Rule #9 by Sheri Duff Read Free Book Online

psycho. They like the quiet between themselves; she says it’s a guy thing. But when they mess up they don’t want a girl to stay mute. They don’t know what to do with the quiet. It freaks them out. They grow all fidgety.
    Gaby told me to try it and see how it worked. She also warned me, “Some guys don’t give a rat’s ass. But in the end, they aren’t worth much anyway. And you can’t play the silent card too much or it backfires. Save it for when it counts.”
    I’m not sure how well it worked out, considering Blake didn’t take me to the concert. He finally blurted out, “I think we should break up. I have to go. I’ll call you later.”
    What a wuss. Call me later? Yeah, right. He couldn’t handle my reaction. I bet he thought I’d cry. I didn’t cry, even though I wanted to. I held it in. My mom taught me better. She never cried when my father cheated. She just told him to leave.
    After the breakup, Gaby tossed me a pair of chocolate lace-up oxfords with heels. I couldn’t believe it. She’d saved them to finish off my outfit for the concert. I had a purple skirt (one of the few items I still own from Trendy Teen), my gray Sir Lancelot t-shirt, and a purple suede jacket I’d found at the shop. Gaby had been keeping an eye out for the perfect shoes to finish my ensemble…and she’d found them.
    Then Gaby pulled me from behind the counter. She told the single customer, one of our regulars, “Be right back.”
    With a death grip on my arm, she pulled me out of the store.
    “Wait. What are we doing?” I asked. “Where are you taking me?”
    . “It’s time for a change.” She was dressed in Eighties Madonna attire, including black rubber bracelets she’d found at an estate sale, black parachute pants, and a jean jacket. Her hair was big and wavy with blond-on-blond highlights pulled up with a white scarf. It would have been over the top for anyone besides Gaby. She marched me down to the beauty salon two stores down and had me sitting in a chair within seconds.
    “A new look makes everything better,” Gaby said. “Remember, he’s trash and you deserve better. No more dumpster diving for you.”
    I told the stylist to do something to my hair that she would do to hers, “but not all black.” I had limits. The Goth look doesn’t appeal to me. I can’t get away with it, since I don’t have flawless white skin. My pink undertones always turn blotchy in the sun, and there’s not enough foundation at the local beauty supply store to cover up the mess.
    Gaby snuck over at least a hundred times to see how we were doing and to give her opinion on the shades we had chosen. She brought over pictures of Madonna in every era and thought I should take on one of those looks. I told her to stop bringing over pictures and to grab my charcoal pencils and my sketchpad instead. I needed something to do while waiting for the new colors to take.
    While I sat with foils in my hair, I drew a pollywog with jet-black, short funky hair and tattoos. The froglike creature had full red lips and extreme, arched eyebrows. I left it for the girl that cut my hair, because she was the model for the image I created. (She loved it and later made it into a tattoo for her ankle.)
    Three hours later, I walked out with my dirty blond mane replaced with fiery auburn spunk. Platinum steaks splashed through my hair. The black bangs were to piss my dad off. More than eight inches of my mop had been removed, tied in a band and donated.
    When I walked back through the door of the boutique, Gaby screamed “I love it!” so loud that she scared a middle-aged customer out of the store. She spun me around.
    “Even the bangs?” I asked.
    “Especially the bangs,” Gaby picked though the colors. “Your dad is going to hate them, but the black is fabulous. That girl at the Bagel Store may have a chest the size of Dolly Parton, but you, my dear, are amazing! And now you have a new ’do and the shoes to finish your outfit.”
    “But