Hello guys! This is my story for NaNoWriMo, and it's unedited. So I'll be improving it at some point. I'm going to be frantically writing to get it finished, so updates might be infrequent. But here you go, anyway. Hope you like it! <3

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One: Light Honey Blonde? I Think They Made a Typo...

Remind me again why I'm curled up on the toilet seat in Savannah's bathroom on a Saturday afternoon, alone and with hair bright enough to stop traffic?

Oh yeah. Because it took three things: my stupidity, a packet of completely misleading hair dye and my over-enthusiastic best friend, who's always thought of herself as a bit of a beautician. Note to self: remember that she's not actually qualified, despite how persuasive she may be.

"Come on Bailey, what can go wrong?" Savannah had said, as she waved the packet in front of my face. The packet, which I will add, clearly read Light Honey Blonde, in bold letters. Well, excuse me for thinking that actually meant Light Honey Blonde, instead of Carrot Ginger.

Yup, you heard right. Bailey Cunningham is now unmistakably ginger. Bright, orange ginger.

I love my life.

Seriously, how long does it take to run down to the store, grab a packet of hair dye that would turn my hair a color other than orange, and return to the bathroom bearing my lifesaving gifts?

Way too long. I can practically feel the ginger burning through the scalp, probably attacking my brain while it's at it. What would actually happen if my brain turned ginger? Would I start to see the whole world as an orange tint? Would I be unable to recognize any other color except the tangerine shade of my hair?

Oh my God, why am I even thinking about this? I think the fumes from the hair dye are making me high.

Is this what it's like to be high? If so, I don't like it.

Shut up, brain.

When there are three sharp knocks on the piece of wood that is separating me from the rest of humanity (also known as the bathroom door), I leap off the toilet at the speed of light. Yes, finally! Savannah's back, and soon enough I can reverse this whole procedure and forget this ever happened.

"Bailey? Is that you in there?"

Wait... I don't remember my best friend's voice being so deep and manly. Either she's had a quick sex change on the journey to Wal-Mart, or that's not her. For some reason, I'm swinging towards the latter.

"Are you going to be finished up in there any time soon?"

Oh, crap.

Did I mention that Savannah also has a completely and utterly gorgeous nineteen year old brother, who goes under the name of Sam, who already thinks I am a complete weirdo? (Just another person to add to the list, then...)

Must've slipped my mind.

"Uh..."

I turn towards the mirror, grimacing at the severity of my reflection which, to say the least, startles me. As it is drying, the color seems to be increasing in brightness. I lift up my hand, taking a strand of hair between my thumb and forefinger, and inspect it, as if this will magically improve its appearance.

It doesn't.

"Sorry, Bailey, can I use the bathroom?"

Seriously? Why do things like this always happen to me? I think I've been punished enough in this lifetime - every day I seem to do something that involves public ridicule, or at the very least, humiliation. Because when you're me, ridiculously unpopular and with absolutely no experience with the opposite sex whatsoever, I have to say it: life sucks.

Well, it does when you're ginger, anyway.

"One second!" I call back, looking frantically around the room in the hope of a solution appearing from thin air. There's no way I can escape this - other than climbing out of the window. And with a ten foot drop from the second storey to the flowerbeds below, that option isn't sounding too appealing right now.

So what do I do? If I step outside that door, the inevitable will happen. Sam (who is practically the only remotely good looking guy who is aware of my existence) will see what the hell has happened to me and probably suffer death from laughter (which, with my new appearance, is probably now possible).

Any last minute genius ideas before I sacrifice my dignity? I look around the bathroom in anguish. The glare from the gleaming white tiles on the walls only emphasizes the terracotta color of my hair and the bottom of the super clean tub is tinged where the color of the dye has run, too.

"Just coming!" I manage to force out, trying to make my voice sound as normal as possible. Which, I'll add, doesn't work. It sounds unnaturally squeaky, as if I've just inhaled a balloon full of helium. Trying ignore the building feeling of dread inside of me, I move towards the door and reach out my hand.

Only three more seconds until I die of embarrassment.

Two.

One.

The door flies open quickly, and suddenly I'm face to face with a bemused looking nineteen year old, who towers over me in height. A quick look of surprise crosses his perfectly chiseled features, before it is replaced by the effort of suppressing a laugh.

"Uh...?"

"Yes, I know. It went wrong," I mutter, averting my gaze to the floor so I don't have to look him in the eye. I can't take facing him when I can tell that all his effort is concentrated into the prevention of uncontrollable laughter, which so badly wants to escape. "You don't need to say anything."

I push past him quickly, and head in the direction of Savannah's room, which is just across the hall. I don't even look back, but as I am just about to enter, I hear his voice.

"I think it looks nice," he says.

I don't even bother to respond, because there's no doubt that he's just making a sarcastic comment. Normally, I would be mortified that Sam had seen me in this kind of state, but I'm kind of over that now. Up until about eighth grade, I had the biggest crush ever on him, and the fact that he was in high school whilst I was stuck in middle school was probably the most attractive thing about him. Looking back, the only reason I crushed on him so hard was probably because all the guys in my grade were still going through the "awkward nerdy phase" (which, to be honest, I'm not sure I've completely outgrown), and he was the only remotely good looking guy I knew.

Oh my God, I wish Savannah would hurry up.

Just as this thought crosses my mind, the sound of the front door opening downstairs can be heard. I almost jump for joy when I hear my best friend coming up the stairs, calling my name.

"In here!" I yell, when I see her looking questioningly at the closed bathroom door.

She enters the bedroom a couple of seconds afterward, and even though she tries to mask it, I can still see the startled look on her face when my appearance first greets her eyes. That glimmer that crosses her irises is enough to show me that she desperately wants to laugh in my face, but is too kind to give in.

"Just get it over with," I say, folding my arms over my chest. "Go on. Laugh at me."

"What?" she queries. Her voice is tinged with innocence, but I'm pretty sure it's not genuine.

"You can laugh. Just once. Then you're helping me get this crap out of my hair."

Apparently, she doesn't need any more prodding, and bursts into a quick fit of giggles. After a couple of seconds, she shoots me an apologetic smile through her laughter. "I'm sorry, Bailey! I can't believe I did this to you."

I shake my head dismissively, as if it doesn't matter, but there's no denying that inside I am feeling kind of pissed off. I know that it's not Savannah's fault my hair didn't react well to the dye (understatement of the century), but hey, when you have bright orange hair, you've got a right to be pissed at someone.

"So what did you get?" I ask, nodding my head towards the Wal-Mart bag and hoping there is something that will save my butt from public humiliation hidden away in there.

Her face brightens and her hand delves into the bag, retrieving a packet of light brown dye - not unlike my natural hair color, which had still been on my head up until an hour ago. "The woman at the counter told me this would work," she states, looking incredibly pleased with herself.

"You took advice from someone at Wal-Mart?" I raise my eyebrows. I'm not sure if this is sounding like such a good idea now.

Savannah shrugs. "It can't go any worse, can it?"

Well, I suppose she has a point there.

***

As Savannah finishes blow drying my hair, she stands back and smiles triumphantly. "There," she says, as her arm reaches out and grabs a mirror from her vanity table. "It looks fine."

I take the mirror, unsure of whether I want to see my reflection. After the disaster of half an hour ago, I don't trust hair dye at all. Especially packets that are bought from Wal-Mart.

However, much to my delight, the girl that stares back at me has a relatively normal hair color. It's not far off my natural shade, actually, which happens to be a dirty blonde. Maybe I can take back what I said about Savannah and her beautician skills.

No, I still can't.

"Thanks," I say. "You saved me from major public humiliation there."

"Just... don't ever try to dye your hair blonde again."

"I've learned my lesson," I say truthfully. Seriously. I am never entering the realm of orange hair again. That place is way too scary. "Hey, can I borrow your straighteners?"

"Sure."

I rise from the so called 'hair styling seat' and head over to the desk, where Savannah's hair straighteners are resting on top of a thick pile of celebrity magazines. I should really invest in my own pair, but I honestly can't see the point when my best friend is willing to lend me hers whenever I want. I am just retrieving them when something beneath them catches my eye.

"What's this?"

The item in my hands is a brightly colored pamphlet, clearly brandishing the words 'So you want to be a camp counselor?' over a picture of a group of kids smiling brightly at the camera. Their positivity is so visibly transparent, and it's clear that they all have been bribed with a Twinkie and possibly a hot dog (depending on how far the photographer's generosity stretched), and yet I find myself being sucked in by their sugar coated smiles.

"Oh, that," Savannah says dismissively. "That's just something my mom picked up. I thought I threw it in the trash."

"Why?" I demand, a little more forcefully than I intend.

Savannah looks at me strangely, as if trying to work out what I am thinking. "Because it's just some brochure... why are you so interested in it?"

I don't even bother to respond, because by this time I am avidly reading through the text printed on the first page. Triple Lakes Camp is fun yet educational summer camp experience for children aged seven to eleven years, who show exceptional ability in music and the performing arts. Its 50 acre campus provides outstanding facilities and a wide range of activities to improve every child's musical ability as well as learn a range of new skills that will to continue to benefit them throughout their lives.

"Don't tell me you're actually interested in that thing."

My eyes are now scanning over the words so quickly they are on the verge of blurring into an incomprehensible mess, but I am able to get the gist of it. Camp... counselor... six weeks... responsible... friendly... pay...

"Savannah, we could so do this!"

Her expression tells me otherwise. Her already cat-like eyes are narrowed thoughtfully at me, and her head is tilted to the side. After a couple of seconds her face softens and a laugh escapes her lips. "Come on, Bailey. You and I... as camp counselors? Are you kidding me?"

My excitement is deflated slightly by her negative response, but I try not to let it faze me. Bailey Cunningham... the master of persuasion.

Well, almost.

"We are not becoming camp counselors."

"Why not?"

"Uh... because, for a start, you hate kids."

"I do not hate kids!" Okay, so maybe this is a small white lie on my part. But seriously... this is a great opportunity for us! We're finally old enough, and, let's face it, we don't exactly have anything better to do with our summer. When you're labeled as complete nerds at school, you're not exactly inundated with invitations to hang out over summer vacation.

Savannah just continues looking at me as an amused smirk spreads across her pretty face. "So what happened to your babysitting job for the neighbor's kid, then, Bailey?"

Oh, great.

I should've known she was going to bring that up. But, in my defense, it wasn't my fault the kid stole my cell phone and the parents decided to come home right at the minute I was in the process of holding him by the feet in a position that screamed child abuser. I was only trying to get my phone back.

"That wasn't my fault," I defend.

"Sure..." Savannah says sarcastically, the smirk still present on her face.

"Seriously, we could do this. We're old enough now, and we've got nothing better to do with our summer. It'll be way more fun to be out there than stuck at home, and we'd be getting paid for it too!"

"I am not spending six weeks with a bunch of spoilt 'gifted' kids. It's not worth it."

"Please?"

"No."

"You get to spend the summer with me..." I say, in a sing song voice.

Savannah rolls her eyes, tossing her shiny brunette hair over her shoulder as she does so. I've always been envious of it, ever since we were young, since I was the one who got stuck with a frizzy style that's a boring shade stuck somewhere between blonde and brown.

Actually, come to think of it, I've always been envious of Savannah altogether. Well, it's not fair when your best friend got brains and beauty, and you get stuck with half a handful of brains and... well, nothing else.

"Like that makes it more appealing," she responds, with a playful grin.

I pick up the nearest object, which just happens to be one of her pink fluffy cushions, and throw it in her direction. She pulls her hands up to her face in defense, but her reactions aren't quick enough and she is faced with a mouthful of pink fur.

Serves her right.

"Why do you want to do this so much, Bailey?" she asks me, whilst ridding her tongue of any stray pink strands.

"Because it'll be great!" I insist, although I am not entirely sure why I am so keen on it myself. Maybe it's the prospect of actually getting paid for a job that doesn't involve too much effort... that, and the picture of the two hot guys underneath the 'Our Camp Counselors' section in the brochure.

"If I agree to it, will you stop going on at me?"

"Yup."

She'll forget about that promise soon enough, anyway.

"Fine. I'll do it. But only because the pay's not bad, and I could use some money."

She says this, but I know out of the corner of her eye she is eyeing the guys in the pamphlet too.