Herculeah told her mother. She fluffed out her hair. “And it won’t quit.” Herculeah was sitting at the kitchen table. A slice of pizza lay untouched on her plate. Herculeah’s mother glanced at her. “You’re probably just having a bad hair day.” “No, when my hair frizzles, it’s because of danger. I know you don’t believe it.” “I never said I didn’t believe it,” her mother answered carefully. “In fact, I sometimes find myself thinking, ‘If I were Herculeah, my hair would be reaching for the sky right now.’” “Well, Meat knows it’s true. He’s seen proof. He’s seen it work.” She hesitated. Her mother watched her, knowing there was more. “Remember when the Moloch nailed me up in the basement of Dead Oaks? My hair frizzled. Remember when Madame Rosa’s murderer was after me? My hair frizzled. And remember—” Her mother cut her off. “You’ve made your point.” Herculeah slumped in her chair. “Maybe it’s your imagination this time,” her mother suggested.
