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I weren’t so tired after that big meal. All I really want is to do is lie down and sleep for a few days.
    We reach the stairs and I hear Beth in another room at the foot of the stairs. The door is partially open and I stop, pulling my arm free of Holly’s grasp to listen.
    “Look,” Beth says. “You aren’t supposed to call here, Leah. Now, I understand you’re upset-”
    “Hey!” Holly shouts at me from the top of the stairs, making me jump. “You coming or not?”
    I open my mouth to respond as the door to the room starts to open. Rushing forward, I scramble up the stairs, clumsily. My legs feel like lead by the time I reach the top.
    “What’s going on out here?” Beth calls up the stairs.
    “Nuh-thing!” Holly sing-songs, grabbing my arm.
    She pulls me past the bathroom Beth mentioned. It passes in a blur, but everything in it is turquoise; the floor, the walls, even the toilet. The shower curtain, however, is the brightest shade of pink I’ve ever seen in my life.
    Holly’s room is at the end of the hallway. Her door is painted dark blue, like the sky just after sunset when all the pinks and oranges are gone. As soon she pushes open the door, my eyes widen in awe.
    Each wall is a different color; yellow, orange, blue, and pink. Her bed has tall white posts that stretch toward the ceiling with a white bedspread and pillows in varying shades of pink, purple, and yellow, shaped like hibiscus flowers.
    “What are those?” I ask pointing at the wooden boards mounted on the wall over her dresser.
    “Surf boards,” she says, hopping up onto her bed. “For surfing.”
    “Oh.” I have no idea what surfing is.
    She leans back, propping herself up on her elbows, and looks me over. I’m careful to keep eye contact and not stare at her bare legs.
    “I gotta ask,” she says, finally. “Are they like, Kool-Aid drinking weirdoes or the gun-stashing kind?”
    Frowning, I clasp my hands behind my back. “I don’t understand the question.”
    “Your cult,” she says, rolling her eyes.
    “We don’t allow guns in Shiloh. And I don’t know what cool aide is.”
    She squints at me. “So, more like Amish weirdoes, then. But without the bomb-ass furniture and stuff. Did y’all have electricity out there?”
    My forehead wrinkles. “Of course.” Who doesn’t have electricity?
    “How’s the breeding work? Like, sisters marrying their dads and shit? Or dudes having eight wives?” She tilts her head to the side, smirking slightly and I realize that she’s being unkind with her questions.
    I lift my chin. “A man is allowed to take one wife and she must be from another family.”
    “What if someone’s gay? Y’all allow that?”
    Scowling, I open my mouth to ask what “gay” is, but she sits up, sliding off the bed. “No, the real question is what did they beat you for? That shit was all over the news.” Her eyes sparkle mischievously.
    The question cuts like a knife. “Why are you being cruel? I haven’t done anything to you.”
    She crosses her arms over her chest, shrugging. “I’m not being cruel. I’m curious.”
    For a moment, we stare at each other. I don’t know how to handle her. I’ve never met a girl who spoke so much with no regard for what she says. She just blurts terrible things and feels no remorse.
    “Please,” she says after a long silence, “let me fix your hair.”
    I relent, tired of arguing with her, and perch on the edge of her bed.
    She’s surprisingly gentle as she works out the knots and tangles, unlike Mother who has no patience for my hair. After that, she tells me she’s going to straighten it. She runs her mouth the whole time as she runs her “flat iron” over my hair, mostly talking about things that mean nothing to me, using words I don’t understand, discussing people I’ve never met.
    When she’s done, she hands me a mirror. My hair is smooth, like hers, and so straight it looks unnatural. I hope it’s not permanent.
    “Let me trim it,” she