Free Bad Hair Day by Carrie Harris Page B

I’d lose them. For some reason, medical professionals get all crazy about high school students taking medical samples from a crime scene.
    I squinted at the wiry stuff in the dim light. It was hair. Lots of hair. Little clumps of it were scattered around the blood pool. Bryan had a bunch in his hand. There was no way it was his; hehad a buzz cut. So it had to be from his attacker. My overactive imagination treated me to a great visual of Bryan, stabbing wildly with the knife as his attacker throttled him, blood and hair spattering down on his face. Ick. I had to concentrate on the positives.
    That hair was like trace evidence from the gods.
    I’d probably just saved Bryan’s life, so the cops wouldn’t begrudge me a sample of that too. Or at least, they wouldn’t if I didn’t tell them I took it.
    Out came another vial, and I shoved a few strands of hair into it. When I stuffed the samples in my pocket, my hand left a streak of gore down the front of my favorite jeans. The things I sacrificed in the name of medicine.
    The two EMTs finally made it over to us, dashing over and evaluating Bryan at lightning speed. One of them, an older guy with about three strands of hair left, looked up and said, “Which one of you is Kate?”
    I raised a freezing, red streaked hand. “That would be me.”
    “Don’t go anywhere. We need to talk to you once we’re done.”
    He was looking at me like I’d done something wrong, and that kind of ticked me off. What did a girl have to do to earn a thank-you around here? Save the world?
    Oh, wait. I’d already done that.
    “Fine,” I huffed. “But I’m going inside to wash my hands first.”
    I didn’t wait for permission. I stalked back into the restaurant with my gory hands held up in front of my face. The hostess took one look at me and shrieked at the top of her lungs.
    “Quit screaming and open the bathroom door for me,” I said.“I just conducted impromptu surgery in your back lot, and I don’t want to drip on your floor.”
    My matter-of-fact tone snapped her out of it.
    “Ohmigod,” she said. “Of course. Right this way, Miss Grable.”
    Some guy in a corner booth took out his cell and snapped a picture. It was so tempting to flip him off, but I reminded myself that I wasn’t mad at him. I was mad at the hairball who’d nearly killed one of my friends.
    The hostess opened the bathroom door for me and turned on the hot water. After I scalded my hands for about ten minutes, they finally started to warm up. I’d been really lucky that we were in a relatively warm snap and the temperature hadn’t dipped below freezing. Blood gets really cold after it’s been drying on your hands for about a half hour.
    In the time it took me to scrub the blood out from under my fingernails, the entire waitstaff had congregated outside the bathroom, and they pounced as soon as I opened the door. Anyone close enough to touch me did—they patted my shoulder and shook my hand and thanked whatever deity happened to be listening that I’d been in the right place at the right time. Someone started applauding, and the noise quickly spread through the restaurant. I endured it with flaming cheeks and attempted to teleport somewhere else. Anywhere that didn’t have tons of people simultaneously trying to climb into my lap. It didn’t work.
    “Here,” said our waitress from earlier, wrapping her arm around me and thrusting a to-go cup in my hands. “Black coffee, extra strong. Just the way you like it.”
    “Thanks. Would it be too much trouble to get another one for my friend? Her boyfriend is the one who got attacked.”
    “You hold on for a second.”
    That was how I found myself treating the entire crew of assorted civil servants to coffee and fresh pastries. I walked back outside trailed by a little parade of girls, winter coats pulled on over their skimpy outfits, bearing hot food. One of the EMTs nearly swallowed his tongue when he saw us coming.
    I thanked the Leg and Eggers