h o l l y b e n n e t t
3 8
including me—had discovered that I
wasn’t
prickly or
antisocial or scary. At least, not anymore.
Was I falling for him? Yes, I was. And I was pretty
sure he liked me too, but he was a bit hard to read.
For all his easy friendships, he seemed more reserved in
that department than a lot of guys.
It’s funny how I assumed at first that he was too preppy
and straight for me. Then I caught sight of a photo in his
room—a group of kids, all hugging and mugging for the
camera. Quite a motley assortment—white and brown and
Asian, long hair and punk spikes, a girl with black every-
thing, including major eyeliner, and another who looked
like she’d escaped from the 1970s.
“Who’re all these kids?” I asked.
“Oh, those are my friends in Montreal.” He came
closer to look over my shoulder.
“Really. They don’t look like you.”
Jack laughed. “Don’t you recognize me?”
I looked again, and there he was, hair down to his
shoulders, but the same megawatt smile.
“Omigod, it’s you!” More laughter while I compared
the before and after. “Why’d you cut it?”
He shrugged. “Sort of a rite of passage, I guess. We did
it at my going-away party—the girls went at me with scis-
sors, and then Michel pulled out his clippers. A fresh start.”
He ran his hand over his head. The bristly buzz cut was
just beginning to soften and lie down. “I actually liked it in
the hot weather, but I hope it’s a fair bit longer by winter.”
