Page 38 of Count My Lies

There are his-and-hers sinks, both with their own mirror, a single globular light above each one. To the left of the sinks, a toilet, and next to it, a walk-in shower, no tub.

The countertop is messier than I would have expected, more cluttered. The first thing my eyes land on is a box of hair dye, a deep brown color, the same shade as Violet’s hair. I pick it up. It’s unopened, unused. I’m surprised to discover that she dyes her hair herself. The woman on the box smiles brightly, her hair lustrous, gleaming. I hold the box up to my head, look in the mirror. Next to the model, my hair looks especially drab and straw-like—not quite blonde, not quite brown. It hasn’t always been this color, but it’s been a long time since I last dyed it.

Before setting the box down, I make note of the color—Dark Chestnut Brown—and the brand—a generic drugstore name—then move on with my search.

I know I shouldn’t be here, I know it deep in my bones, but it’s like I’m five years old with a marshmallow on the table in front of me, and just before leaving the room, someone said,Don’t eat it. How can I not? I know how sweet it’ll be when I do.

I scan the countertop and see a tube of acne cream next to the sink, several bottles of lotion. I can’t picture Violet with pimples. Her skin is creamy and unblemished, like a polished stone. Maybe because she takes better care of it than I do mine. I study my reflection, the soft glow from the lighting fixtures more forgiving than in my own bathroom with its fluorescent bulbs, their yellow tint. Still, my complexion is uneven, dry in some patches, oily in others. I lean in closer to the mirror. A trail of red zits lines my chin, small but noticeable. Iunscrew the tube of acne cream and squeeze, dabbing some onto my finger. I rub it into my skin, then recap the tube, set it back down on the counter.

Next to the lotion, to the right of her sink, is an unzipped makeup bag. I rifle through it, pulling out a tube of mascara, a blush brush, a powder compact. I think about using them, but decide against it, quickly loading them back into the bag before I change my mind.

The floor creaks again when I step back into the bedroom. There’s a small ray of sun lighting up a spot next to the window, and I move toward it, into the warm beam. I lean against the window frame, looking out for the kids I’d seen, the ones playing ball.

Then I suck in sharply. Instead of the kids, I see Violet, walking up the street, back toward the house.Shit.I glance around the room, looking to see if anything is out of place. There’s an indentation on her pillow from where I rested my head, creases on the duvet cover. I fluff the pillow, then run a hand over the covers.

When I’m sure everything is in its place, I exit their bedroom, jog down the hallway to the stairs, trying to keep my steps light. As my hand grabs the banister, I realize I’m still in Violet’s robe. My throat constricts. I turn, run back down the hall into their bedroom as I wriggle out of it. I throw the closet door open and try to hook the robe back where I found it, but it won’t catch.

I don’t have time to waste, so I drop it and dash out, sprint down the hallway and down the stairs, two at a time.

I’m on the bottom step when the front door swings open, Violet appearing. I take a deep breath, try to control my breathing. “Hi,” I say, forcing a smile on my face.

“Oh, hi,” she says, looking up at me. “Everything okay?”

I step down, nodding, then bending over to put my shoes back on.“I thought I heard Harper, so I went upstairs to listen. But she’s quiet. It must have been a noise from the street.”

“Thanks for checking,” Violet says, smiling. “And for staying. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” I shrug nonchalantly.

“I’m going to grab a seltzer. I’m parched. Want one?” she asks. “We could put on a movie. Harper should be asleep until three, at least.”

I shake my head. “Actually, I forgot my mom has a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. Do you mind if I head out early today?” My heart is still pounding.

“Of course not,” she says.

Violet walks me to the door and waves goodbye from the stoop. I force myself to wave and smile back, fighting the urge to sprint down the sidewalk.

I keep my pace neutral, in case Violet is still watching, and by the end of the block, my breathing has returned to normal.It’s not a big deal, I tell myself.So I had a little look upstairs, a peek into her closet—what does it matter? We’re friends.I breathe out some of the tension I’ve been carrying, let my shoulders relax.No big deal, I repeat.

But I can’t help thinking about the phone in her closet, what she might be hiding.Whoshe might be hiding.

And the box of hair dye on the counter.

On my way home, I make a brief stop into Duane Reade, the one on the corner with the flashing twenty-four-hour sign out front.

At the checkout counter, the bored, glazed-eyed teenager barely looks up as I set the box of hair dye—Dark Chestnut Brown—in frontof him, along with a tube of acne cream, concealer, a palette of blush. My purchases mean nothing to him, but everything to me. It’s a risk, but it’s different this time, I know it is.

On the way home, I wonder how I’ll look as a brunette. I tell myself that I haven’t decided whether or not I’ll go through with it, but it’s not true. I know that I will.

The sincerest form of flattery is imitation, right?

17

That night, after dinner, my mom falls asleep with her plate in her lap, snoring quietly. Her chest rises and falls in slow, steady exhales. Careful not to wake her, I take the dish from her and set it quietly in the sink.

I don’t want her to know what I’m going to do. She’d look at me with disappointment, shake her head. She wouldn’t believe me that it’s different this time. It doesn’t seem different, but it is. It’s not like the last time, with the box of red dye, dye so red it stained our towels. My relationship with Violet is different. Different, different, different. Even with the discovery of the burner phone, I feel like I know her better than I’ve known anyone for a long time. She’d tell me to do it; I know she would.

In the bathroom, I hold the box to my head, like I’d done at Violet’s. It looks darker now than it did this afternoon, at least three or four shades darker than my current color. I hesitate, but only for a moment. Then I open it.

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