In order for my outsides to match my insides, I dye my clothes black. My shirts, my shorts, my shoes. My jeans and socks. I never go upstairs anymore because it’s contaminated by her, but I have to for the dye. I know she has black hair dye.
The upstairs is different. The bedroom has new furniture, a rocking chair, and a pink and purple dresser drawer. There’s no TV. Kerri’s jewelry is all over Mom’s dresser, and I think I’ll steal it. Then I think I don’t want to make human contact with Kerri’s personal stuff.
Except her dye. There are night-lights on in the hall and the upstairs bathroom. Translucent clown heads and ice-cream cones. They’re on day and night, which is weird. She has night-lights downstairs too. Plastic flowers and rainbow hearts. She always leaves lights on behind her, like she’s scared of the bogeyman.
In a cabinet next to the sink I find all this nail polish, every conceivable color. I don’t touch it. One’s spilled. There are three boxes of Clairol. She must buy in bulk, I think. Jewelry, nail polish, hair dye, night-lights.
I don’t have that many clothes. Two washers full. They come out kind of slate gray, but that’s okay. I make sure to leave a mess for Kerri to clean up. And the empty dye boxes so she’ll know I’ve violated her space.
Mom doesn’t say anything. She barely looks at me. Kerri only says, “If you’d asked, I’d have gotten you some black Rit.”
Shut up, I think. Your roots are showing.
Kerri scans me up and down. She nods her head. “Cool,” she says. Like she gets it.
Which almost makes me wish I hadn’t done it.