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sniffling. “I want to look like a Scottish dancer!”
    Grandma's arms tightened around me. “Listen, Fiona, not all Scots have red hair. In fact some have dark hair, as dark as yours.”
    I sat up. “I didn't know that!”
    “Before the Celts arrived in Scotland, there were people living there called Picts,” said Grandma. “They were a smaller, darker people. They had mostly dark hair and spoke a different language.”
    I had thought that Scottish people were all big and fair, and looked like Grandpa and Grandma MacMurray. I wiped my eyes with Grandma's soggy handkerchief. “Are there many Picts left?” I asked.
    “You still see people in Scotland who are small and dark, especially in the Highlands,” said Grandma. “Your dark hair wouldn't have looked too out of place.”
    “Then why is Grandpa so anxious for Ron to be one of the dancers?” I asked.
    “Let me explain,” said Grandma. “Your grandpa loved to dance. He was a notable dancer in his youth. The name Alec MacMurray meant something in the world of Scottish dance.”
    I tried to picture Grandpa leaping around in a kilt.
    “Oh, you should have seen him when he was young!” said Grandma, her eyes sparkling. Then she sighed. “Your grandpa had always hoped that someday he would have a boy who would love dancing as much as he did.”
    “Instead, you had Mom,” I said softly.
    “We're both very proud of your mother,” said Grandma. “Don't think for a minute that we're sorry we never had a son!”
    “But Mom doesn't care much about Highland dancing, does she?” I said.
    Grandma gave me another hug. “And you do. How you look doesn't matter, Fiona. The only thing that matters is that you're a grand dancer. Grandpa will find that out soon enough.”
    “Find what out?” said Grandpa, coming into the living room.
    “Guess,” said Grandma, and she winked at me.
    I waited for Grandpa to say something about my hair, but he just looked at me for a second and then said, “Better do your homework now, Fiona. We have more rehearsing to do this evening.”
    Did he notice my hair? Would he even notice if my hair was the color of a red traffic light that blinked on and off?
    I went upstairs and tried to do my homework, but I soon gave up because I couldn't concentrate. Dad was due home any minute and I couldn't stop thinking about what his reaction would be. Would he be hurt and angry because he'd think I was trying to look more Scottish and less Chinese? Of course that wasn't the real reason I'd dyed myhair. I'd never do anything to hurt Dad's feelings. I just wanted to look like everyone else.
    Dad came home twenty minutes later. I was waiting near the front hall so he would see me immediately and get it over with.
    When he came in the door, he just stared at me silently. I couldn't read his expression, and my heart was thumping as I waited for him to say something.
    “I'm glad you didn't change your features, anyway,” he said finally.
    I didn't understand what he meant by that. Change my features? I may have dyed my hair, but even with permanent dye, nothing was really permanent. My hair would grow back its real color. I hadn't actually changed anything about myself. Couldn't Dad see that? At least he didn't look angry or upset. That was a huge relief.
    I spent the next half hour trying to figure out the best way to wear my new hair. Finding a style that suited it wasn't easy. I'd already seen the bowl of Jell-O look. Next I tried braids, but I ended up looking like Pippi Longstocking. Then I tried a ponytail, but it looked like a cheerleader'spom-pom. Putting barrettes in it just seemed to attract more attention to it. Finally I decided to just let it be Jell-O.
    When Mom came home and saw me, she stopped dead. After a moment she sighed. “All right, all right, you're just expressing your independence or whatever. I'm not in a position to say anything, since I went through a stage of sporting long green fingernails.”
    I wanted to hug her, I