"What is this?" I ask, a little dumbfounded by the long, silky black hair covering half a familiar face. A ghost in my room.

"I changed my hair," Scar says, running her fingers through it to show me. "Do you like it?"

"Why? Why black of all colors?"

"I thought you'd like it better than blonde."

"Definitely better than blonde, but you know..." She looks like a fake Rembrandt painting of Veronica with green eyes. "Why do you do this to me? And why are you even in my room?"

"I had nothing better to do, and I remembered you mentioned a ladder to your room on the side of the house," she explains, playing with her new black hair. "I gotta give it to you, though, I didn't think you'd also leave the window open."

"Mom may have been here cleaning or something."

"You let your mother clean your room?" she says, adopting a bored expression. "That explains a lot about you, actually."

"Why did you dye your hair black?" I insist, but she dodges the question yet again.

"Nice going with your mother downstairs, you. I never thought you had the nerve, but it seems you have it rough here, and not only with Mrs. Jansen."

Mrs. Jansen. Nobody calls Grandma that. "They usually go with 'the old hag who terrorizes the kids'."

"So I see you're rude to your grandmother as well."

"Stop dodging the question and tell me why you dyed your hair black!" I say, now mad at her.

"Whoa, hold your horses, cowboy. Can't a girl change her hair color without you inquiring endlessly about it?"

"Why black?"

"Been thinking about it for a while, actually. It suits my skin tone."

"It's exactly like Vee's." I say finally, getting to what bothers me about it.

"Is it? I don't remember," she says, and her face lights up. "Now I have her necklace and her hair!"

"What's your goal with this, Scar? What's in it for you by doing this?"

"Nothing at all. You're the one creeping me out with how I look like your ex. Like that's very flattering to say to another woman."

Mom's voice can be heard coming upstairs. "John, I just told you you're not allowed to..." she opens the door, sees Abby, and gasps. "And... who might you be?"

"Mrs. Foster, sorry to barge in, I'm Abigail," she says, rushing to stretch her hand for a shake.

Mom takes her hand and whispers to me, "You sure have a type, don't you?"

"Oh, it's not what it looks like, Mrs. Foster."

"Not for lack of trying," I say sarcastically, and confusing Mom even more.

Abigail elbows me and says, "I don't think that's the impression I want to give your mother right now."

"What impression were you aiming for, then?" I ask. "The one where I bring girls into my room, or the one where you break into my room on your own accord?"

"You're being rude to your friend, John!" Mom scolds me for no reason. She clearly doesn't know Abigail.

"Don't waste breath on that, Mrs. Foster," Abigail says, deflated. "He treats me like this every day."

"You poor thing. Care for a cup of tea?"

"She's not staying," I offer, but Mom is quick to pick her side.

"Nonsense. I finally have someone to talk to that isn't my mother," Mom says eagerly. "And you're not ruining that with your crap."

That's when I pull the big, below the belt blows. "She's skipping classes, too."

"No, I'm not!" Abigail retorts, flipping me the finger. "History called in sick."

"Bullshit."

"Call Lyle and he'll tell you," Abigail challenges.

"That can't be right," I say, taking my phone out and dialing Lyle. "Our history teacher never calls in sick."

Lyle answers right away. "Dude, what is it?"

"History called in sick?"

"Unbelievable how you know that kind of dung when you don't even attend our school anymore."

"Told you," Scar says to further nail me down in my coffin.

"Oh, your girlfriend is there. That's how you know."

"She's not...!"

"Yeah, yeah," Lyle says, and I can imagine him shaking his head. "You're full of dung, as usual."

"So you do have a type," Mom whispers.

"Does he?" Abigail whispers back at her.

"His first girlfriend also had long black hair."

"Oh, so that's why he freaked out so much when I dyed it black."

"Abigail is with your mother?!" Lyle says, freaking out. "I tap out of this one, dude. You're on your own."

"You traitor!" I scream on the phone but Lyle already hung up.

There's a full minute of silence in which we all scrutiny each other's faces.

Mom's the one to break the silence. "Care for a cup of tea?"

"I'd definitely love to," Abigail replies, smiling.

"Get comfortable, I'll bring it here," Mom tells her, already walking to the door. "My mother can be sort of difficult around younger people."

I drop Eugene's guitar and my phone on the bed and disappear through the ladder despite Abigail's complaints. I do what the old John did best. I run, run very fast, leaving behind the house. Running without anywhere in particular to go. Run far away from that knock-off Vee who's about to drink tea with my mother. Run away, for the first time in a long time, wishing I could run away from my life. And, crying, too. Because, like my running suggests, the only way to go is forward.