Green Hair Week: The Conclusion

“A shower cap? You want me to wear a fucking shower cap?”

Amy glanced around, wondering if the walls were shaking. For a little brother, Mitchell sure could thunder. “It beats corned beef,” she pointed out.

“At least we could laugh about that!”

“Are you leaving this room?” she asked him, hands on hips. “I’m right here if anyone knocks. I won’t let them see you,” she promised even though under normal circumstances, if someone did knock, she’d shove him out into the hall and lock the door behind him.

This wasn’t a normal circumstance, and they both knew it. Not if Mitchell had actually coughed up the cash to fly her down here to fix it.

At some point, she’d make sure that he paid for this with more than his wallet. But right now, Amy needed to restore his hair. The band could only ban photographers for so long, and they all knew that fans always managed, somehow, to sneak cameras in. Word would get out, if it hadn’t already.

This could become legend.

Mitchell thrust the shower cap at her. “You fucking wear it. I’m sick of looking like a freak.”

“You should see yourself right now,” Amy told him. His hair was piled on top of his head like a turban, drips of mayonnaise-colored conditioner had spattered his bare arms and chest, and for some reason known only to him, he’d tucked a towel into the waistband of his jeans, as if to keep them clean. “You know, Mom wanted me to take pictures.”

“You told her?”

Amy wanted to laugh at his scared look. Mitchell, ever the little boy who was terrified of being caught — even when he’d been bad on purpose. “Of course I told Mom about it,” she said. “I needed a ride to the airport, remember?”

He covered his face with his hands and stomped in a circle, moaning “no” over and over again. Amy actually felt a little sorry for him.

“C’mere and let’s get this on you,” she said, taking the clear plastic cap from him. “At least it’s not pink.”

He let her sit him down in a chair and put the shower cap on. “Let the warmth of your head penetrate the conditioner,” she sing-songed, moving her hands over his head in what felt like a mystical way.

“I’m not sure if you’re telling me I have a hot head or you’re making some sex joke,” he said, reburying his face in his hands, his elbows propped on his thighs.

Amy stopped, considering. “Both, probably. Speaking of sex, are any of you guys having trouble peeing yet? I picked up supplies just in case…”

Mitchell growled. Amy grinned at her little brother. He’d always been the one who’d made people smile, no matter what he’d done and how angry he’d made them. He’d always been the one people had been drawn to.

And now, Amy told herself, he was paying the price for it. A few less excited girls, toting beer and pizza money into the hotel’s pool, slipping twenties to hotel management to keep them looking the other way… When she’d gotten to the hotel and rescued Mitchell from the room he shared with Trevor, the bass player had told her they hadn’t spent a dime of their own money over the entire three days. In fact, Trevor had bragged, they’d come out a hundred bucks on top.

Yeah, Amy thought, sometimes it sucked being such a people magnet.

“Hey, Aim?” Mitchell said, his voice muffled by his hands.

“What’s up, Pipsqueak?”

“Thanks.”