She pushed through the swinging door to the ladies room, placed her books on the counter and stared into her own eyes.
There was no doubt about it. Her irises had turned bright, brilliant, spitfire gold. It was almost incandesent. For a moment it was all she saw. Her brain was offline. It was too much to prosess. All your life, the one constant you have is that your face will always be the same. When that constant turns out to be falible, you can't help but wig out.
April was on the verge of some major wigging.
And she had no idea what she should do next. How can anyone know what to do next?