A Town Full of Mirrors

Bloomberg was the kind of town where even the pigeons had good hair.

Every street had a salon. Every salon had a bright sign, a spinning pole, and a hairdresser who took her job very, very seriously. The people of Bloomberg were shiny-haired, well-trimmed, and proud of it.

Every person except six.

Ollie, Remi, Mike, Jacob, and Carson had hair so long and wild that people sometimes mistook them for sheepdogs from behind. And then there was Jackie — Jack to anyone who wanted to keep their fingers — thirteen years old, black hair swinging past her back, red streaks blazing through her bangs, which hung so far over her dark brown eyes she had to tilt her head just to see where she was walking.

"Looking good, Jack," Ollie said, patting his own enormous puff of hair like it was a pet.

Jackie flashed her gap-toothed grin — left side, missing tooth and all. "Don't touch yours. You'll lose your hand in there."

Clipper Weather

The six of them were sprawled across Ollie's back porch, doing absolutely nothing useful.

Remi was dangling upside down off the railing. Mike was chucking grapes at Jacob's head. Carson had fallen asleep sitting up. Jackie was scrolling through her phone, skull earrings swaying, shark-tooth necklace clinking every time she shifted.

Then Ollie's mum leaned out the sliding door.

"Bloomberg's Annual Neat-and-Tidy Parade is in two weeks," she said brightly. "Every kid in town marches. No exceptions."

Silence.

"And," she added, holding up a printed flyer, "every participant must be — and I quote — *properly groomed.*"

Mike dropped a grape.

"The salon girls already signed up to do the whole street," Ollie's mum continued. "They're coming here first."

Carson woke up.

"HERE?" Ollie's voice cracked like a snapped twig.

Jackie's phone screen went dark in her hand. She didn't say anything. She just stared at the flyer — at the bold word *CLIPPERS* listed right there under Required Tools.

"Two weeks," Ollie's mum repeated cheerfully, and went back inside.

Nobody moved.