Then, rushing to get across the street before the intersection, Candida Rocket tripped over one of those damn heels. Caught it on a manhole cover, or something equally amateurish, and Meg grabbed her arm and pulled. Pulled her right up to the median, right as a taxi whooshed past, shrill horn going. And Candida reached down, adjusted the strap on her left shoe, and “I don’t think I’ve ever saved you before,” Meg said. “’Bout time, huh?”

Now you might be right in thinking Candida Rocket was a little lost, but that sure didn’t mean she was gonna change her bright pink hair color. There she was, just walking down Lake to Meg’s apartment, and she might be a little lost, and it might be her own fault since she never was really good with directions, but she was telling herself for the ninth time tonight that she just wouldn’t do it. Telling herself that even if she wanted to, Meg wouldn’t have any good colors to choose from.