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took a long look at myself in the mirror. Someone had smeared soap over the
glass, and my reflection appeared to stare back through hazy, white streaks.
    “Shape up,” I told myself.
    I pointed a finger at my reflection. A smooth, hairless finger.
    “Stop thinking about hair, Larry,” I instructed my reflection. “Stop thinking
about it. You’re going to be okay.”
    The INSTA-TAN lotion has worn off, I decided.
    It had been several days since my friends and I had splashed it on ourselves.
I had taken at least three showers and two baths.
    It wore off, I told myself. It’s all gone. Stop worrying about it.
    I took one last glance at my hair. It was getting pretty long, but I liked it
that way. I liked brushing the sides back over my ears.
    Maybe I’ll let it grow really long, I thought. I tucked the hairbrush
into my backpack and headed to class.
     
    I had a pretty good day until Miss Shindling handed back the history term
papers.
    It wasn’t the grade that upset me. She gave me a ninety-four, which is really
good. I knew that Lily would probably brag that she got a ninety-eight or a
ninety-nine. But Lily was great at writing.
    A ninety-four was really excellent for me.
    The grade made me happy. But when I flipped through the pages, glancing over
Miss Shindling’s comments on my writing, I found a black hair on page three.
    Was it my black hair? I wondered. Was it one of the disgusting black
hairs that had sprouted on my hands?
    Or was it Miss Shindling’s? Miss Shindling had short, straight black hair. It could be one of hers.
    Or else…
    I squinted at the hair, afraid to touch it.
    I knew I was starting to get weird. I knew I had made a solemn vow that I was
going to stop thinking about hair.
    But I couldn’t help it.
    Seeing this one, stubby little black hair stuck to the third page of my term
paper gave me the shudders. Finally, I raised the term paper close to my face—and blew the
hair away.
    I didn’t hear a word Miss Shindling said for the rest of the class. I was
glad when the bell rang and it was time to go to gym.
    It will feel good to run around and get some exercise, I decided.
    “Basketball today!” Coach Rafferty shouted as we filed into the brightly lit
gym. “Basketball today! Change into your shorts! Come on—hustle!”
    I usually don’t like basketball that much. There’s so much running back and
forth. Back and forth the entire length of the floor. Also, I don’t have a very
good shooting eye. And I get really embarrassed when a teammate passes me the
ball and I miss an easy shot.
    But, today, basketball sounded just right. A chance to run and get rid of a
lot of my nervous energy.
    I followed the other guys into the locker room. We all opened our gym lockers
and pulled out our shorts and T-shirts.
    At the end of the row of lockers, Howie Hurwin kept shouting, “In your face!
In your face!”
    Another guy snapped a towel at Howie.
    Serves him right, I thought. Howie is such a jerk.
    “In your face!” I heard Howie chant. Someone shouted to him to shut up.
    “In your face, man! In your face!”
    I sat down on the bench and pulled off my sneakers. Then I stood up and
started to pull off my jeans.
    I stopped when I got the jeans about halfway down.
    I stopped and let out a low cry when I saw my knees.
    Bushy clumps of furry black hair had sprouted from both knees.

 
 
15
     
     
    “How come you kept your jeans on in gym?” Jared asked.
    “Huh?” His question caught me by surprise. It was the next day, and we were
walking along the slushy sidewalks, lugging our instruments to Lily’s house for
another band practice.
    “You refused to change into gym shorts, remember?” Jared said, swinging his
keyboard case at his side.
    “I… was just cold,” I told him. “My legs got cold. That’s all. I don’t
know why Coach Rafferty gave me such a hard time.”
    Jared laughed. “Rafferty nearly swallowed his whistle when you sank that
three-point jump shot from