Amy’s POV
The smell of hair dye filled my bathroom, heavy and pungent, like cherries and chemicals had exploded in the air. I was barefoot on the cool white tiles, wearing an oversized T-shirt, my hands stained pink like I’d just finished painting something dangerous. My hair was soaking wet, heavy with color, twisted up under a plastic shower cap as I stared at my reflection in the fogged-up mirror.
I didn’t look like myself. And for once, I actually liked that.
The old Amy would’ve never done this. She would’ve cared too much—about what people thought, what Charlie would say, what her cheer captain status meant. But that girl was gone, buried under layers of betrayal, rage, and vanilla fries. In her place was someone braver. Wilder. Messier.
I grabbed my phone from the counter, fingers trembling as I typed out a text to my mom in Italy. “Hey, just checking in. Hope everything’s good there. Miss you.”
I hit send and stared at the screen. Seconds ticked by. No response.
I knew it was coming. It always was. A few hours later, my phone buzzed with a vague reply: “Busy. Everything’s fine here.” It wasn’t even a real answer, just another reminder of how alone I really was.
When I rinsed the dye out, it stained the sink like spilled wine. When I dried it and looked in the mirror, I couldn’t stop staring. The shade was loud, almost firetruck red, with hints of orange in the sunlight. It clashed with my pale skin, made my brown eyes look darker, sharper. It didn’t match anything I owned.
And I loved it.
It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t polite. It didn’t whisper. It screamed.
I opened my phone, went to Charlie’s contact, and stared at his name. My thumb hovered over it for a moment. There was a time when I would have hesitated. Not anymore. I blocked him on everything—Instagram, Snapchat, even Venmo. I didn’t want to see his face or his stupid updates. I didn’t want to be reminded of how he used to call me “his girl” and then let Camilla straddle him like I didn’t even exist.
Then I opened Instagram.
I took a selfie, tilting my head so the red hair looked wild around my face. My lips were parted slightly. My eyeliner sharp. My eyes still puffy from the last two days, but determined. Fierce.
I posted it with the caption: watch me rise.
Ten minutes later, I posted another one—this time from the front porch, my new hair glowing in the sunlight. I captioned that one: background girls don’t burn.
My phone lit up with likes, heart reacts, shocked comments from classmates. Even some of the cheer girls messaged me things like “omg bold queen” and “slayyyyyy.” I didn’t care if they meant it or not. I cared that I felt powerful for once.
The next morning, I sat on the steps in front of my house, sipping iced coffee, waiting to see if James would actually show up.
At exactly 10:03 AM, his black Jeep pulled up to the curb, windows rolled down, music thumping low from the speakers. He was wearing dark sunglasses and leaned back in the driver’s seat like he owned the entire planet. When he turned his head and looked at me, he whistled.
“Damn,” he said, sliding the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose just a little. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
He paused, grinning.
“Almost.”
I rolled my eyes but smiled as I got in the car. “You ready for this, fake boyfriend?”
He smirked. “You kidding? I was born for chaos.”
Our first official fake date wasn’t dinner or a movie or anything normal. James insisted that normal was boring. Instead, we drove downtown and hit up a thrift store with one goal: pick the weirdest outfit possible for the other person and then wear it in public, no complaints.
He handed me a sparkly blue cowboy jacket, oversized red sunglasses, and a skirt with sequins shaped like cats. I gave him a vintage pink hoodie with glittery letters that spelled out “Drama Queen” and a pair of yellow bell bottoms.
We wore them. We owned them.
People stared. We laughed.
Then, on the way back to the car, we stopped at a random gas station where someone had set up a small karaoke machine out front as part of some summer promotion. James grabbed the mic like it was a sword, and without warning, belted out the worst, most off-key version of “Livin’ on a Prayer” I’d ever heard in my life. He didn’t care that people were watching. In fact, he bowed at the end like he had just performed at Madison Square Garden.
I laughed so hard I almost dropped my slushie.
We ended the day on the roof of the old, abandoned theater by Main Street. James climbed up first, then reached down to pull me up, our hands warm and sticky from cherry-flavored syrup. We sat side by side on the rough concrete edge, slushies in hand, legs swinging over the edge. The sun had just started to set, painting the sky with streaks of pink and purple.
For a moment, everything felt quiet. Not sad quiet. Just still. Like the world had paused for us.
I snapped a photo on impulse—me mid-laugh, my head thrown back, James holding my hand and smirking at the camera like he knew exactly what he was doing.
I posted it right away.
Caption: This summer, I choose chaos.
By the time I got home and showered, the post had already blown up. More comments. More fire emojis. Some people were confused. Some were nosy. I ignored them all.
But one notification made my stomach twist.
A DM.
From Charlie.
I opened it with shaky fingers.
His message was short.
Cruel.
“You’re hotter angry.”