She watched him dip his long, thin, blond hair in the red liquid, waiting to see what would happen when he pulled it out. They’d been friends since she saw him in 7th period art class in the 9th grade, sitting next to a smaller guy in a black hoodie. He wasn’t shy, but the other kid was.

Of course, she noticed his hair first. It was perfectly straight, parted in the middle, and he swept it behind his ears a lot. She’d never seen a guy with hair like that, and she was a little jealous when she thought of her own half-wavy, not-so-curly, always-frizzy locks. They’d become close friends, hanging out after school most days, until she got a boyfriend and gave all of her extra time to him.

But now, she was waiting her turn to dip into the unsweetened Cherry Kool-Aid paste on his covered back patio, wondering if it would actually turn her hair pink, and what her mom would say if it did. There were worse things she could do, she knew. She wasn’t worried about it.

A few minutes later, when his back started to hurt from bending over the bowl and he thought the color was probably vivid enough for his liking, he carefully pulled the bright, wet section of hair just by his face out of the substance. He gingerly dabbed the excess off with a paper towel, grinned, and passed the bowl to her.

The next day, they’d get some looks in art class as the walked in with matching streaks, and several days later, they’d wonder if it’d ever fade out.

It didn’t, for weeks it seemed, and she got a kick out of it every time she looked at herself in the mirror. Pink was her favorite color, and her mom had laughed at her methods when she got home and told her what they’d done.

She looked at those streaks with pride, like an unspoken bond between the two of them, and smiled when she saw him sweep his behind an ear.