12
1008 Words
When Sloane turns to look at me, I throw my arms in the air. “Here. Happy now? I’m Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, only with a sluttier wardrobe and no happy ending.”
Sloane stares at me silently, her eyes wide.
I’d rip off the stupid dress, but I think I’ll need scissors to get out of it.
“Say something nice to me, Hollywood, or I swear to god, I’ll cut you.”
She says softly, “You look beautiful.”
“Oh, ho! Good one. Go big or go home, right?”
“No, I mean it. You look beautiful.”
I exhale hard in disgust. “Of course I do. I’m just a beautiful prostitute on her way out for an evening of romantic encounters in alleyways to earn fistfuls of sweaty dollar bills. Let’s get this over with and go eat. My blood sugar is dangerously low right now.” I glare at her. “I’m liable to stab the nearest person.”
She says hopefully, “Did you bring contact lenses with you?”
“The glasses stay on.”
She’s crestfallen, but quickly recovers. “Okay, but let me just…a little swipe of lipstick and mascara…”
I’m too starving to have another argument, so I relent. “You have exactly sixty seconds. And none of that goopy foundation s**t!”
Sloane runs gleefully back into the bathroom, emerging in a flash with one purple tube and one silver tube in her hand. She works quickly, one small mercy, then hops up and down in front of me, clapping in delight.
I say flatly, “Sister, you have totally lost your mind.”
“So will every man who sets eyes on you tonight.”
“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks not even one man will look twice. Unless he’s in the market for a sad and degrading s****l experience with a paid stranger, but that doesn’t count.”
Sloane tilts her head and smiles. “I’d take that bet, but I doubt you could come up with the cash.”
“Fine. I’ll bet you two boxes of Twizzlers and a watermelon Sour Patch. But when I win, you owe me…”
I look around the room for inspiration, then point to a round side table that’s covered in expensive-looking baubles. “That cute little box with the peacock on top.”
“That’s a Swiss silver fusée singing bird box circa 1860. It’s worth more than eighty thousand dollars.”
I smile. “What’re you, chicken?”
She sticks out her hand. We shake on it.
Then I march purposefully behind her as we head out of the room.
Halfway down the hallway, she has to grab my arm so I don’t fall.
“When was the last time you wore heels?” she asks, steadying me.
“College graduation.”
“I’m shocked you didn’t fall flat onto your face on the stage when you went to accept your diploma.”
“Who says I didn’t?”
“God, you’re hopeless.”
“Please be quiet. My inner demons are demanding that I kill you, and I want to hear what they have to say.”
“Okay, but before I’m quiet, I just have to add this one thing.”
“Of course you do.”
“Thank you.”
She sounds so sincere, I have to shoot her a suspicious sideways glance so I can see what her face is doing. Surprisingly, she looks sincere, too.
“What’re you thanking me for?”
“I know you’re only doing this for me.” She looks at my lady-of-the-evening costume. “You could’ve refused and put on more of your hideous gray athletic wear, but you didn’t. So thank you.”
Grr. She’s being nice. I have no defense against my sister when she’s nice.
It’s like if Dracula took a moment before he ripped open your throat with his fangs and sucked out all your blood to say a few polite words about your lovely taste in interior design.
It’s disorienting.
We’re rounding the corner of the hallway and headed to the foyer when Sloane spots Spider, crossing the vast acreage of echoing marble she calls the “sitting room.” It’s so big, the weddings of future heirs to the throne of the House of Windsor could easily be held there in case Westminster Abbey burns down.
“Spider!” she calls. “Would you come here for a moment, please?”
He’s holding a can of soda in his hand. In the middle of taking a swig, he turns his head and glances in our direction.
He looks at me.
Liquid sprays abruptly from his mouth in a huge geyser, as if he’s just been punched hard in the gut. He stares at me, frozen and gaping, soda dripping from his chin.
Sloane stops and turns to me, smug. “You owe me two boxes of Twizzlers.”
Cheeks burning, I mutter, “Give me a break. That wasn’t a positive reaction. The poor man got such a fright, he nearly choked to death.”
“What you don’t know about men could fill all thirty-two volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica.”
“They have that online now, Grandma.”
“Theory’s the same. You know jack s**t about men. Let’s go eat.”
“Can you give me a sec? I need a moment alone to mentally prepare myself for my forthcoming public humiliation.”
Without waiting for her permission, I stalk off in the other direction, toward a set of open glass doors that lead to an outdoor patio.
I keep my gaze averted from Spider, who’s still standing right where he was when I turned him into a pillar of stone in a tight black suit, and walk outside into the balmy evening air, vowing to myself that I won’t let Sloane see me cry.
I’ve cried because of that heartless wench too many damn times in my life already.
- Writer
