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Her name is-
“Louise Mellark,” she says, tucking one of her chopped blond locks behind a pink tinged ear. Her cartilage is pierced, just one slender hoop arching under the shell, shining and pale in the fluorescent light of the classroom. “But everyone calls me Pita-Pocket. Or just Pita.”
“Pita-Pocket?,” I say dubiously.
“I really like bread.”
Her cheeks flush and she shifts uncomfortably. She’s too short to be voluptuous, but too curvy to be petite either. I wonder if the nickname is a dig, but why would anyone introduce themselves with a joke at their own expense?
“Oh,” I say with a weak grin. By now the seats are filling in and my early start is lost. I turn away and grab my books out of my bag, stacking them neatly on the table and leaving Louise to find new people to introduce herself to. It might be rude, but I spent three years saving every penny I made at my high school retail job to get to college, and I didn’t come all this way to make friends.
-
Everyone.
What did she mean by that?
It’s our first day of school, and she’s already got an ‘everyone’? I couldn’t make it through four years of high school with a single friend and here Louise ‘Everyone Calls Me Pita Bread’ Mellark has a whole group of them.
I see her in the caf later that afternoon sitting alone in front of the window, and- I can’t help it- my brain hisses ‘liar!’. Ok. Obviously she was at least exaggerating when she chirped out that ‘everyone’ line, but I don’t know what for. She’s the sort of girl anyone would fall in love with immediately- friendly, sweet, pretty- I doubt she’s rocked a single boat her entire life. I mean to pass her by- head directly toward the double doors and out into the courtyard without a backward glance- but something about the way she hunches forward, just a little, and self consciously smoothes her sundress over her lap makes me stop.
“Hey,” I mumble, white knuckling my tray and standing stupidly behind her.
She spins around in her seat, her hair brushing the bottom of her round cheeks. Her bottom lip does this funny thing where it catches behind her top teeth when she smiles, so it almost looks like she’s biting it. The effect is just the right combination of shyness and sweetness that my heart falters.
“Hi! I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name before class started...?”
“Katniss,” I say and shift from one foot to the other.
“You want to sit?,” she asks, gesturing to the empty chairs all around her. “Plenty of room.”
I sit. Louise- Pita- is easy to talk to. Funny too. I don’t dare stop staring at my plate though. It’s easier to do that than explain why my eyes keep catching on her face.
What I don’t know is that there is a group of eight people headed toward our table, and all of them not only know Louise, but know her much better as Pita Pocket- Pita for short. They descend on our table one after another in a blur of new faces and names, and it isn’t until ten minutes in that I realize I’m having trouble breathing.
I quickly swallow the sourness in my mouth so I can mumble an excuse as I cut and run.
-
That Friday there’s a knock on my door. Turns out, Pita-
“-found your name on the dorm directory,” she says, then runs a hand through her hair. She’s wearing what I assume are pajamas- a black tank top and a loose fitting pair of grey sweats that hang low across her soft tummy and wide hips. “Hope that wasn’t creepy. My floor is having a movie night, and I thought, hey- I think Katniss lives in the Tower, and the more the merrier, right?”
I blink at her.
“I have homework.”
Her smile falters a little.
“Oh! Sorry. Have a good night then.”
I close the door and spend the night wondering what would have happened if I hadn’t.
-
Saturday morning I see Pita out of my window, her short hair bouncing as she jogs down the stairs in black yoga pants and a sports bra and nothing else. Her skin is golden and pink as she stretches in the sugared light of the rising sun. My cheeks burn, and even though no one can see me I turn away quickly- and proceed to trip over the leg of my desk.
Chin? Meet carpet.
Because I need real coffee and not whatever bubbling acid the caf has decided to ladle out today, I drag all my books with me to Starbucks. My next class isn’t until 1pm on Monday, so I have plenty of time to finish my (admittedly sparse) homework, but I want to establish some good study habits right away.
Thing is… I can’t fuck this up. A lot of people helped me get to college. I worked so damn hard, and Prim will need help when she starts school four years from now. But I don’t care at all about business administration, and I don’t know why I picked that as my major. I don’t really even know what it means, except it seems like the kind of thing that could land me a job one day.
I sigh into my latte as I stare dejectedly at the books spread out in front of me. I’ve been here for an hour reading the same two pages in my Econ book but it may as well have been in Russian for all I understood.
And that’s when I hear the door open, and there is Pita, flushed and breathing hard, her hair sticking in waves to her forehead. I squint back down at my book and swallow around my dry mouth. I feel her presence like a radiator- everywhere she moves my skin warms in response. I tuck my bottom lip between my teeth and bite hard.
Pita buys her coffee and hesitates behind me.
Then the door opens and she’s gone.
-
Duh.
I mean.
Of course.
It was only a matter of time.
Even the Golden Girl won’t put up with my surliness for too long without deciding to peace the fuck out. I spend the week drumming my fingers in different locations but always alone. The Caf. My dorm. Various poorly-lit classrooms. Once, my same table at Starbucks. So when Wednesday rolls around, I’m more apprehensive than usual as I make my way to the history class she and I are both in.
I promise myself I’m going to be cool about it. It's better if I don't make friends. After all, I should be focusing on school and since this class is graded on a curve Pita is technically my enemy. I’m in a fight to the death for the highest GPA in this place and getting cozy with my competition isn't a smart move. But then all my noble plans are shot straight to hell when I walk into class and see what Pita has done to herself.
Her hair is green.
Well. Bluish green. Teal. It makes her eyes seem so much bigger- and bluer- than I remember.
She smiles hesitantly and my heart thunders in my chest.
“Hi.”
“What’d you guys watch?” I blurt in response.
She stares at me blankly for a moment, then flushes dark. It suddenly becomes immensely important for me to find one very specific pen in my bag.
“What? Oh- the movie- Jurassic Park. The old one from the 90’s.”
I nod.
“Your hair-”
“I saw you at-”
She laughs. I swallow.
“It looks beautiful,” I say thickly.
And it does. Or she does. I don’t know and I can’t figure it out because there’s a part of me that aches in the worst way at the look of surprise and sudden shyness her face. Has no one complimented her yet? Someone has to have- guys are always turning their heads when she walks by, and she has so many friends- so many people who wave to her as she passes- And then I wonder how it would feel to be liked like Pita is- no matter what. To look in the mirror and be the same and new all at once, and not feel one ounce of fear. I feel my breath catch in my throat at the thought.
Pita looks up at me through eyelashes that are impossibly long.
“I have some stuff leftover,” she says hopefully. “You know. If you want me to do yours.”
-
She calls it her paintbox and dimples bloom on her cheeks as she chuckles at her own joke.
It’s a black plastic toolbox full of aluminum tubes and colorful pots, and her smile fades as she purses her lips and sifts through the contents. Paint and dye is already all over her hands, but somehow she knows she’s encountered loose pigment in the toolbox because she rubs her hand on her trashed jeans and leaves a dark stain behind.
“What are you thinking?” she says as she absent-mindedly continues to dig.
I stare at her dumbly.
“Like a pink? Or a red?”
She pulls out a tub of of something called Manic Panic and shakes it a little. It's fire engine red, not a color I ever would have picked for myself. I would have gone with something like green- or maybe dark purple, if I was gonna be really daring. But I'm so far out of my comfort zone already that a choice between green and purple is an unsolvable puzzle, and Pita's suggestion throws me for a loop.
I must look like a fish on land because she says-
"You know. You don’t have to do this. Really.”
She puts the pot back and fiddles with the latch on the toolbox. “Dyeing your hair is a big move, and I just offered because I thought-”
“No!,” I say. “I want to. I just don’t want to stand out in...”
I trail off at the look on her face.
“There’s nothing wrong with being different,” she says softly, but so earnestly that I have to swallow all the reasons I could give her that she’s dead wrong. There’s a long moment where she stares at me and I stare back, and I don’t really quite know what’s going on. I get that feeling again- the one from the caf- where my heart kicks and it’s hard to breath- like I’m suffocating under the weight of her stare.
She bites her lip and fishes out a tub of something called ‘Forest’.
It’s a dark green- so deep it’s almost black- just a shade or two lighter than my hair. The kind of color that could disappear if I needed it to.
-
We decide to do it in Pita’s room as it already smells heavily like linseed oil.
"I'm a studio art major. They expect weird smells to come out of here.”
My lips twitch. Just like that, I’m ok again.
She arranges me on a towel on the floor and runs her fingers through my hair. In their wake, my skin pebbles and burns.
“Have you ever done this before?,” she says as her nails brush against my scalp.
I shake my head and the goosebumps spread down my arms.
Her breath on my neck is pure torture as her hands gently manipulate the length of my hair. Even with the chemical twinge of hair bleach in my nose I feel jittery and too warm until she hustles me to go wash the cakey mixture on the tips of my hair off. In her shower, I press my head against the wall and roll my forehead from side to side on the cold tile. The bleach comes off in chunks that dance around the drain but never get close enough to wash away.
I nudge them down with my big toe and swallow hard. People aren’t exactly my thing. I tried that in high school and it blew up in my face, and now won’t be any different because fundamentally there is something very wrong with me. The parts that make me up are all fucked and I can’t- don’t know how to, or won’t- get close to anyone without fucking them up too. Even my best friend- my only friend- figured it out in the end.
“You’re a real piece of work.”
That’s what he said, and he’s right. When Gale’s lips crashed into mine- when his tongue slid into my mouth- when his hand moved between my legs- I felt nothing. Nothing at all. But by the time I put a stop to it, it was already too late. He said those words. You know the ones.
And then I said the worst thing I could have- “I know.” Part of me always knew that he loved me, and that same part of me also knew I could never love him back. At least, not the way he wanted me to. But what could I say? Telling him the truth was out of the question. In the end, it didn’t matter anyway. He figured it out all on his own.
And then he told our entire high school. That’s how the names started. Scrawled on my locker, shouted at me from across the hallway, and spray painted on my car. I ignored it as best I could. I put my head down and worked harder, because what else could I do? I wanted to leave that small town behind and go somewhere bright and new, and none of the taunts and slurs would matter if I could make it out.
Gale was a mistake- but not one I can afford to make again.
-
“I have to go,” I mumble as I step out of Pita’s bathroom and grab my bag off her bed. My dripping, white tipped hair is soaking through my shirt and my shoes are in my hand. I’m not gonna bother putting them on for the elevator ride to my floor.
“Katniss, wait-,” Pita says.
The door closes behind me.
-
A week slips by. Two. We are hurtling towards mid-terms and with a full study schedule and a constant diet of coffee and Nature Valley bars, I am beginning to look- and act- more like a wild animal than a college student. Pita and I see each other in class. Her hair fades from teal to cotton-candy blue to ghostly white. Her clothes are always covered in paint- and one time I pass her and there’s a smudge of charcoal on her cheek. I have to turn away quick.
There’s no point in denying the mark she’s left on me. There’s my hair, for one. Its white blonde and so fragile now. Sometimes I find myself running my fingers over it while I study and am mortified. Everything I planned and saved for she’s ruined in just a few days. Any flash of teal makes my heart catch and my head wrenches toward it. There are days where I can’t think of anything else but the way the hair on my arms stands up anytime she’s near- the way my chest tightens until I can hardly swallow when I pass the painting studios and catch the scent of linseed oil.
I should hate her, but I can’t find that in me. I tried, and all that was there was that fascination I felt when I first saw her dyed hair. To be me- the same but new- a smiling stranger in the mirror who isn’t afraid. The image shadows me in the library, in the caf, when I study, as I brush my teeth- hell, it’s everywhere- and a week before midterms, I have to call it what it is-
A huge fucking problem.
-
I find her behind an easel in the studios upstairs. Linseed and charcoal dust hang in the air, and the vaulted glass ceiling above bursts with sunlight. It’s a room almost tailor made for Pita, and she’s so absorbed in whatever is on her canvas that she doesn’t even see me enter the room until I’m standing a few feet from her.
By chance her eyes flicker in my direction and she jumps.
“Holy crap you’re quiet,” she wheezes, one hand over her heart. There’s paint on her cheek and all over her pants. Does she use her own damn clothes as a palette? My heart flutters in my chest and I swallow.
“I need your help,” I say as I pull my braid over my shoulder.
Pita frowns, then sighs heavily.
“Sure. Ok. What’s going on?”
“I need to finish this. It’s driving me crazy- I can’t think about anything else and-”
“Woah there, ok? Slow down. Finish what?”
I tug the hairband at the bottom of my braids and it loosens, then spills out over my shoulders and down my back in thick waves.
“This.”
Pita chews on the inside of her cheek, then steps forward.
“May I?,” she says.
I nod.
She fingers the bleached and broken ends of my hair carefully.
“Your hair is fried. Do you use conditioner at all?”
“No.”
She smiles a little and shakes her head.
“I have no idea what else I expected,” she says.
Like before, I trail anxiously behind her to her room. Out comes the paintbox and the forest dye, and she tells me that the dye will help my fragile ends as she combs her fingers through my hair. My skin prickles in response, but this time I know it will happen and I’ve come prepared in a sweatshirt. But that, of course, is a problem because it’s so bulky. She tells me to take it off and I try to refuse, but in the end, she’s right. I don’t want it covered it dye.
But standing there shivering in my tank top is worse than I imagined, especially when her breath leaks through my shirt and I shiver. Does she know? Can she see? The kind of effect she’s having? After what feels like hours the tips of my hair are covered in dye, wrapped in foil, and all that’s left to do is wait. Pita turns around to put the dye away, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror that sits on her desk. My face. Terrified. And the same as it’s always looked, in spite of the tinfoil.
That’s when everything falls completely apart, and I can’t even blame Pita because this time it’s my fault.
“Do you think anyone will notice?”
My voice cracks as I whisper it, and my eyes are still locked on the image in the mirror.
Pita spins back around from the paintbox where she’d been putting the dye away and she looks at me in alarm.
“Who cares what they think?” she says.
I blink mutely at her. I never cared what anyone thought before. Never even gave it a second thought. So why does it suddenly matter so much now? I step closer to Pita as if she has the answer. I’m taller than her- not by much- but enough that she is looking up at me from under those heavy lids and thick lashes, her pupils swelling and fat and black as she swallows.
“You’ll still be beautiful,” she murmurs. Something warm and electric flickers to life under my skin, and I know that I can never tell anyone about this moment. They’ll ruin it. Find something ugly or strange in it, and I know- maybe have always known somewhere very deep- that what’s wrong with me isn’t me. It’s what everyone else thinks about who I am.
So when this moment is over and gone I will press it between the pages of my heart and tuck it safely away, knowing full well nothing like this will ever happen again.
Except.
It does.
Pita’s lips press suddenly and urgently against mine, one of her warm hands finding my cheek and the other fisting in the hem of my shirt. Then she jerks away- gaping at me with reddened cheeks and swollen lips, her hands flying to her mouth.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t-”
“No!,” I gasp. “Please, I-”
And I don’t know how, but then we are kissing again. It’s the first kiss I’ve ever truly been aware of- warmth growing and spreading through me from every part of her that I can touch. She’s soft and solid all at once, her chest pressing against mine as she breathes hard through her nose and grips the fabric of my shirt at my waist. And it feels so good, so right, that I know I won’t be the first to pull away.
-
Even before I step in the shower to wash the color of my hair away, I catch a glimpse of a stranger in the mirror. She is flushed and smiling, her eyes bright and wide.
I don’t wonder what people will think about her.
I am more concerned with what she will look like with fire engine red hair.