Melody can’t get her hair to tousle. It should be wild but balanced, abstract, a glossy composition. Her blonde tips are all off on the left, though, and she has no gloss. The last time her hair was glossy, she was ten, itching in an Easter dress at an interminable luncheon where the only drink was iced tea. She skinned her knee, a habit she still hasn’t lost, along with the hated baby cheek-fat that will probably be there forever. It’s solidifying, cured like concrete by the sullen dignity she learned nine Easters ago to carry her through the longest days.