“Don’t wear your hair like that to school. You look ridiculous. They’ll make fun of you.”

Mother’s voice is quiet (for once) but sharp. After three years of trying I had finally managed to coax my bangs into a barrel roll just like the pin-up girls in old movies wore. I have always admired the style of those women – their perfect hair, constantly on-point makeup, and daring tattoos. I like most things vintage, from medieval gowns to ’80s rock.

My mother, on her usual perch at the opposite end of the spectrum, is a modern woman, a strong, respectable adult who takes pride in being reserved and conservative. Only the latest trends in fashion will do. In my family, drawing any sort of unnecessary attention to oneself is frowned upon.

“I like it,” I murmur as I curl my eyelashes. It is far easier to have a conversation (if you can truly call it that) with Mother if I keep my hands busy.

“Does anyone at your school wear their hair like that? No, because that trend has passed.” She looks in the mirror, touching up her own hair with the straightener.

“I’ve seen people in San Francisco wear their hair like this. I like it,” I say, keeping my voice calm. I knew this was coming. But I find I can never fully brace myself for the inevitable.

“Oh, how you love to make yourself look ugly. You can wear it in the city.” (What she really means is “You can wear it in places nobody knows us.”) “But you can’t wear it at school. They’ll laugh at you,” Mother warns.

“I don’t care. As long as I think I’m pretty, that’s what really matters,” I say meekly.

“There you go with your ridiculous fantasies.”

She gives an exasperated sigh, but I pay no mind. I’m too busy admiring my barrel roll – or at least half of me is. The other half is still clinging to the word “city.” Oh yes, I’m one of those girls, the kind who have Big City Dreams, the ones who constantly have their head in the clouds believing, hoping, fantasizing about a far more exciting life, or at the very least freedom.

As a junior in high school I can feel my opportunity arriving. One more month and all that will be left is a year – just one more year of living with my mother, one more year of scrutiny, one more year of isolation, one more year of being treated like a dog. If I can just last one more year, then I will have the chance to be free. All I need is for one measly college to say yes. If one university is willing to accept me, if one academy will take me, I will be free. The thought itself is enough to make me quiver with anticipation. I just need one.