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Perfect.

Chapter Six
    When I got up the next day, I threw my contact lenses in the trash. They’d be as dry as cornflakes soon. My old red plastic glasses were still in my night-table drawer. I started wearing contacts at thirteen. No one but my family ever sees me wear the red glasses. Not even Tyler. Especially not Tyler. As I slid them on, the earpieces pinched my head like lobster claws. The nose pads hurt too. I’d have marks from them soon. Perfect.
    I checked to make sure Mom and Dad had left for work. Then I went to their bathroom and found a box of her hair dye. It was hidden under the sink, behind the toilet-bowl cleaner. She thinks no one knows she colors her hair, but she’s been going gray for years. No one would ever describe my mom as vain, but I guess we all have our weaknesses. The color she uses is called Medium Golden Brown, which is a pretty accurate description of her real hair color. Pretty, but kind of boring. She’s all about looking natural. Not me. Like Mom, I was blond when I was little. If I didn’t fork over a big chunk of change every six weeks or so, I’d probably be Medium Golden Brown as well. Not that I’d ever planned on finding out. Until now.
    Back in the upstairs bathroom, I stood in front of the mirror, squinting at myself through my ugly glasses. My hair lay on my shoulders, smooth and straight. I took a deep breath and picked up the shears I had found in the kitchen junk drawer. My hand shook as I made the first cut, near my jaw. The scissors were dull, and the cut was jagged. Good. I slashed and snipped until I was left with a sink full of blond hair and a lopsided chin-length bob. And bangs. Very crooked bangs. I wouldn’t recommend this method to anyone who wants to look even remotely attractive, but that wasn’t my goal.
    An hour later, my hair was brown. Muddy Gross Brown. Just the way I wanted it. When I looked in the bathroom mirror, I saw a stranger. A brown-haired, short-sighted stranger with a bad haircut. No eye liner, no lip gloss, no mascara. Someone the old March wouldn’t even notice, let alone hang out with. I couldn’t do anything about the fact that I have great skin and perfect teeth, but I planned on stuffing myself with sugar and fat. Bring on the zits and the cavities.
    I cleaned up the bathroom and then changed into a pair of Mom’s pleat-front khaki pants and one of her pastel golf shirts. Her shoes didn’t fit me, so I wore my old running shoes. The ones I wear when Mom forces me to go for a nature walk with her, or Dad insists I help in the garden. I stopped in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom. For a moment I felt faint. Short of breath. Sweaty. Sick to my stomach. Was I crazy? Should I call my hairdresser? Buy new contacts? Get my old job back? Change into my own clothes? Put on makeup? I looked at the girl in the mirror and shook my shorn head. “No,” I said as I shut my bedroom door. “No,” I said as I left the house. “No,” I said as I walked to the bus stop. As long as Tyler couldn’t live a perfect life, neither would I.
    I hate taking the bus. It makes me itchy. All those sweaty hands and whiny kids and people with god-knows-what diseases. Coughing, sneezing, resting their greasy hair on the seatbacks. The loser cruiser. I hadn’t ridden the bus for years. Before I was able to drive, there was always someone around to take me where I needed to go. A parent, an older sibling, a boyfriend. My boyfriend. Who never complained when I asked him to pick me up from work or drive me to the gym. My boyfriend, who had screwed another girl. My boyfriend, who was in a coma because of me.
    I blinked away my tears as the bus wheezed up to the curb. I wasn’t even sure how much it cost to ride the bus. As I fumbled around in my purse for the correct change, a guy sitting in the seat behind the driver looked at me and muttered, “You retarded or something,