Blowout Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Text copyright © 2011 by Taylor Morris. Illustrations copyright © 2011 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. S.A.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010029885

  eISBN : 978-1-101-51380-4

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To my gorgeous niece Haden, who inspires me more than she knows—TM

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I honestly can’t thank the team at Grosset & Dunlap enough for their work on this book, especially Judy Goldschmidt. Thank you, Judy, for always being so patient with me and for not letting me get away with even one lazy sentence.

  Major thanks also go to Micol Ostow, who not only tells me I have shiny hair, but who is responsible for leading me to this project. Thank you, Micol!

  Thanks to Katie Carella, who always had great ideas and suggestions, and Bonnie Bader and Francesco Sedita, who started this whole thing in the first place. Thanks, everyone!

  To my friend P.G. Kain—I can’t thank you enough for your support throughout this whole process. Thanks for always being there for me with kind words and gossip.

  Finally, thanks to my husband, Silas Huff, who has been so patient with me when I disappeared for days and weeks on end to write. You’re the most supportive partner a girl could have!

  —TM

  CHAPTER 1

  “Countdown to gorgeous!” cheered Megan as she passed me in the salon chair on her way to the back room. Megan, a college student with cascading blond hair and full, pink cheeks, was the receptionist at Hello, Gorgeous!, which happens to be my mom’s salon and one of my very favorite places to be in the entire world. It was Sunday—my thirteenth birthday—and the salon wasn’t open yet. Everyone was here special, just for me.

  For as long as I can remember, my birthday presents have centered around hair. It started with my Barbie Princess Styling Head when I was four. I thought it was the greatest present ever invented. From the moment I got Barbie’s head out of the box, I brushed, braided, curled, and clipped her hair within an inch of her princess-head life.

  For my tenth birthday, my parents kicked it up a notch when they surprised me with a smoky blue vanity desk with a three-way mirror. It came complete with matching containers filled with new brushes, combs, and clips. That’s when I started styling my own head within an inch of its frizz-filled life. Still haven’t had much luck there.

  Last year, for my twelfth birthday, I got an actual styling chair for my bedroom, which gave my room more of a beauty-zone feel. It doesn’t have the hydraulics to pump the seat up and down, but it’s exactly like something you’d see in a real salon: black with a silver footrest and everything. I tried getting my best friend/next-door neighbor, Jonah, to sit in it so I could tame his cowlick, but he said he’d rather jam bobby pins up his nose than play hair salon with me.

  But this year I finally received the best, most amazing birthday present ever. After a dinner at my favorite brick-oven pizza place last night with Mom and Dad, today I got my real birthday present—I became an official employee at Hello, Gorgeous!

  Well, part-time (Saturday, Sunday, and Wednesday after school) official employee, but still. Mom had finally, after years of my begging, pleading, and tantrum-throwing, agreed to let me work as a sweeper at her über-successful salon. She was even going to pay me, though I totally would have done it for free. Mom went on and on about how it was a trial run and if I slacked off at the salon—or at school (Rockford Middle School)—I’d have to go. Which was never going to happen. I’d been waiting too long to be a part of the salon team, and the last thing I wanted to do was disappoint my mom. I wanted her to be proud of me and see that I had style-sense in my genes, too.

  But my longing to work at Hello, Gorgeous! wasn’t only about hair. I secretly hoped that working at a salon would give me some of the spark that all the stylists there seemed to have. You know, that sass that enabled them to say whatever was on their minds, in front of anyone, whenever it popped into their heads. I needed some of that. I’d been so painfully shy most of my life that I wouldn’t even play Telephone with the kids in first grade. But unless I wanted Jonah to be my only friend for the rest of my life, I had to come out of my turtlelike shell. It was a must.

  “How about some loose curls?” asked Violet. She was the store manager and most-talented stylist, and because of that she had the second-most prestigious station in the salon, second from the entrance, right beside my mother’s. Not only was it my first day, but I was also getting a mini makeover as part of my birthday present.

  When I came into Hello, Gorgeous! this morning with Mom, the salon had been dark and quiet until I flipped on the light in the break room, where practically half the staff jumped up and yelled “Surprise!” I nearly fainted, but when I saw the doughnuts they’d bought and the two signs they’d hung—HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MICKEY! and WELCOME, GORGEOUS!—I knew it was going to be the most epic day of my life so far.

  “My hair doesn’t do curls,” I said. It didn’t wave or fall straight, either. All it ever did was frizz like the coat on a frightened billy goat.

  “You don’t even know the miracles Violet works with hair,” Giancarlo said from the styling chair at his station, which was right next to Violet’s. He swiveled back and forth, waving his checked crinkle scarf as he turned. He still had his sunglasse
s on because, in his words, “I’m getting blinded by my own shirt.” The shirt in question was white silk with bright green, yellow, and pink swirls. “Just don’t let her bump the top.” A sly smile crept up on his round face. “Who wants to look like they’ve got a hamster hiding underneath their hair?”

  “Give me a break,” Violet said. She picked a round brush out of the drawer at her station and turned on the hair dryer to a low setting. Over the whizzing sound she said, “Just because I did it that one time!”

  “One time too many!” Giancarlo said.

  “Are you here to help?” Violet asked as she dried my hair one section at a time. “Or are you just going to make fun?”

  “Honey, I’m here to supervise.” He did a full spin in the chair.

  “Then why don’t you try supervising Karen over there to do this girl’s nails?” Violet pointed her chin to the back room, where Karen, who was tall and thin like a giraffe’s neck, was leaning against the doorway. “And bring me another coffee from the back.”

  Giancarlo heaved his considerable weight up from the chair. “Only you can bring sanity to this place,” he said to me, and walked toward the back where the break/supply room was. “Oh, Karen! You’re needed!”

  I loved the way they all bantered back and forth. Jonah and I had that, but otherwise I usually stayed pretty tight-lipped for fear of saying something stupid.

  “So, Mick,” Violet said to me as she expertly worked the round brush through my unruly hair. I was growing it long—it was all one length and almost halfway down my back—so there wasn’t too much I ever did with it except pull it back in a ponytail. “You excited about your big first day?” Violet had an amazing pixie cut that looked like it was threaded with strands of gold, and today she was killing it in a one-shouldered, black jersey top with skinny black jeans and gold gladiators.

  “I have butterflies,” I confessed. “But the good kind. I think. I’m not nervous—I mean, I’m excited, but I hope I don’t mess anything up. I mean, it’s not like there’s much to mess up since I’m just sweeping, but . . .”

  “You’ll be fine,” she said, stopping my rambling. Even in front of people I’d known forever, I got nervous opening my mouth. “And don’t fool yourself about just sweeping—every job counts because, honey, it takes a team to make women look as gorgeous as we do. Just make sure you sweep the stations clean before the clients arrive. Otherwise, we all look sloppy.”

  Karen came up from the back. “Since it’s a special occasion and all, I’ll do your nails right here in Violet’s chair,” she said.

  I felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz getting pampered and beautified at the palace salon in preparation for the most important moment of her life. “We need to get a move on,” Karen continued. “Salon opens in thirty. What color did you decide on?”

  “Um, there’s one that’s kind of mandarin orangeish? I saw it in the box of new spring colors in the back.”

  “Look at this one,” Karen said to Violet, who just smiled as she worked on another section of my hair. “‘The new spring colors.’ She’s sure not here to mess around.”

  “I think it’ll look great with what I’m wearing. Right?” I asked Violet. I had carefully planned my first-day outfit: a bubblegum pink T-shirt with a black silhouette of a girl wearing a high ponytail and fluffy bangs, a black, frayed denim skirt, and silversequined ballet flats.

  “Absolutely,” she nodded. “It’ll look fantastic.”

  As Violet finished up my hair and Karen worked on my nails, Giancarlo came over with Megan, and they all gathered around me like I was Disney’s newest It Girl. I loved every second of it. I’d been coming into the salon my whole life and had known most of them forever. They were always nice to me when I popped in with my dad or hung out with Mom after school, but this was different. This was me being a part of their world.

  Violet turned off the hair dryer and gently brushed my long hair over my shoulders. “I didn’t think you could get any prettier but . . . wow. You look stunning.”

  Just then, Mom walked onto the floor from her office. She stopped behind my chair and said, “Geez, Violet. This . . .” Mom fixed her green eyes on me. Her own black hair was smoothed back into a bun, and she looked chic as always in a black pencil skirt and crisp white button-down. She propped her fists on her hips and said, “This is beautiful. Nice work on these waves, Violet.”

  “You mean nice job smoothing out my frizz,” I said.

  “Your hair is not frizzy,” Mom said.

  Lie. Total lie. My hair was frizzy, and there didn’t seem to be anything anyone could do about it. That was one reason why I was growing it out. The longer my hair was, the more its weight pulled out the frizz.

  “You look,” Mom said, “gorgeous.”

  “Ha, ha,” I said. “I get it—gorgeous . . .”

  “You are über-glam,” Violet said. “Glamsational!” she said, pausing for effect. “Glamtastic!”

  Mom patted my shoulder. “Ten to opening, everyone.” She went to the computer at reception to check the day’s schedule. I blew on my orange nails to help them dry faster.

  The front door opened and a stylist walked in—the newest one, who Mom had just hired last week from Boston.

  “Hi, Devon,” Megan said with her signature perky voice.

  “Hey,” Devon said with a little less oomph than Megan.

  As she headed for her station across from Violet’s, I noticed Devon looked different from everyone else. Well, everyone at the salon looked different from regular people; it’s like they shone brighter and buzzed with more energy. But Devon had a funky look and mellow attitude all her own. Her hair was jet black with short, blunt bangs and was barely long enough to be pulled back into the tiny elastic that was holding it together in a ponytail. And she wore a black floral dress with combat boots and bright red matte lipstick.

  I took one last look at myself. “Violet, thank you so much. I really love it,” I said. “I just wish...” I stopped before I said anything else. I didn’t want to sound stupid or ungrateful.

  She cleaned and sterilized the brush and said, “Wish what? Spill it, sister.”

  “I just wish I could make my hair look like this every day. I could never fix it like this in a million years and, believe me, I’ve tried.”

  “I don’t know what you normally look like,” Devon said, walking over from her station. “But you look good today.”

  My face flushed at the new girl overhearing my confessions to Violet. “Thanks,” I said.

  “But you know what the first step is to being able to style your own hair to perfection?” Devon asked.

  “What?”

  “A good haircut.” She reached out and felt the ends of my hair. I recoiled just a bit—something about the way she looked at my hair, like a scientist with her latest experiment, made me uncomfortable. “I could cut your hair. Something to help give you some bounce. And you’d look good with bangs.”

  Bangs? Not in a million, not with my wild hair. “I’m letting my hair grow out. And my mom cuts my hair.”

  She shrugged. “Just sayin’. I could do something amazing if you’d let me have at it.”

  She did a weird little finger-gun-shooting-at-me thing before going to her station.

  I didn’t want to break it to her, but the relationship between client and stylist was one of trust, and the fact was, I couldn’t trust anyone who suggested I cut bangs.

  “Doors opening!” Megan called from the front.

  I rushed to the dressing room, ditched the super luxurious black, batiste cotton robe provided by the salon to protect the clients’ clothes, and put my first-day shirt back on. My nails were still the tiniest bit tacky, so I had to be careful. I did a quick check of my hair (still perfect) and face (still . . . there) in the mirror. Then I grabbed a broom, scanned the room, and took in the last moments of quiet before the most important day of my life began.

  I was ready.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Mickey,
this floor isn’t going to clean itself!”

  “Mickey, watch your back!”

  “Mickey, could you help me out here? Grab some fresh towels.”

  “Mickey, my station? My next client will be here any second!”

  The quiet salon I had walked into had quickly given way to a clattering of noises—water splashing in sinks, heels clacking on floors, clients and stylists talking, and hair dryers blowing. Hair clipped with sharp scissors fluttered to the floor nonstop. The stylists asked me to do something for them every time I passed—get them more gel, bring them a clean towel, and, of course, sweep their stations. I worked as fast as I could to keep up even as little beads of sweat formed on my upper lip. I was trying as hard as I could, but I felt like I was slipping.

  The front of the salon was just as busy as the floor, with women waiting patiently for their names to be called, flipping through magazines, sipping drinks, and chatting with one another.

  “You’re telling me you’ve lived in Rockford for ten years and you’ve never once visited us?” Megan said to a woman who had just been styled by Giancarlo. “I’m shocked. Shocked!” she said as the woman laughed.

  “I won’t make that mistake again,” she said, fluffing up her lightened, brightened hair.

  “Mickey?” Megan said when the woman headed out the door. “Could you please show Mrs. Klein to the back to get changed? Thanks,” she said, before I could answer. After delivering the bobby pins, I was supposed to help Gladys—who had short, curly hair and helped with the cleaning—fold towels in the back, but I couldn’t just leave Mrs. Klein hovering at the reception area. Turned out that being a sweeper wasn’t exactly as limiting as I thought it’d be. I tried my hardest to keep up because the last thing I wanted was to see Mom’s disappointed eyes turning on me.

  “Um, hi,” I said to Mrs. Klein, who had taut skin on her face and wrinkly skin on her neck. “Uh, right this way.”