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over Chinese takeout and Diet Coke. Darcy’s cousin Granger is all over the hacking challenge. He’s promised to call as soon as he’s made headway. In the meantime, we’ve got our work cut out for us. I make a quick to-do list in my notebook:
    1. Extreme makeover: haircut, etc.
    2. Vocal training: lowered voice, typical male speech patterns
    3. Costume: assemble suitable boy clothes until uniform can be obtained
    4. Body language: walk, gestures, handshakes, spitting
    5. Plan for absence: Decide how to keep normal life at bay for one week
    “At last,” Darcy says when she sees number one on my list. “I’ve been dying to cut your hair for ages!”
    Oh, God. I feel a little sick to my stomach as she pulls me toward her room. Chloe trails after us with a stack of Vogue s. Darcy produces her gleaming silver scissors, holds them close to her face, and slices the air a couple of times dramatically like a serial killer testing her weapon of choice.
    “You can’t escape, my pretty,” Chloe cries in her Wicked Witch voice.
    Darcy creeps toward me, scissors outstretched.
    I back away. “Lots of guys have long hair, right?”
    “Not the boys at Underwood,” Darcy says.
    “Couldn’t I just . . . wear a hat?”
    She stops stalking me abruptly and lowers her chin to give me a look. “Are you committed to this role?”
    “I’m committed! I am.” I swallow my instincts and scramble over to the little cushioned stool before Darcy’s dressing table.
    Darcy puts on her black hairdresser’s PVC apron. (I’m serious—she’s way into this stuff. If she doesn’t make it as a famous character actress, she will definitely be hairdresser to the stars.) She tucks her scissors into the pocket and stands behind me. Running her fingers through my hair in a professional manner she studies my reflection in the mirror.
    “Hmm,” she says, cocking her head this way and that.
    Chloe holds up a picture from Vogue of a runway model with a shaved head. “I think we should go all the way.”
    I cringe. I’m not obsessed with my looks or anything, but I do have certain strengths in the beauty department. I’ve got great legs, big hazel eyes, a full mouth, and long, shiny hair. Of those four assets, I have to say it’s my hair I’m most attached to. I guess that’s because my body is already so boyish, what with the total lack of hips and barely there boobs, that my hair is hands down the most feminine thing about me. Without it, I really will look like a boy.
    Of course, that’s the whole point. Still, I can’t help but feel like we’re about to amputate the girl right out of me.
    “Don’t worry,” Darcy chuckles. “This is going to look awesome.”
    “We’re not shaving it, right?”
    Chloe holds up another picture, one of a male model with slightly choppy short hair. “More like this, maybe?”
    Darcy turns and studies the photo. “Uh-huh. That’s good. Really short in the back and sides, with a little more fullness through the top. We could throw some highlights through the front—”
    “No highlights,” I say. “Just the cut.”
    Darcy shrugs. “You’re the boss.”
    She grabs a spray bottle and wets my hair with one hand, combing it carefully with the other, all the while studying me from various angles with a look of intense concentration.
    I close my eyes. “God, just do it.”
    “Relax. It grows back.”
    “I know, I know. It’s just—”
    A snipping sound stops me mid-sentence. My eyes fly open. A huge shank of hair is missing from the right side of my head. I squeeze my eyes shut again. “Oh, God.”
    Chloe says in the Moviefone voice, “She was a woman, struggling to know the hearts of men . . .”
    Darcy swivels the stool around so I can’t see myself in the mirror. “It’ll be easier this way. Trust me.”
    None of us say anything for a little while, and the only sound in the room is the rhythmic snip-snip-snip of the scissors mixed with the light flick of paper as Chloe flips through Vogue