That’s when I see a ghostly white face reflected in the mirror from the darkened hallway outside the bathroom. I’m about to scream, but catch my breath when I realize it’s just my mother. Considering how much I’ve seen her lately, it’s like seeing a ghost. Still, she’s classic Debbie Hill: Same briefcase, same pink suit and heels, same helmet of perfect hair, and standard disappointed expression directed at me. Our schedules have complemented each other’s so perfectly I’ve hardly seen her in months, but she hasn’t changed. “Heart attack,” I groan at her, rubbing my hair furiously with the towel. “New hair color?” she asks, a tinge of bitterness in her voice. She should have had a beauty queen or a perfect little Peyton instead of me. All I ever do is disappoint her. “Something like that.” At that moment, I would have loved to freak her out with a lime green ‘do, just out of spite.
