The New Girl

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Lunar Chronicles

Copyright: Marissa Meyer

"This isn't necessary," said Cinder, folding her arms and raising her eyes to the ceiling.

"I beg to differ," Captain Thorne retorted. "Look at her!"

Cress ducked her shorn head, mortified by his pitying look and gesture in her direction. It had been necessary to hack off her floor-length mane after it got caught in the door of the satellite's docking bay, and if it had looked bad to him then – like a ball of yarn mangled by a cheetah, she remembered – she could only imagine how it must look now.

"Don't you think our first priority should be to get away?" asked Cinder.

"Scarlet can fly me just as well as you can, Captain," chimed a high feminine voice from a speaker in the ceiling. "By all means, give the poor girl a haircut."

"See?" Thorne patted the wall. "Iko's got my back. I'll ignore the slight on my piloting for now."

Good stars, thought Cress. Even the ship's computer thinks I'm a mess. Who knew that freedom could be so embarrassing?

Cinder threw up her hands and stalked off down the corridor, leaving Cress alone with Captain Thorne. He smiled gently and held out his hand.

"C'mon," he said, in his slow American drawl. "I won't bite. Well – not unless I'm asked."

Cress blushed and took his hand. It was warm, warmer than Mistress Sybil's had ever been. He didn't look like he was about to hurt her, but then, neither did Mistress Sybil sometimes, just before she said something especially cruel.

"How … how do I know you won't … um … "

"Mess up?" He laughed; she refrained from correcting him. "Don't worry. I do my own hair and it looks okay, don't you think?" He ruffled his shoulder-length blond hair with casual pride. "I believe in looking my best, even on the run. Eespecially on the run."

He led her along the corridor into what looked like his bedroom: a small space with two unmade bunk beds, 2D photographs covering the white walls (bikini-clad women, second-era film posters with titles like Indiana Jones or Star Wars, shiny spaceships, one photo of a small blond boy on the shoulders of a gray-uniformed man), a retractable table, and two chairs bolted the floor, one of which he offered to Cress with a flourishing bow.

"Have a seat, Miss Crescent," he said.

Cress sat and watched as he rummaged a towel out of a chest of drawers, whisked the towel around her, and tucked it into her shirt collar just like hairdressers did in the vids she had seen. She waited as he slipped out of the room, came back with a bowl of steaming water, and placed it down on the table in front of her.

"In there, please. Hair cuts better when it's wet."

She screwed up her face, took a deep breath, and plunged her head into the warm water.

"Are you going to play music too?" she asked before collecting herself. "Oh, dear. That was out loud, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Yes, you did." Thorne chuckled. "Would you like me to play something?"

"Oh, no!" she squeaked. "It's just … there's this old film from the second era I really like, in black-and-white, you know. There's this barber, and he's really happy, and this piece of music comes on the radio and he just starts shaving his customer to the rhythm of the song, the exact same rhythm, note for note: da da daaah da … "

As she sang, she felt a comb going through her curls at roughly the same speed of the notes. Thorne peered down at her with an adorably boyish grin.

"Charlie Chaplin," he said. "The Great Dictator, wasn't it?"

"Yes!"

"Comedy gold. Nothing in this era compares."

"I know, right?"

Cress felt inordinately proud of herself for finding something to talk about with this dashing explorer. All those lonely hours downloading ancient videos off the net were coming in very handy. She barely noticed the snip of the scissors or the little wisps of blond hair falling around her as she chatted with Captain Thorne about Charlie Chaplin, Audrey Hepburn, Harrison Ford and the other stars of a former age. Soon enough, all too soon for her, the young pilot took a hand mirror out of his pocket and offered it to her.

"Not bad, if I do say so myself," he said. "Have a look."

She held the mirror at arm's length so that she could see her head, stared … and stared some more.

Her reflection looked normal. Better than normal, perhaps. She saw a girl with wide blue eyes and light skin, flushing pink as she watched, a high forehead, and a delicate nose and mouth. Her blond hair fluffed around her like a halo, so short and light she could barely feel it.

"Thank you, Captain," she said, grinning happily at this new girl in the mirror. "Not like a ball of yarn anymore, huh?"

Thorne grimaced. "Sorry I said that," he muttered ruefully. "Cinder's right. I do tend to shoot my mouth off."

"That's okay." Cress shrugged. "Me too." A life like hers didn't exactly encourage diplomacy, after all.

"Truth be told, the first time I saw you … " Thorne's blue eyes, dark as the sea, met her lighter ones with something like concern. "I was shocked that such a beautiful girl didn't take the care of herself that she deserved."

So he did think she was beautiful, some distant part of her noted. So she hadn't been the only oe who felt the spark. But in a moment, her joy was overshadowed by the reason why her hair (and the rest of her) had been such a tangled mess, and she found it impossible to keep meeting Thorne's eyes.

"Mistress Sybil didn't let me have any scissors," she said tonelessly. "No knives, either. Nothing sharp."

You don't think I'd let you escape from me that easily, Crescent? She darted a glance over her shoulder, listening for a caramel-smooth voice that was not there.

A warm hand took the mirror away and covered her own small hand on the table. She jumped.

"You know you're part of the crew now," said Thorne, more gravely than she had ever heard him speak. "You belong here, and not just because of your mad computer skills, either. Anyone tries to hurt you, they'll have to go through us."

Cress tried to smile back.

"A Lunar cyborg," he began ticking them off on his fingers, "A genetically engineered wolf soldier, and a red-haired Frenchwoman with a gun. Not to mention me. How much safer can you get?"

Cress couldn't help but giggle in response, and even dared to make a joke of her own.

"There, Captain," she said. "You do know how to be diplomatic. For once in your life."

He slapped his own leather-clad chest and staggered back, pretendng she had struck him through the heart. She swatted him with the mirror, and for the first time in all her sixteen years of prison, she began to feel as if she really could be safe.