BEFORE WE GET to the part where Kasey meets Sid, there’s something I’ve got to admit.

I was sort of trying to sneak in the information about me having a man bun so as to avoid everyone having a TOTAL MEGA-GIANT FREAK-OUT BRAIN SNAP over it. Man buns, or topknots, kind of seem to have that effect. Peeps either love ’em or hate ’em. No in-betweens.

I tried out the new look upstairs in my room for a while. I didn’t spend too long getting it right. No more than two hours.

Okay, three.

Maybe four.

When I finally got it looking the way I wanted, I checked the mirror one last time then strolled downstairs and into the kitchen, hoping no one would notice. I mean, it’s only a hairstyle, right?

Wrong.

My family acted like I’d walked in naked—worse, maybe. My ever-lovin’ fam fell fairly and squarely into the man bun ‘hate’ camp.

I played it ice-cool, which is pretty difficult when your grandma is poking at your head with a fork and saying stuff like “That’s how Susie Armstrong used to wear her hair” and “You know this means we’ll have to leave town, right?”

Georgia—once she’d stopped zipping round the room like an untied balloon—crept closer, eyeing the man bun like it was a rare creature.

“The Greater Crested Topknot,” she whispered in a pretty good imitation of that David Attenborough dude, “is rarely seen outside it’s natural habitat. Here we see one nesting quietly on Doofus Idioticus, one of the unsuspecting local creatures …”

“Mom,” I said. Jules wouldn’t stand by and listen to her only son being teased mercilessly, would she?

“Knock it off, Georgia,” Mom said.

See? I was right. I could always depend on—

“Don’t tease Rafe about his wig,” she added, exploding into howls of laughter.

“A WIG!” Georgia squealed, pretending to faint.

Mom was doubled over, clutching her stomach and laughing so much she was struggling to breathe.

“Is that thing a wig?’ Grandma tugged at my man bun. “Oh my!”

“Of course it’s not a wig!” I yelped, jumping away. “Do you honestly think I’d be wearing a wig?”

I may have been more convincing if my man bun hadn’t chosen that exact moment to roll off my head and bounce across the kitchen floor like a hairy tennis ball.

“It’s not a wig!” I yelled, running after it. “It’s a clip-on man-bun hair accessory!”

My loving family wasn’t listening. They were too busy laughing. Mom did look sort of sorry about it … but she was still laughing.

I stomped out of the room, only stopping to pick up my man bun and clip it back into place. What? It’d cost me $19.95 and I wasn’t going to waste that kind of money.

“I’m sorry, Rafe! Come back!” Mom yelled, but it was too late.