Sprout

Before—” “Before my mom died,” I finished for her, and she blushed slightly, then nodded her head.
    I shook my head to clear it now, felt the sting of bleach on my scalp.
    “At this moment my hair isn’t green,” I said. “It’s white, if it hasn’t actually burned off.”
    Ruthie pulled the showercap from my head, checked the bleach’s progress.
    “I mean, did you know you were playing matchmaker? Or was it unintentional? And before you answer, you should know I won’t believe you if you say it was unintentional.”
    I stared at Ruthie, thinking about how I’d stared at Mrs. Miller the same way. Nervous without knowing why. My heart pounding in my chest. Wanting to say just the right thing, but not knowing what that thing was because I didn’t know what I wanted to happen.
    “I was just wondering, cuz maybe, you know, you can write me a boyfriend. I’d like a cross between a pre- O.C. Adam Brody and Krusty the Clown. Gosh, that sounds a little like you , doesn’t it?”
    Actually, that’s not true. Not what Ruthie said (but really, Adam Brody? isn’t he, like, four feet tall?) but what I said. What I thought, I mean, what I wrote, whatever. About not knowing what I wanted. I knew exactly what I wanted. I just felt guilty about it. So guilty I couldn’t even write it, let alone say it. So all I told Mrs. Miller was, “He was the same before, except he didn’t drink, hoard trash, or live by himself in a vine-covered trailer.” Mrs. Miller’s reaction surprised me. She gave me a half-embarrassed smile as if she’d been caught smoking outside the cafeteria, then placed a hand on my knee. “He doesn’t live all by himself,” she said. “He lives with you.”
    “Sprout?” Ruthie’s voice pulled me out of my head. “You still there?”
    “Whuh? Sorry, bleach-fumes blackout.”
    “Whatever.” Ruthie dug into a pocket of her jeans, pulled out a piece of paper that was remarkably unwrinkled, given that her pants fit her like a condom. “D’you bring your shed—I mean, sked ule?”
    “Can we rinse first? The bleach is burning through my scalp.”
    “I just checked, you’re fine. This’ll take five minutes. So: what’ve you got first period?”
    I pulled out my class list, tried to focus my eyes, which really were watering from the fumes. “Burdett. Calculus.”
    “Oh! What a mean way to start the day!”
    “Are you referring to Mr. Burdett, or mathematics in general?”
    “Either. Both.” Ruthie shuddered, glanced down at the paper in her hands. “I’ve got study hall.”
    “Which means you won’t be getting in till second period.”
    “Bingo! What’ve you got then?”
    “History.”
    “Crap, I’ve got that after lunch.” There was a beat, during which neither of us mentioned that the after-lunch class was American history—a.k.a., the basics—whereas second period was world history, i.e., advanced. I did, however, pretend to adjust a mortarboard, which pantomime went right over Ruthie’s head, who thought I was trying to point out my burning scalp.
    “Don’t worry, we’re almost done. So, I’ve got studio second period—”
    “Which means you won’t be getting in till third —”
    “—which is … psychology. C’mon, everyone has to take
    “—which is … psychology. C’mon, everyone has to take psych.”
    “I took it last year, remember? I’ve got Spanish third period.”
    “Well, that’s the morning. What’ve you got fourth?”
    “Twentieth-century fiction.”
    “Do what?”
    “English,” I said. “It’s-the-lang-gwage-that-al-lows-us-to-com-mu-ni—”
    I shut up when Ruthie brandished the bowl of dye threateningly.
    “I’ve got arithmetic,” she said.
    “A.k.a. Math Is Your Friend!” I tried not to snigger. “Fifth?”
    “History.”
    “Oh, right.” I choked back a guffaw. “I have civics.”
    Ruthie put her hands on her hips. “Is there something in your throat?”
    “I’m fine. Sixth period. What’ve you got?”
    “Is it the bleach fumes? Cuz I can kick you out and you can walk the fifteen miles back to your trailer to rinse it out. Don’t let me keep you if you’re not feeling well.”
    I tapped my form. “I-have-in-de-pendent-stu-dy-sixth-per-i-od. What-have-you-got?”
    “Does it matter?” Ruthie crumpled her schedule and threw it across the room. “We don’t have a single class together!”
    By this point I was pretty sure the bleach had not only burned off all my hair, but the skin beneath