Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
A slight twinge of guilt filters through me. “I mean, it’s gorgeous,” I add quickly and walk to the dress. “Really pretty. But I’m not …” How do I put this? “I’m not cut out for a dress like this. You know that. You chose my wardrobe based on old photos of me, right?” I gesture down at the sweatshirt and baggy jeans I donned after the bath.
“You wore a light turquoise gown to your sister’s inaugural ball once she became governor,” she replies with the faintest hint of hope. My olive branch accepted.
“Yeah, but Juno made me wear it. I didn’t have a choice.”
She gives me a pointed look. One that says, ‘it’s not as if you have a choice right now, either.’ Instead of making that argument, she runs her hand down the material. “Just try it on, all right? I think you’re going to look stunning. But once it’s on, we’ll be better able to make a decision then.”
As if there’s any other decision. I’m being forced to go to this ball, forced to wear this dress, possibly forced to die. I have no options. Melody is actually being almost sweet by playing along with me.
“I brought some makeup and other things, too.” She hands me the dress, then grabs a black overnight case and walks into the bathroom. “I’ll set up in here. Just try on the dress, and then we can decide on hair.”
“Why does it matter what I look like?” I grudgingly strip off my sweatshirt and jeans.
Melody doesn’t answer.
With a sigh, I dig around at the dress’s hemline, find the opening, then slide it over my head and down my body. I miss the arm hole, then rearrange the fabric and find it. “It’s too loose,” I call.
Melody appears and in stunningly short order finds the side zip and yanks it home.
“No, it fits perfect.” She circles me, her appraising eyes taking in every detail. “Lose the bra, though. That won’t do.” Her eyes travel lower. “Panties too. I can see the line.”
“No way.” I cross my legs and drape a hand protectively across my sports bra. “No fucking way.”
“I’ll find a set of more appropriate underthings, all right? But the bra truly has to go.” She unzips me quickly and helps me from the fabric. “Let’s get to work on the hair.”
Everything about this feels so … off. It reminds me of when Juno helped me get ready for my senior prom. Awkward and shy and a senior at only 13 thanks to my heady combination of IQ and ADHD, I didn’t have a date and had no clue what to expect. Juno and Mom told me I’d regret it forever if I missed my senior prom. I disagreed, but as in all things, the two of them won out. Juno found me a dress that was formal and at least two sizes too big in the bust. Mom got me a corsage. As it turned out, I’m allergic to lilies, can’t dance, and only stayed at the prom venue for all of five minutes before hiding in the ladies’ room for the remaining two hours. I get the feeling this ball is going to be magnitudes worse, only this time I can fill out the dress.
“You have to trust me.” Melody leads me to the vanity bench. “But first.” She hands me a wine glass filled with green liquid.
“Already moving on to the poison portion of our evening?” I eye the glass.
“Not poison.” She rolls her eyes. “It will help you relax.”
“Pacifying me before slaughter, then?”
“No! How many times must I tell you that you aren’t dying tonight?” She sighs, particularly weary of me this evening. “It’s simply a way to make this evening more bearable for you. That’s all.” She considers for a moment then gives me a sly look. “Would it make you feel any better to know that Gorsky is so jealous that you get to go to the ball he threw a fit and locked himself in his room?”
“Good. At least he’s contained.” I’d love for Gorsky to go in my place. The creepy asshole could even wear my dress. I wouldn’t care. I sit, the fight draining out of me as she goes about curling my hair with a resolve that verges on stern. When I take a sip, the green concoction is somehow sweet and bitter at the same time.
“Not bad?” she asks.
I take a bigger gulp. It burns funny in my stomach, but it warms me up nicely. “I think I’m going to be shitfaced before we even walk in. Wait. You’re going to be there, right?” I ask her reflection. (Turns out vampires have reflections. All the stories are bullshit.)
“Certainly.” She frowns at my hair, then works on curling the same tendril for the third time.