my hair and Emma leans over and whispers in my ear. “Don’t even think about it.” I turn around and smile at her. “Why not? I think the color would suit me, yeah?”

I would never consider dying my hair that color—only because of the fear it would never return to normal. Or fall out. I’m deathly afraid of my hair falling out. But I can
totally
buy in on freaking out Emma. I laugh at her look of horror and continue inspecting my nails, letting her soak in the worry of hot pink roots.

“Hey ladies! Would you like a drink? Water? Coke? We also have some pastries from a local bakery.” My head turns to follow the voice and I see the girl with the bright pink hair smiling at us, her hands clasped in front of her.

“Oh! Um. Yes. A pastry would be great.” I say.

Emma joins in. “And I’ll take some water.”

Pink-haired girl nods her head. “Water. Absolutely. Sparkling or tap?”

I resist giggling and Emma just stares at the girl before answering, “Um, tap? That’s fine.”

I slowly begin to relax. I like the atmosphere. Everything from the music to the furniture to the decor has a vintage feel. As soon as I sit down on one of the leather couches, a girl comes from behind a curtained partition; immediately I’m distracted by the tattoo on her left arm —vibrant and colorful. It’s just a bouquet of flowers—but they are delicate and strong and if you look closely, there’s a little girl twirling her skirt. I make a mental note to ask what inspired it, because it’s absolutely mesmerizing. I stick my hands in my jacket pocket to keep from touching it.

“Hey, guys! Emma, it’s so good to see you.” She pushes Emma back so she can see her better.

"Look at you! You look amazing! And the hair —
love
it. I knew that cut would fit you.” Emma’s hand immediately finds strands of hair and begins laughing, “I know. Whatever you did, it works. And I
feel
good. The best I’ve felt since Benjamin was born, really.” She turns and glances my way and, almost as if remembering she was here for me, laughs and catches the other girl’s attention. I smile at Emma—it’s probably been weeks since she’s been out of the house and in civilization so it doesn’t bother me when she gets social.

The hairstylist follows Emma’s motions to where I’m sitting. Holding out her hand, she

introduces herself.

“Hi. I’m Ashlee. You must be Stephanie. Ready for a haircut?”

I nod. “Yeah. I uh...my hair needs some work, I guess.” I laugh nervously and then cough to cover it up, almost choking on a piece of pastry.

Smooth. Real smooth.

Ashlee motions for me to come and sit in her chair. “Perfect! I noticed your hair the minute you walked in —but probably not the way you think. I took one look and knew exactly what to do.” I look at her reflection in the mirror as she plays with my hair. Looking at me, she asks, “you wanting a lot of length cut off?”

I find my voice amidst my embarrassment and give her a half smile, “Um...no, not really.”

Ashlee smiles and nods her head. “Got it. I think I know the perfect cut to accentuate your high cheekbones and those stunning eyes.” Placing her hands on my shoulder she leans in and begins brushing her hands through my hair, rearranging pieces and motioning with the ends. Once satisfied, she winks.

“This is going to be great Stephanie!”

She looks down and notices my hands rubbing my jeans and squeezes my shoulder gently.

“Don’t worry.” Ashlee says, “this cut is going to completely change the way you look - but it will be easy to manage. Let’s go get your hair washed and I can get started.” She wriggles her shoulders in excitement and motions for me to follow her. I catch Emma smiling behind a magazine as I walk past her and hide a smile—the last thing I was expecting tonight was to be pampered, but honestly? I love every minute of it.

She sits me in an over-sized chair and motions for me to rest my neck against the porcelain sink behind it. I gawk at the leather. It’s exquisite and I haven’t even sat in the chair yet. When she sees me staring, she smiles.

“This is my favorite. Just wait.”

I move to sit in the chair and breathe a sigh.

“Can I keep this chair? It’s perfect.” And it was. It folded in around me like a cocoon.

“Everyone says that. I actually went and bought one for my apartment last year. It makes the perfect reading chair.”

I moan as the water rushes over my scalp and her hands stop running through my hair.

“Is it too hot? I can change the temperature...”

Don’t you dare.

“It’s perfect. Make it as hot as you want, actually.”

Hints of citrus and something floral fill my senses and I breathe deep and then close my eyes as her hands maneuver through my hair, massaging my scalp and neck and ohmigod
I swear I feel it in my toes.

Holy shit this feels incredible.

“
Can I keep you?”

She laughs. “Every one needs a good scalp massage every once in awhile. Lets loose all those toxins from stress, gets the blood circulating, plus it feels good. So, bonus!”

I hold the towel around my hair and follow her back to her station, smiling the entire way. I see Emma reading and she looks up as I pass by. I mouth the words “I love you”
and she winks and mouths back, “Right?!”

We get back to Ashlee’s chair and she pulls out her scissors. I press my lips together and she catches my nervous glance towards the mirror.

“When’s the last time you got your haircut, girl?”

I look at her and wrinkle my nose. “I honestly can’t remember. My mom usually trims it before school every year, but not this year—so...maybe two years?” I glance at my hair in her hands and I apologize about how horrible it looks.

“Don’t you worry about anything. Your hair is actually pretty healthy minus the split ends, and the color is spectacular. I have women constantly in my salon begging for me to match this with a hair dye—and you have it naturally! We’re just going to lighten the roots a little with a slight blonde highlight to make your eyes pop.”

She smiles at me and squeezes my shoulder again with her hand. She then wraps my hair around her wrist and pulls through to make a low ponytail.

Eyes focused on her task, she whispers, “Now, don’t freak out over what I am about to do.”

She sticks a bobby pin in her mouth and grabs her scissors again, this time cutting off an entire chunk of hair in one fell swoop. My heart falls with a thud in my chest and my hands start sweating.

I see her reflection in the mirror and she catches my face growing pale. “I told you not to freak."

She says and turns my head away from the pile of hair on the floor. “Sorry. It’s a rule of mine. No peeking until I am finished. Makes it easier for both of us. Sometimes it doesn’t necessarily look like I want it to, you know? I would rather you see the finished product than the sketchy parts in between.” She touches my chin with her finger as she measures out bangs and smiles. “This is going to be fun, Stephanie. I can feel it in my bones.”

Yeah. I can feel something - but it’s something more like to fear. Please don’t make me bald.

I look at her through my hair and grimace. I’m trying to believe her, but the amount of hair on the floor freaks me out —regardless of her trying to comfort me. I try and keep my mind off of losing my hair, my eyes wandering to her tattoo.

“So, um...what’s up with your tattoo?”

“What?” She looks at me—her forehead wrinkled with concentration.

“The flowers and the girl. It’s so...colorful.”

“Oh! My tattoo.” She stops what she’s doing and steps back, leaning on her counter and studying my hair for a brief second before grabbing another chunk and layering it with her razor. I try to ignore the sound it’s making - like she’s chopping away straight to my scalp - and hope she starts talking soon so I have something else to listen to.

“So a few years ago, I heard about human trafficking for the first time. One of my friends runs an organization where they find girls who are at risk of being trafficked or who have been sex slaves in Honduras and they rehabilitate them. It’s this beautiful picture of restoration. When I first heard about it, the guy who runs it said he got the idea of restoration and beauty in the midst of such chaos and horror from watching a little girl twirl her skirt. She was just so innocent...so mesmerizing...he couldn’t get the image out of his mind. So he thinks of her every time he goes and rescues these girls. He calls the organization She Dances.” She catches my eye and smiles and I know from the core of who I am that she means every word she just said.

“Is this just in Honduras?” I whisper. I already know the answer of course. I just need to know if
she
knows the answer. If my world isn’t as invisible as I believe.

“Huh? Oh. Um...no. Not at all.” She grimaces as if she doesn’t want to share the information.

There’s actually more slaves today than there ever have been in the history of the world - even during the Trans-Atlantic slave trade. And uh...America traffics thousands and thousands of girls every year.” She’s quiet for a moment as she focuses on my hair. “It’s definitely not just in Honduras,” she whispers.

My vision starts to blur and my blood runs cold as I focus on Emma, sitting in the next room. I hone in on every little detail about her so I don’t faint or go crazy. My heart starts hammering in my chest and I grab the armrests of my chair so tight my knuckles look porcelain. I know this story. I can’t help but flashback to the first time I felt the rough grasp of a man’s hands. Most twelve year old girls spend their birthdays eating too much candy and giggling with friends while putting on make-up during sleepovers.

Me? I spent my birthday trying to push a man three times my size off me. I was always so curious about what my dad hid in his shed, secretly wishing it was some stash of Christmas presents or a hidden bicycle for my birthday. I use to even play spy games—sneaking around, trying to peek through cracks in the cement blocks.

After that night, I never wanted to go back. I never stepped within ten feet of his secret world, unless of course there was someone waiting and my dad watched me from the window, making sure I made it all the way to the shed. It wouldn’t be good for business if his main profit ran off...

I blink and return to the present. Ashlee is lowering her eyebrows. “You okay?”

I choke out a response and ignore her question, “Is there anything for girls here?”

“Absolutely. There are a few organizations who are world-wide. A few even focus on covert operations in order to rescue girls. Like this one organization named after a child prostitute in Asia, Love146. They raise awareness of human trafficking and sex slavery. The founder first saw the girl while on an undercover investigation. He sat in this waiting room, looking at these girls in an adjacent area, trying not to think of these men sitting with him. Men who were actually there waiting for these girls watching cartoons. He said these girls were...broken. Empty. Their eyes held no life.”

“Where was 146?” I ask, my hands still shaking.

Ashlee smiles. “That’s the thing. Apparently this girl was just standing there, staring at the men, almost as if she knew exactly what was going on.” She stops and wipes her nose; I notice for the first time tears streaming down her face. She laughs and brushes the back of her hand against her cheek.