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Genya woke to a pounding noise.
At first she thought it was the shutter banging against the window, so she got up and peered out at the grey light that might be dawn or winter’s noon. She opened the window, sticking her head out to glower at the lifeless shutter and earned a groan from the room’s other inhabitant.
“Genya, it’s too cold.” Alina burrowed deeper under her down comforter, turning into a little mound of mashed potatoes.
Genya obliged, and the banging came again, but Alina didn’t stir. This time Genya could tell it was coming from their bedroom door. It shook as though someone were throwing themselves at it. She waited until there was a thud and then swiftly opened it before the person could barrel against the door again.
“Zoya,” Genya deadpanned.
Apparently Zoya hadn’t expected Genya to simply open up, but she quickly caught herself before stumbling, her face smooth with shock. Then she twisted her features into a nasty scowl.
“You locked the door.” Zoya crossed her arms.
Genya stepped out into the hallway and shut the door, mirroring Zoya’s gesture. “Alina did. Probably after she came in last night. What’s up? I don’t have class this morning so you’re really eating into my beauty sleep.”
“I’m — !?” Zoya gaped, snapped her mouth shut and looked away before fuming: “You’re not the one who has to contend with this!” She whipped off the beanie-hat into which her hair had been folded. It tumbled out, long, soft, and shining golden… blonde. In the dim light of the corridor, Zoya’s skin looked a little ashen, and the color did not seem to suit her, why had she —
“Oh,” Genya said.
“Oh,” Zoya mocked back, her lip curling. “Coming back to you now, is it?”
… …
Twelve Hours Earlier…
Genya was startled from her reading by a pounding noise.
She dogeared her biography of Galina and patted a wrinkle on her bed duvet as she passed. She had procured a precious portion of hot chocolate and knew her roommate would be out late at the studio for a recording session. Even a small interruption could not upset her peaceful night.
Yet the mood soured when she found that Zoya was leaning against the wall outside her room and beating her fist against the door, her other hand holding a flask of something mixed with alcohol. It was mostly vodka, judging by the smell.
“Ms. Nazyalenskaya,” Genya drawled, trying her utmost to be polite. “How may I be of service?”
Instead of the usual scowl that tinged Zoya’s face, this one was slightly melancholic. Genya wrapped her cardigan around herself in order to settle her hands.
“Am I bothering you?” Zoya asked, and before Genya could say, yes, you are in fact — Zoya carried on: “Only… you’re the only one I trust right now.”
Now Genya was the one scowling, concerned despite herself.
She may have been living with Zoya for the better part of two years, but all the girls who shared the garrett rooms were on better terms with each other than the haughty diva who was Thunder-and-Grace. It didn’t matter how many classes they studied for together, how many performances they attended together, how many grocery runs they scrounged for together, Zoya was a stranger to them. Ms. Zoya Nazyalenskaya aspired to bigger stages than any of them could realistically dream of and therefore kept her distance, always.
But that didn’t mean Genya hadn’t heard the rumors involving the desires of powerful men and the too-high price of fame.
“Alina’s not here. Come in,” Genya said, and pushed her door open.
Zoya was quite a bit drunk, but as a woman who had taken ballet from childhood, it was only apparent in the way Zoya hung her head and the way her hand quavered as she steadied herself to sit.
“So…” Genya hoped to get to this sooner rather than later. She picked up her hot chocolate and blew on it, not wanting to let the luxury go to waste despite the incursion.
Zoya, ever so politely, held out her flask and poured a dram of vodka into Genya’s drink.
Genya froze.
“S’better not to drink alone,” Zoya said, and took another swig.
“How kind,” Genya said, her voice all ice.
Zoya waved Genya off, oblivious, and after inhaling deeply about twenty times through her nose, Genya was able to take a sip. She could barely taste the vodka, thank the saints. Whiskey would have been nice, but that wasn’t in the budget.
“Is something the matter, Zoya?”
Zoya bristled. “No. Why?”
“You said I was the only one you could trust.”
“Oh!”
Zoya closed her flask before popping it into her bag and digging around for something. She pulled out a smushed paper box and shoved it toward Genya — whose thoughts stuttered as she took in the package.
“Blonde? Really?”
Zoya looked intensely serious and only slightly cross-eyed. “I would look fabulous.”
Genya frowned down at the box and pretended to read the label, otherwise she would have stared at Zoya’s hair. She could see the outcome all the same. Zoya had long brown hair of an incredibly dark hue, which was always shiny, always artfully arranged to look careless and perfect. Zoya’s hair looked good swept back, braided loosely, bound tightly, piled on top of her head or clouding her head as she slept. This crappy bleach would do so much damage. It hurt too much to think about.
Furthermore, Zoya was drunk. So Genya had to stall.
“Wouldn’t it be better to ask Alina where she had her hair done?”
Zoya’s eyes narrowed.
“Or I could ask her,” Genya offered.
“I’m not copying Alina.” Zoya leaned forward and tapped a finger on the box. “I’m doing gold. Not white.”
True, the box dye was a ‘pale platinum’ rather than the silvery blonde that Alina had had done professionally, paid by Aleksander no doubt. Bringing up Alina had been the wrong move, however, as Zoya was sitting more straight-backed now, her eyes hawkish.
“If you’re not going to help, I’ll ask someone else. Maybe Marie—”
“All right!” Genya snapped. She would not let someone else do a hack-job with Zoya’s hair, no matter how drunk the request was. She pushed away all thoughts of how expensive the treatments were that she was about to use. Briefly, she considered finding another way to put off Zoya, but couldn’t think of any quickly. Then she steeled herself and put on her game face. “All right.” She poured back the rest of her hot chocolate. “Lets go to the bath.”
… …
Later, with her hair wet and wrapped, Zoya was sitting on Alina’s bed again. Neither of them made a comment when Genya sat down beside her to watch the falling snow catch in the light of their window.
“I didn’t think it would be warm enough to snow tonight,” was all Zoya said, sounding a bit more sober. She’d finished drinking a while ago, and had fallen into a contemplative silence as Genya had massaged bleach protector into Zoya’s hair.
Genya hadn’t realized how much hair Zoya had, and recalled the loose hair styles which were probably a matter of necessity rather than choice. If it was too tightly bound — excepting the mandatory ballet-chignon — hair ties would snap. Hair clips, combs and ribbon seemed to work much better for Zoya. Her hair seemed to have as much weight as Genya’s but was fine, floating in a way that Genya’s never would, it was also as soft as it looked. It was unfair. Zoya had hair fit for a storm-witch rather than a judgmental barista and domineering rocker.
Genya supposed the storm-witch could have been judgmental and domineering as well.
“What are you thinking about?” Zoya asked, her head pillowed on her hands, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her eyes were half lidded.
“Hair,” Genya said, smiling in a knowing way that usually shut people up.
Zoya scoffed and rolled her eyes. “I can tell when you stare at me its more than professional interest, you look like you want to ask me something. If you wanted to experiment with me, you needed only to ask.”
Genya felt her throat closing up, sure for a moment that Zoya was teasing her, and then forced out a burst of laughter.
“Right,” Genya said. “Free hair styles for you, I’d be the target of everyone with taste.”
“We can’t help that. We’re gorgeous.”
Something of Zoya’s bravado was lost, however, when her head lolled to the side.
“I’m sleepy, do you think Alina will mind if I lie down?”
Zoya didn’t wait for an answer, however, arranging herself with her feet near Alina’s pillow, and Genya didn’t say anything. Nor did she say anything when her calves pressed against Genya’s hip.
“Are you going to go into medicine?” Zoya asked.
“No one ever asks me that, they just—” She trailed off.
“They assume,” Zoya replied. “They think they know you, but they lack imagination.”
Her eyes were silvery in the darkness, her hair wrap crinkling as she adjusted her head slightly.
“Yes,” Genya whispered, not sure what spell was being cast.
“How many people see you, Genya?” Zoya murmured. “I mean, beyond the makeup and the clothes?”
Genya’s thoughts fumbled for a moment.
It isn’t that people are shallow, or that the women they live with are unkind… but there’s a reason Zoya came to Genya with her box of cheap hair dye and not Marie or Nadia, or — saints help her — Alina. Genya cared deeply about appearances, yes, but she also knew why the chemicals reacted the way they did, and what could neutralize a bad color. She also knew about skin, and about scars. Because she knew about colors and fashion, people forgot she was getting a degree in chemistry as well.
“Not many,” Genya said. “You might be one of the few, and—” she hesitated— “I’m glad you can see me.”
Zoya didn’t reply right away, but that was all right.
“Sometimes I get so jealous of you, I forget you work as hard as any of us. You have talent, but you also have discipline and I admire that. I admire you sometimes, Zoya. When you’re not being insufferable.”
Zoya didn’t reply, and Genya tilted forward to look her in the face only to find Zoya’s eyes were shut, her lips slightly parted.
“Zoya?” Genya gently touched one of her legs below the knee and jostled her lightly.
Thankfully she was already on her side, so Genya merely covered her with a spare blanket and laid down in her own bed, so they were facing each other, in case Zoya woke up and needed help.
… …
Genya was woken by being shaken slightly.
“Sorry!” Zoya said, as soon as Genya’s eyes were open. “Sorry to wake you, just— how long can this be in my hair?”
“Oh! It’s fine, but... are you sure you still want to bleach your hair?”
Zoya looked determined and Genya’s eyes flicked to check the clock. It was now early hours of the morning.
“I trust you,” Zoya said, more fiercely than was necessary for hair dye. “Let’s do this.”
Genya washed it out, running her fingers through the silky hair, even smoother now. They dried her hair with the very nice blower that Genya had hid under Alina’s bed because no one would look there for Genya’s nice things. Drying didn’t take as long as Genya’s hair did. Then Genya mixed the concoction, applied it with a brush and wrapped each section of Zoya’s hair in foil.
Finally the tedious work of checking various sections every few minutes began.
“Luckily you picked a warm color, so we don’t have to do this more than once. The test patch is nice and light…”
“I know this is difficult on you,” Zoya said, frowning into the hand mirror she was holding in order to watch Genya work.
“No, it’s not that.” Genya shook her head. “It’ll be better for your hair if we don’t have to process it several times. And we don’t have to leave it on for very long either.”
Zoya sucked in a breath as though to speak, and hesitated until Genya glanced into the mirror again.
“Is Alina usually out this late on a recording night?”
Genya didn’t think it was appropriate to speculate with Zoya about that, so she said, “You’ll need to use the product I give you so that your hair doesn’t break, OK?”
Zoya looked her in the eye. “I know what Aleksander is like. Before he ‘discovered’ Alina, I was his special project.”
Genya bit her tongue about jealousy, running her gloved fingers over the pale strands of hair.
“Just keep an eye on her. She needs friends.”
“You could be her friend, Zoya,” Genya said, averting her gaze.
Zoya dropped the mirror. “Is it time to wash it out yet?”
They slunk back to the sink, and once her hair was clean and dry, Zoya disappeared back to her own room.
… …
“You asked me to do this, remember?” Genya fumed. She wasn’t in the mood for Zoya’s bullshit, and Zoya was the reason she hadn’t slept enough. “I asked you if you were sure.”
Zoya rolled her eyes as she flipped her hair over her shoulder. It was gorgeous, actually. Genya had to hand it to herself.
“It makes me look sick.” Zoya pouted. “If you could—”
“No,” Genya put her hands up, backing up toward the door. “No more free hair treatments. You can go beg someone else for help now.”
She found the latch without looking, got back inside and leaned against the door once she’d shut it. Her heart was beating so fast. For a moment, there was silence on the other side of the door, and Genya waited for indignant words or more knocking to come. But it didn’t. Instead, the footsteps slunk away, not in the direction of Zoya’s room, but the kitchen, the common room and the stairway.
For a brief moment, Genya felt a pang of regret. What if someone horrible got their hands on her hair and made things even worse? For now, Zoya’s hair was healthy despite the bleach.
Alina stuck her head out of the covers and mumbled something like, ‘You all right?’
“Just need sleep.” Genya hobbled back to her bed and got back under the covers.
“Mmf,” Alina agreed.
… …
Somehow, Genya survived the trip to campus through the blinding snow. She’d avoided the new café on campus because it sounded expensive and because she knew Zoya worked there. Now that she was hunting for it, she was delighted by how inviting it looked. The day’s brief sunlight was fading and the glass walls glowed with warmth. It wasn’t very busy, and she saw someone with an old fashioned waiter’s outfit watering the plants which crowded the old greenhouse corners.
The air was soft, and at one of the tables she recognized her roommate Nadia whom she waved to. Nadia tugged one of her hands away from the person she was sitting across from — a new beau with golden eyes and sleek, dark hair — and waved.
“Tamar!” A familiar voice lashed out from behind the bar. “Break’s over!”
Genya moved further into the café to see Zoya cross her arms and glare at Tamar who reluctantly stood, dropping Nadia’s hands. Zoya was lurking in the doorway behind the bar. Genya didn’t see where Tamar went off to, however, she was too busy gaping at Zoya — whose hair was dark! Had Genya not been the one to bleach Zoya’s hair blonde just twelve hours prior, she would never have known.
“How did you—?” Genya stood in the middle of the room, her mouth popping open and shut like a fish. “How— You? Your hair! You got— Your hair?”
“Yes,” Zoya said slowly. “I grew it myself.”
It was the same tone Zoya used on new students who mistook her for a kind senior, one willing to help just because she was in the top of her class. Genya had made that mistake a few times, and then Zoya had come knocking, drunk after midnight, saying things about trust.
“I’m coming back there,” Genya said before marching around the bar.
“No!” Zoya quickly stepped in the way.
It was good enough, because she came into the direct light, and Genya could see that her hair was not the same deep brown that it used to be, it was an inky black color, more like a midnight blue.
“Zoya!” Genya spoke through her teeth, grinning. “Are you cheating on me already?”
The poor woman looked extremely disturbed at that. “What?”
“Who did your hair?” Genya had difficulty keeping her voice from squeaking.
“Oh, I called my cousin.” Zoya sniffed derisively. “He told me how to cover it up until it grows out.”
“So you didn’t like it?”
Genya watched as Zoya fluffed her fringe in the samovar’s reflection, then frowned when she turned her head to look at Genya.
“It was good, for what it was.”
Zoya looked Genya up and down a second, making Genya feel as though she were about to be found lacking something important. She’d grown use to Zoya by now, so she was ready for the criticism, but none came. The steel snapped back into place behind her eyes and Zoya scowled.
“You can’t be back here,” Zoya said, prodding Genya’s shoulder. “Shoo!”
“Shoo? What am I, a child?”
Zoya leaned her weight into Genya when she didn’t move, and her nervous laughter seemed to spark out of control. “I’m going to get in trouble if you’re caught back here!” Zoya actually sounded panicked.
“All right,” Genya grinned, briefly catching a clump of Zoya’s hair between her fingers. “It turned out well. Good job considering you’re an amateur.”
“I am not—” Zoya suddenly realized she was raising her voice, and hissed— “an amateur!”
But Genya had turned her back and was heading to the door. Her chance at a free cup of coffee was probably not completely shot, but she had to get out of there before she did something foolish. Like touch Zoya’s hair again. For a moment she debated rushing out into the snow again, but she was feeling a bit unsteady on her feet. She hadn’t had more than water and some oats before she finally decided to bring Zoya the brown dye she’d had lying around. She could have waited for Zoya to come home, she realized now, her fingers tracing the edges of the box in her bag.
“Here,” Zoya snapped.
There was the clatter of dishware behind Genya and she was pulled from her thoughts.
Zoya stood with her hands on her hips. “On the house,” she said, jutting her chin toward the cup of coffee.
“Oh!” Genya sat, scooped it up and sighed. “Thank you.”
She beamed up at Zoya, startling her, and the other woman turned away.
“Could I trouble you for a pastry?” Genya asked. She continued, though the words were painful. “I can pay.”
Zoya considered for a moment, sniffed and walked quickly away. Genya could only savor her first sip of coffee — oh saints the crema! — before Zoya was back with a larger plate than she realized a café like this could have. She had savories as well sweets on it.
“Also on the house,” Zoya said, very softly. “I know how much those supplies cost.”
“Will you sit with me?” Genya asked, trying her hardest not to stare at the plate, afraid she might start drooling.
The moment stretched and Zoya remained silent. Was she upset that Genya asked? Was Nadia watching this happening, thus ruining Zoya’s image? Genya was pulling together the words implying it had been a casual request, when Zoya pulled out a chair and sat. Genya sucked in a breath, a smile building inside her, her heart picking up speed. She was unsure of what happened next.
Was Zoya becoming her friend?
“Only for a moment,” Zoya said. “Since you’d look too pathetic on your own.”
“Thanks,” Genya deadpanned.
And surprisingly, Zoya laughed. Tamar brought her a coffee, smiling, and for a few minutes more Zoya was kind. As far as thanks went, it would do.