Cut

By Juliet Rosetti

All Spencer Hollis wants for her 13th birthday are highlights for her boring hair. Her dad and stepmom hate the results and punish Spencer by forcibly cutting her hair short. She's teased and bullied at school; her attempts to hide under a wig end disastrously when the wig is snatched off and tossed around the cafeteria. Spencer's best friend is ghosting her; her photo is all over social media, her mom's accusing her dad of child abuse; and a pack of mean girls is harassing her to quit the school musical, which, ironically is Rapunzel.  As things spiral out of control, Spencer decides to run away from home--a choice that may save her sanity--or endanger her life.  

 

"Funny, fresh, and wildly entertaining, Cut illuminates the devastating effect of social media in the TikTok age." ARC review

"The Mean Girls in this story go beyond mean to vicious. And the new wife adds claws to the Evil Stepmom trope." ARC review

"Twists and turns galore, great backup characters, and a plot that zips along." ARC review

"Any kid who's ever endured bullying or public embarrassment will sympathize with Spoon."  ARC review

"Cut explores the struggle between parents and kids: who gets to decide on the way you look?" ARC review

"The weirdo girls called Untouchables were great--would love to see them spun off into their own book." ARC review

 

     

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moonbow Books
• Release date: Jun 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201335823

Juliet Rosetti

Juliet Rosetti wrote her first book at age seven and has been writing ever since. She is the author of the popular Escape Diaries series, which Publishers Weekly called "one of the  top reads of the year," as well as the young adult novel Satyrs, due out in 2020, and Kilts, a romance set in Scotland. A trip to England, where she explored Mother Shipton's Cave, was the inspiration for Second Sight. She lives with her family in Wisconsin, where she has a love/hate relationship with snow, eats way too much chocolate, and is such a compulsive reader she will, if forced to go to bed without a book, read the tags on pillows. Her next book, Cinderella Doesn't Work Here Anymore, is due out in Fall of 2019.

Book preview

Chapter One

The Thing hissed at me.

In the dark, I could only see a shape the size of a small dog, crouched beneath an overturned trash can.

But dogs don’t hiss.

The hiss became a snarl.

A feral, musky scent wafted to my nose; the hairs on my neck prickled. Could the animal be a coyote? They usually skulk away from people, but rabid ones had been known to attack. Trying not to trigger its chase reflex, I slowly backed away.

It charged at me, growling.

What were you supposed to do if a wild animal threatened you? "Make yourself big, Spencer," my dad always said. Wave your arms, clap, yell!

Stretching to my full five feet, I clapped my frozen hands. Go away, I croaked. "Go on, get!"  I kicked the side of the garbage can. 

The snarling changed to chittering noises—which were even creepier.

I'm not scared of you! I yelled.

Not scared. Terrified.

Hoping the batteries still had juice, I fumbled the flashlight from my pocket and switched it on. The light gleamed on two round eyes inside a black bandit mask.

A raccoon!

It was crouched amid a  sprawl of garbage, clutching a chicken bone in its tiny, human-like paws. My breath whooshed out in relief. Raccoons are the cutest animals imaginable! The ringed tail, the triangular snout, the spray of white whiskers, the waddling walk—they make you want to pick them up for a cuddle.

Some locals must have broken into our cottage and turned it into Party Central, dumping their beer cans, wrappers, and leftover food into the outside trash can, but failing to properly secure the lid. The raccoon had pried it off as easily as I could break into a can of Pringles, then its weight must have tipped the can over, tumbling the garbage to the ground.

It's okay, little buddy. Crouching next to it, I spoke in soothing tones, the way you'd talk to a fussing baby. I'm not going to hurt you.

"Rrrwwowwf!" Its lips drew back, exposing needle-sharp teeth.

Once the raccoon got over being scared of me, I reasoned, he’d become my pet. I’d take him into the cottage and we’d snuggle, his blubber-fueled body heat warming me. I needed someone to hold onto. Running away from home, I’d discovered, is lonely work.

The raccoon gnashed its teeth and started chittering again. If I’d spoken Racooneese I would have recognized it as "Back off, garbage thief!"

Don't worry, I cooed, I'm not going to take your little bone away—

It lunged at me, jaws snapping. I lurched to my feet, turned tail and ran, the raccoon at my heels, hissing and growling. Being chased by a creature one tenth my size might have been comical under other circumstances, but I was too panic-stricken to appreciate the humor. Despite its chubby body, the raccoon was lightning fast. The flashlight threw light in joggling arcs as I ran around the side of the cottage and thundered up the front steps.

The door was locked. Of course it was locked! What had I expected?The raccoon swarmed up the steps behind me. I jumped off the side of the porch, and floundered through the snow, the little monster nipping at my heels. Where was a safe place? Should I climb a tree? No—raccoons could climb. Then I spotted the propane fuel tank, a steel cylinder about the size of a Volkswagon, standing on stilts at the back of the house. Getting a running start, I leaped, belly-flopped onto the tank’s curved surface and pulled myself on top of it. The raccoon tried to climb up after me, but couldn’t get a purchase on the tank’s steel sides.

He paced back and forth beneath me, whiskers quivering, snarling threats. How could I ever have considered him cute? He was about as cute as a starving tiger. What if he stayed down there all night? Was I going to freeze to death, treed—so to speak—by a junk food-eating creature with a bad disposition? My teeth chattered; my body was quickly turning into a Popsicle. The pain was worst on my exposed ears, which no longer were covered by a luxurious pelt—the hair that was the root—ha ha—of all my problems. 

It had all started on my birthday.

Chapter 2

January is the worst month to have a birthday.

Everyone's overdosed on candy and cookies, has gained five pounds, and is ready to shove Frosty the Snowman's corncob pipe right down his snowy throat. No one wants to pile on a million layers of clothes to go out and shop. The stuff in the stores is all picked over and the new spring things haven’t yet arrived.

So what does the January birthday girl get?

Re-gifts, of course!

Sometimes people don't even bother re-wrapping them in birthday paper; they just throw the Christmas wrap back on and patch it with tape. Well, aren't you lucky? You get to celebrate Christmas  twice! chirps my elderly grandaunt as I unwrap a CD of The Greatest Hits of Donny Osmond.

Relatives who’ve already given you a Christmas gift regard you as though you’re greedy, expecting another present so soon after the holiday.

Then there’s the fruitcake.

One year my Granduncle Charlie gave me a fruitcake in a decorative tin. No telling how old the fruitcake was; those things have the half-lives of nuclear waste. It was studded with raisins and chunks of red and green stuff—maybe gummy bears that had died of old age—and nuts that looked like gravel from the bottom of a goldfish bowl. Anything could be in a fruitcake and you’d never know it!

The worst part was, Mom made me write a thank you note! 

Dear Granduncle Charlie,

Thank you so much for the fruitcake. Don’t worry about that molar I chipped on it—the dentist says he should be able to fix it so it looks almost good as new.

Your loving grandniece,

Spencer

I thought it was funny, but Mom made me tear it up and start over.

The weather is always cold and nasty on my birthday. Everyone who prayed for  a white Christmas now just wants the snow to go away. But the snow sticks around like an unwanted guest, getting grayer and dingier every day. Hard chunks of it fall off the undersides  of cars, littering parking lots with frozen slush turds. The skies are gray and mean and it sleets and snows and blows and drizzles—at least it does in my hometown, Appleton, Wisconsin.

This is our unofficial state motto: Wisconsin. Come for the Cheese. Stay because your car is stuck in the snow.

My parents are divorced so I get to have two birthdays, two Thanksgivings, two Christmases—well, you get the picture. If you’re a kid with divorced parents you know how this goes. You like it when you’re little because you get presents at both parents’ places. But then you get older. You're always losing your cell phone or gym shoes or schoolwork because you've left it at Mom's place / Dad's place. When your friends plan something on a weekend you can't go because your weekend parent lives miles away.

My mom’s name is Michelle Mendez. Our last names are different because I have Dad’s surname, Hollis, and Mom started using her maiden name after the divorce.

My mom is really pretty, with curly dark hair, olive-skin, and eyes the color of Hershey Kisses. She turned thirty-seven this year and is a little obsessed with wrinkles—which are only visible to her. Mom works as an interpreter for a charity that helps immigrants find jobs and housing. She speaks Spanish and French and Tagalog—the national language of the Phillipines, where she was born. She came to the United States with her family when she was a little kid.

Mom was only eighteen when she got pregnant with her boyfriend at the time and had a baby boy, Eduardo. The parents on both sides wanted the couple to get married, but Mom refused, insisting on raising the baby herself. She met my dad a few years later, they got married, and had me.

Okay,  here’s what you need to know about my brother. He’s only Eduardo when Mom’s mad at him; the rest of the time he’s Eddie. He’s nineteen years old and goes to the local tech school—in three years, if he doesn’t mess up, he’ll be a full-fledged firefighter. Eddie moved out of our house and into his own apartment a couple of months ago. He works at a motorcycle dealership to pay the bills. He’s so busy I hardly ever get to see him anymore.

I sort of miss Eddie. I even miss our fights, which were usually over hogging the bathroom. Actually, I was always the one hogging the single bathroom in our house. At seven every night I'd march in, lock the door, shower, shampoo, and blow dry. Right on schedule, Eddie would start banging on the door, yelling, I’m going out tonight. I gotta get in there and shave.

Go with a goatee, I’d yell. The scruffy look is in.

C'mon, Spoonzie—I know you're just fooling  around with makeup in there—

Don’t call me Spoonzie!

Eddie couldn't say my name—Spencer—when I was a baby and pronounced it as Spoon. Pretty soon everyone was calling me Spoon. Or Spoonzie, Spooner, Spoonster.

Why can't I have a normal family?

What's taking so long? Eddie would yell.

None of your business! Go away, grow your stupid beard.

If you're not out in two minutes, I'm breaking down the door.

I’m telling Mom! I'd scream.

But our spats never lasted long;  we got along great most of the time. I sort of wished Eddie would move back in. But that wouldn’t happen, since Mom had turned Eddie’s room into her music studio.

Other moms have tummy tucks or nose jobs for their midlife crisis. Not my mom. She'd decided to take up the clarinet. She’d always wanted to play an instrument, but her parents were too poor to buy one for her when she was little. Now, Mom had bought her own clarinet and was teaching herself to play.

Mom got to keep the house when she and Dad divorced—not that great a prize, considering how old and crumbly it was. She was awarded primary custody of me; Dad had me on weekends. It'd been four years since the split, and everybody was pretty much used to the arrangement. Dad had remarried and had a baby with his new wife, so I had a stepmother and a half-brother.

One night a week ago, as I was helping with the dinner dishes, Mom asked, "So what do you want for your birthday this year?'

What do I want? Our dishwasher was broken, so we hand-washed everything. I always dry and put away because I’m taller than my tiny mom and can reach the high cupboards. I stretched to put away our cut glass cake dish. A ten pound fruitcake?

Mom flicked dishwater at me. Wise guy. Be careful what you wish for.

Can I have anything I want?

Knock yourself out. Mama waved a spatula like a magic wand. When you have a bank account the size of mine, the sky's the limit.

Joke. The wolf was one step away from our door—that's what Mom always said.

Highlights. I muttered.

What? Spoonie, don’t mumble.

I yanked a strand of my hair. "It’s blahsville. That dish water is a better color than my hair."

Mom frowned. You have perfectly nice hair." 

I'd like blonde highlights, Mom. My hair had been sand-colored when I was younger, but had darkened as I’d gotten older. Now it looked like wet sand, sand that’s been trampled by a lot of feet.  Highlights aren’t dye—they’re just lightener, woven in with the dark color so it looks natural—

"I know what highlights are, Mom said. Why do you want them?"

So my hair looks—

No, I mean, do you think highlights will make you more self-confident? Improve your grades? Make boys notice you?

No. I just think they’d be pretty. I blew out a sigh, knowing Mom would tell me to pick something sensible, like warm boots or a dictionary.

But sometimes she surprised me..

All right, she said.

I stared at her. "All right?"

If that's what you really want.

Wait, what's the catch? Cleaning the bathroom every night until I’m eighteen?

No catch. After all those years of re-gifts . . .   Mom tucked a strand of my boring-as-dirt hair behind my ear with her sudsy hands. You deserve your heart’s desire, Spoon.

In ancient Rome, women dyed their hair blonde with pigeon dung.

~Tresses and Stresses, research paper by Spencer Hollis

IMG_256

Chapter 3

Mom took me to a salon called Smiles&Styles after school on my birthday, which was a Friday. The salon was downtown, sandwiched between a bookstore and a coffee shop. It had a pink and white awning, a door painted deep rose and a window featuring photos of chic hairstyles.

A woman in a black smock met us at the front counter. She had shoulder-length blonde hair that swung when she moved and sparkling white teeth.

Hi, she said. I'm Beth. You must be Spencer?

I nodded. Then, glimpsing the price list above the counter, I gasped. Highlighting  cost a fortune! I didn't know it would be so expensive, I whispered to Mom. We should just forget this.

Mom squeezed my shoulder. I got this, okay?

Beth led me over to her styling chair. I started feeling sick to my stomach, worried that this was a big mistake. What if my hair turned green? Or fell out? 

I lowered myself into the chair. Beth swirled a vinyl cape over my shoulders, then tied a goofy-looking cap around my head. It was transparent plastic, dotted with tiny holes.

I’m going to hook strands of your hair out, slather them in a solution, and wrap them in strips of foil, Beth said. You'll look like a space alien, but don't panic.

As Beth worked, I scoped out the salon. This being a Friday afternoon, every chair was filled, girls and women getting their hair done for the weekend.

Phase one done, Beth said.

Tin foil spikes stuck out all over my head. I looked like the Bride of Frankenstein, about to be brought to life by a bolt of lightning. Beth led me over to another chair. Forty-five minutes, she said, and left me alone there.

My scalp began to itch horribly. Blue gloop trickled down my forehead and into my right eye. It stung! Picturing the headlines: Girl Goes Blind in Bizarre Hair Incident, I snatched my water bottle from my purse and splashed water into my burning eye. This stopped the stinging but caused blue goo to dribble down my neck and splotch my shirt collar. Scared to mention it in case I got blamed, realizing I had to go to the bathroom but too scared to move, I sat there in misery, sure this whole thing was a mistake.

At last the timer went off. Beth hustled me to a shampoo sink and sprayed all the solution out of my hair, then worked coconut-smelling shampoo into my scalp. My hair was still soaking wet when Beth took me back to the styling station. Disappointment washed over me as I checked my reflection. Nothing was different. It hadn't worked!

Beth noticed my dismayed look. Just be patient, she said. As your hair is exposed to warm air, you’ll see the magic start happening.

I stared dully into the mirror as Beth began blow-drying my hair, knowing I had loser hair, hair too stubborn and stupid to (literally) lighten up. I’d just wasted Mom’s money on my selfish whim.

Then the magic kicked in.

As my hair dried, lighter strands began to appear among the darker hair, blended in so artfully they looked natural.

Tawny.

Gold.

Cinnamon.

Palest blonde.

But Beth wasn’t finished yet. When my hair was nearly dry, Beth turned me