The next morning, I was extra slow walking to school. Hannah is supposed to walk with me before she heads off to high school. But today, she walked ahead without even looking at me.

I kicked at stones and shuffled my feet. I thought about telling Mom that Hannah hadn’t walked with me to school.

I wanted Hannah to get into trouble for being so mean. But I knew she would hate me even more if I told Mom.

When I finally made it to school, the bell had just rung.

Perfect timing.

I slipped into the end of the line, hoping no one would notice my hair.

My plan worked for about twenty seconds. That’s how long it took to walk into the classroom and sit down. Bec, who sits next to me, noticed right away.

“Cassie! Oh, look at your hair!” she said sadly. “It’s all gone . . . your beautiful hair. . . . ” I didn’t know what to say.

I just wanted Bec to stop talking about it. But by now, the whole class was staring at me.

Everyone was looking at me and talking about my hair.

“You cut your hair, Cassie!”

“Look at Cassie!”

I could feel my face turning red.

This was all Hannah’s fault.

“Looks like you had a fight with a lawn mower,” Adrian said. I don’t like Adrian. He has dirty fingernails.

After that, nothing bad really happened. Mrs. Bonacci chose me to be snack monitor.

That was good.

At lunchtime, the girls were all really nice, too. They all said my hair looked good. They tried to make me feel better. Everyone kept touching it and saying how soft it felt.

At the end of the day, even Sam talked to me.

“See you tomorrow, funky girl,” he said and smiled.

I kind of like Sam, but that’s a secret.

After school, walking with Mom through the grocery store was different, too. When I had long hair, old ladies would smile at me. Some would even try to talk to me. But none of them did that today. It was like they didn’t notice me anymore.

The lady with lots of makeup who works at the deli always used to give me a piece of chicken to eat.

But not today. She didn’t even recognize me!

The TV show was right—I really do look different with short hair. But more than that, people think I’m a different sort of person. They don’t treat me like a little girl anymore.

I started to feel glad that people weren’t treating me like a doll anymore. I didn’t have to be the good little girl —I could just be myself.

Now I could start to grow up.