The Silver Strand - Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1: Be Careful What You Wish For



“Let me pluck your silver hair.”  Bianca’s stumpy fingers crept up Isabelle’s arm. 

“Shhhh!”  Isabelle swiped them away and glared at her loud-mouthed friend.  No doubt everyone on the crowded school bus had heard, and forty-two pair of eyes stared at the girl with the freaky, silver strand.  She glanced around the rows of black vinyl seats.  One seventh grade boy dished out dead arms to some poor kid across the aisle.  Four rows behind her, a girl hung over the back of her seat, blowing gum bubbles and showing off to her friends. 

The bus groaned and shuddered at the punishing hill climb.  After three breakdowns that month, Isabelle bet the wheels were going to fall off and they’d roll back down the hill collecting ten cows along the way. 

Judging by the driver’s cross glares in the rear-view mirror, the air conditioning system had circulated the stench of Bianca’s three week old sandwich.  For months she had tormented him with a game of hide and seek, stuffing rotten food between seats or in overhead compartments.  She claimed he deserved it because he was such a stuffy, old, grump who never smiled at his passengers.  Sometimes Isabelle wondered how she ended up best friends with a twelve year old ratbag. 

“Pleeaasssse.”  Bianca’s pale, almost invisible eyebrows drew together.  Her blubbery bottom lip puckered and she made a sad, puppy dog face. 

Sinking in her seat, Isabelle hunted through her honey-brown hair for the silver strand.  Thick like a skewer, it resembled polished silver, yet weighed the same as another hair.  Tingles rippled through her fingertips at each stroke.  A little voice inside her head begged her to leave it alone.  But it had caused nothing but trouble since sprouting.  Like the time in science class when magnets attracted it as if it was made of metal.  Boy that really spooked her lab partner.  And news of the freaky hair spread faster than chicken pox.  Twirling the strand around her finger, Isabelle looked at her friend, feeling unsure whether to get rid of it. 

Bianca sighed and slumped into her seat.  “Fine,” she said, using her navy school blazer to wipe a year’s worth of smudges from her glasses.  “Don’t whine to me next time someone calls you, grandma.”  She mimicked the high pitched old lady’s voice that had haunted Isabelle for the past two months. 

Heat swept across Isabelle’s cheeks.  “I told you not to call me that,” she hissed. 

Her friend shrugged and replaced her glasses.  “Pluck the strand and lose the nickname.” 

While Bianca stuffed her face with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Isabelle wrestled with the temptation to poke her fingers in the slop and rub them over her friend’s lenses.  Instead she stared out the dust-speckled window, wondering what she had done to deserve the freaky strand.  Faking a headache to get out of walking her dog?  Or pretending to fall asleep on the couch to escape washing the dishes? 

The touch of Bianca’s a hand on her shoulder shook Isabelle from her thoughts.  She pretended to admire cattle grazing on the rolling hills of the coastal village. 

In an unexpected move, Bianca’s arm pinned Isabelle between the seat and window.  Raised on a farm, her friend had learned to lasso a horse at age eight and trained mustangs by ten.  Under her weight, Isabelle’s struggles were like a foal compared to a wild, bucking mare. 

“What are you doing?” she panted. 

Bianca tugged the silver strand and an electric shock zapped her. 

Bolts of pain radiated across Isabelle’s scalp and she squealed. 

Two boys from the row in front turned to investigate. 

“Mind your own business,” Bianca snapped. 

One boy’s navy hat went sailing into the aisle.  The owner slunk down to retrieve it and returned to his seat with a tomato red face. 

“You okay?” said Bianca, massaging her hand. 

When the pain faded to a sting, Isabelle nodded and rubbed her head. 

Something in Bianca’s school bag rattled as she riffled through it.  “That strand’s one tough sucker,” she said, piling text books and a writing pad onto Isabelle’s lap.  “Reminds me of that feisty stallion that took two weeks to break.”  She yanked a pair of scissors free. 

Isabelle’s gut clenched as her friend seized the strand and laid it between the blades.  The two friends exchanged a look before Bianca squeezed the handles together.  Rose-gold sparks shot out from the strand and scalded Isabelle’s right cheek.  Her friend yelped and scrambled backward, almost toppling over her armrest.  The strand sizzled and hissed like a firecracker, drawing the attention of the two boys again. 

The one with the cap croaked, “You’re hair’s on fire.” 

His companion’s jaw mopped the floor. 

Once the fizzling noises ended, Isabelle slapped a hand over her head. 

Normally, nothing spooked Bianca, not even flighty or bolting horses.  But this had turned her best friend’s tanned skin a shade paler. 

School bag cradled in her arms, Isabelle stumbled to her feet and pressed the stop button on the handrail.  Brakes squeaked and the bus slowed to pull over at the next stop.  Without a backward glance at her friend, Isabelle tossed her school bag over her shoulder and marched down the aisle.  The doors creaked open and she leapt down two steps at a time.  Humid, stuffy air greeted her and a light sheen of sweat instantly formed on her brow. 

As the bus pulled away, she heard a window scrape open and some boy yell out, “You’re a freak, Tresdon.”

Head bowed, Isabelle quickened her pace along the worn dirt track.  Humiliation bubbled inside her and she kicked several cobbles.  Great, she thought to herself.  For the rest of middle school I’ll be known as the girl with the freaky, grandma hair.  Her stomach twisted in knots at the idea of going to school the next day.  Hundreds of eyes and whispers would follow her every move.  Kids would refuse to sit next to her in class.  And from the look on Bianca’s face, she might even turn her back on her friend.  Tears stung Isabelle’s eyes and she wiped them away. 

An hour had passed by the time she reached the broad, white gates of her family’s property.  Her scruffy terrier, Max raced along the twisting gravel driveway to greet her.  The sight of him brought a smile to her lips and she bent down to scratch behind his ears.  He tilted his head and groaned with pleasure. 

“Come on, let’s go walkies,” she said to him.

Max’s floppy ears rose and he bounced away as fast as his stocky little legs could carry him. 

As she strolled after him, a gentle breeze tickled her cheek and combed her hair.  She inhaled the lemony scent of the Eucalypt trees.  Her family owned six acres of land with a blue-stone house and cottage nestled among pockets of rainforest and bushland.  It was love at first sight for her parents, but to Isabelle’s disappointment, the rolling hills were unsuitable for riding horses.  Although, the forest provided a handy escape from her mother’s nagging to do housework. 

On the last crest of the driveway, Isabelle spied her mom’s red station wagon parked under the rusty carport beside the cottage.  If her mother had finished work early at the real estate agency, why hadn’t she picked up her daughter from school and saved her from lifelong embarrassment? 

Isabelle shook her head and slipped inside the house with Max in tow.  His nails clicked on the wooden floor.  Her mother’s hums trailed down the hallway.  When Isabelle reached her glitter-splashed door, her mom broke into one of her lame musical songs.  She always did that whenever she cleaned the house.  And since she was a cleaning freak, she sang a lot.  The trouble was she had such a squeaky, girly voice that set Max off howling every time.  From the echo ringing off tiles, Isabelle guessed her mom polished shower tiles or scrubbed the basin in her parent’s ensuite.  Even with Isabelle’s bedroom door closed, the racket grated on her nerves, making her wince and shiver as if someone scraped their nails down a blackboard.  A few, gentle words to her mom could end Isabelle’s pain.  But she didn’t have the heart to point out that only one member of the animal kingdom found her mother’s voice attractive. 

Isabelle’s school bag clunked on the pine desk.  Her eyes flickered over the half drawn ballroom gown in her scrapbook.  If she wasn’t hanging out at Bianca’s place, hiding from her mom in the rainforest or doing homework, Isabelle would be hunched up over her scrapbook drawing fairies, dolphins or horses.  Not today. 

She collapsed onto her bed and buried her head in her leopard print quilt.  The cotton scraped her scalded cheek and she sucked in a sharp breath.  She wandered over to the starfish-shaped mirror hanging on her lavender walls.  A red-raw streak ran down her tanned cheek.  The sound of the boy’s granny voice floated back into her mind and played over and over.  Her chest tightened as though a python wrapped around her and squeezed. 

She sorted through her hair for her silver strand and said, “I wish you’d never grown.”  Pink tarnish formed on the hair’s surface and it withered like a prune.  Isabelle rubbed her eyes, thinking they played tricks on her.  But there it was – the shriveled, pink strand. 

She nearly tripped over the howling Max as she tore into her mother’s bedroom.  The terrier thought she played a game of chasey and raced after her yapping with excitement. 

Without knocking, she slid open the ensuite door and closed it behind her.  Max whined to be let in. 

“Mom, there’s something weird going on,” she said. 

Auburn dye dripped from her mom’s hair onto the towel draped over her shoulders.  The acrid smell stung Isabelle’s nostrils. 

Her mother didn’t look very impressed with the intrusion.  “Honey, don’t you knock?” she said, leaning at an awkward angle against the porcelain basin.  The way she smothered copper goop into the right temple reminded Isabelle of a cartoon character in fast forward. 

Except for her sun bronzed hair, Isabelle was a spitting image of her mother: heart shaped mouth, dark eyelashes and brows and steel-grey eyes.  She wished she inherited her mother’s cute button nose instead of her father’s slightly crooked, thin one, nicknamed the Tresdon “honker.” 

“Mom.  Take a look at this hair,” said Isabelle.  “It looks sick or something.” 

Her mother flashed a, “don’t be ridiculous look,” and said, “I’ve got to finish my hair, Honey.  Otherwise one side of my head will be darker than the rest.”  She squeezed another handful of dye into her palm.  A splotch landed on her ruby work uniform and she went to curse, then bit her tongue. 

Isabelle felt a twinge of anger.  How could her mom brush her off like that?  This was serious.  By tomorrow morning, every middle grade student would know about Isabelle’s freaky hair.  And what if the feisty strand burnt her again?  Or worse?  She gulped. 

Her mother rubbed her blouse with a tissue.  “I just washed this,” she muttered. 

A twinkle, like sunlight reflecting off water, caught Isabelle’s attention.  In the patch of hair without any dye, a silver strand blended in with her mom’s grey streaks.  Like Isabelle’s it was on the right hand side of her mother’s head.  The second Isabelle touched it, life breathed back into her own as if it were a wilting plant rescued by a rain shower.  The sensation lasted a few seconds then faded. 

Muscles in her mother’s jaw tensed and she glanced out the window. 

“You’ve got one too?” Isabelle whispered.  Betrayal pierced her chest.  Why had her mom tried to hide her hair? 

“Oh that?”  Her mom lathered the hair in dye. “It’s just a thick, grey hair.” 

“This isn’t an ordinary hair, Mom.  Mine zapped Bianca when she tried to pluck it.  And then it burnt me when...” 

“Honestly, Isabelle do you roll around like a pig in mud when you’re at school?” 

Isabelle frowned, confused by why her mother fussed over a mud stain on her daughter’s white school shirt.  “Were you listening to me?” 

Her mom sighed.  “Every hair on your body is a dead protein, so how can your hair be sick?”  The tone of her mother’s voice made Isabelle feel silly, like she was five years old again and imagining an ogre under her bed. 

“Why did you dye your silver strand?”

A car engine groaned and spluttered as it climbed their windy driveway.  Tires crunched on the gravel, followed by the squeak of brakes. 

Raising both palms in protest, her mom said, “Your father’s home and I’ve got to finish this, then start making a salad.  Now scoot.”  The moment she yanked the ensuite door open, Max yapped and launched up her legs.  Brushing him down only encouraged him to dance round her feet.  His nails ticked against the wooden floor, making her cringe.  She probably imagined the cost of polishing the floor boards. 

“Stop it, Max!”  Turning to Isabelle her mother added, “Go and put the lasagna in the oven, please.”  And with that she disappeared back into the ensuite.

Isabelle’s lip twitched in time to every stomp down the hallway.  Her mom hid something.  But what?  And why?

The lasagna dish clanged inside the over. 

She set the timer for thirty minutes and said, “Look who’s home, Max?” 

Her father sat on the porch steps smoking a cigarette. 

When she stepped outside, the scruff ball terrier ducked through her legs and greeted her father with slurpy kisses. 

“Oh, you cheeky, mutt.”  He tickled the Max’s chest and his back leg scratched the air.  Dark stubble speckled her father’s chin.  Wood shavings dusted his mop of brown hair and the shoulders of his navy workman’s shirt.  A carpenter by trade, he constructed everything from wooden floors to kitchen or bathroom shelves. 

Mosquitoes drifted in the salty breeze and buzzed by Isabelle’s ear.  Any bet they prepared to feast on her blood. 

“Come sit with your old man, Belle,” her father said, patting the wooden step.  His gravelly voice reminded her of cowboys in Western movies.  He looked the part too with a half smoked cigarette dangling from his lips.  His clothes reeked of musky sweat, wood varnish and nicotine. 

Smoke drifted by and she coughed, fanning it away. 

“Oh sorry.”  Her father plucked the cigarette out of his mouth to put it out. 

“It’s ok, Dad. It keeps the mozzies away.”  In her mind, that had to be one of the few advantages of her father’s habit. 

He blew a smoke ring at her, teasing her. 

“Gross!”  She rapped him on the arm and they giggled. 

“What’s your Mom up to?” 

Isabelle almost choked on the words.  “Dyeing her hair.”  She looked away, hoping her father wouldn’t see the hurt flash across her face. 

“Guess I’m making the garlic bread then.”  He took a final drag of his cigarette and dabbed it in the sand pot.  Dimples formed in his cheeks and his grey eyes sparkled with mischief. 

“No way!  You always steal most of it.” 

Both father and daughter wrestled to reach the door first.  If it wasn’t for Max barking like crazy and distracting her father, she might’ve won. 

“What are you carrying on like a pork chop for?”  Her father bent down to inspect shadows beside the ceramic pot, which the terrier growled at. 

“It’s probably a bush rat or something.”  Isabelle knew what that meant.  Max would toy with the rat, and end up killing it, then display his present at her father’s feet, waiting for his master’s praise.  “Please don’t let him catch it.  Mom went nuts last time he brought a stinky, dead rat inside.  She said if he did it again he wouldn’t be welcome in the house anymore.” 

Her father jiggled his eyebrows at her.  “Good thing it’s not a rat then.”