Page 40 of The Black Flamingo

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I think for a moment, before remembering

I’m feeling sorry for myself.

“Maybe we can put some concealer on it,”

says Daisy, reaching into her bag. Daisy has

started wearing makeup, but not too much.

She looks much older than fourteen.

I barely look twelve.

“No way,” I say,

“I’m not wearing makeup! I’d rather miss

the stupid dance.”

“That’s a shame,” says Daisy.

“You might have had a dance, maybe even

a kiss with Rowan.”

Daisy lifts up the duvet

and we both slide in.

We spend the evening

watching prom movies

with happy endings.

I tell Mum I’ve decided to loc my hair.

Mum doesn’t mind; she says: “Do whatever

makes you happy, Michael. As long

as you focus on your exams.”

The hairdresser says,

“Because your hair is so soft,

I have to wrap it up with synthetic hair

and it will loc up underneath.

People won’t be able to tell to look at it.

Every day you must keep twisting

the roots—as it grows, the synthetic

hair will fall out and you’ll have locs

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