Free Yesterday by C. K. Kelly Martin Page A

the mirror, feeling infi nitely more like the external me matches the shadowy person inside.
    When I thank Christine she says that if I get some of my hair chopped off, tease it like crazy and then we do my makeup right I’ll be pure Siouxsie Sioux. Having been impressed with the Siouxsie and the Banshees’s video for “Dear Prudence” I saw the other night, the suggestion makes me smile.
    “I like it long, though, so I’m not going to cut it,” I tell her, running my hand down a newly darkened strand. I brush it forward, fl opping it over my eyes so I can hide behind it.
    “But we can work on the makeup a little bit and pick out some new clothes.”
    “Oh, defi nitely new clothes,” Christine says emphati-cally. “Otherwise there’s not much point in changing your hair— you’d still look part preppy.”
    Christine’s dad drives me home when we’re done experimenting with makeup (which mostly translates into pale skin and kind of scary eyes) and I hesitate before stepping inside my house, afraid my mom won’t be happy about the new look. But the fi rst person who lays eyes on me is Olivia, who wrinkles her nose as I step into the kitchen. “You smell like chemicals,” she complains from her spot at the re frigerator.
    “I know.” I move in close to her to peek into the fridge.
    My appetite’s been under control during the last couple of days— this feels more like a run-of- the-mill snack craving.
    “And you look like an evil twin of yourself,” Olivia adds, reaching past me for the carton of orange juice.
    “Thanks,” I say, sarcasm pooling on my tongue. “That’s exactly the look I was going for.” With no interesting leftovers to munch on, I close the fridge and seek out my mother. She’s up in her bedroom with the door ajar so it doesn’t occur to me to knock but as I swing through the doorway I see that she’s sitting on the double bed, her feet curled up beside her and a family photo in her lap. I recognize the photograph from across the room. It was one that was taken of all of us in an Auckland portrait studio just before Christmas. There’s a snowy backdrop and the four of us are wearing Santa hats with fake fur cuffs and a fl uffy white ball dangling from the end of them.
    We were happy then, I guess. I wish I could feel that way when I remember it instead of being broken the way I am.
    When I look at old photos of myself, it’s like I never really existed.
    I take a step back, sure I’m interrupting my mother’s memories. The fl oor creaks underfoot, giving me away.
    “Freya!” my mother exclaims, her jaw tightening as she takes in my image. “What have you done to your hair?”
    I clasp my hands behind my back and frown. “A girl from school helped me dye it. I wanted a change.”
    My mother has set down the family photo and she straightens her legs, throwing them over the side of the bed.
    “It’s pretty drastic. Why didn’t you say anything when I was dropping you off?”
    I shrug. “It’s not that big a deal and it’s my hair.”
    My mother grimaces as she casts an eye back at the family photo. “But your real color is so lovely.”
    My real color is something I’m not. If my mother and I have had a conversation like this before, I don’t remember it, yet the resentment rising up inside me is so familiar that it feels like second nature. I knew she wouldn’t approve.
    “Ordinary,” I counter, my brain beginning to simmer at the thought of what my mother will say next, how she’ll make me feel like I’ve done something stupid or selfi sh.
    “And what’s wrong with wanting a change? Everything else has changed lately. What’s the matter with me taking charge of something that I can control?”
    My mother raises her eyes to meet mine again. “What’s done is done. It’s just so”— she squints as she examines my hair— “so dark. And your makeup … Did you think I would’ve tried to stop you? Is that why you didn’t say anything?”
    “I don’t