Page 57 of Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 4)
“Somebody with a stab wound in their side?” Sara asks, but I’m too busy shedding my clothes and sliding into a red cocktail sheath dress with a sweetheart neckline. It’s the color of blood, and very tight. I wouldn’t, under any circumstance, call someone wearing this thing sweetheart. As Valerie Broussard sings in “A Little Wicked”, nobody calls you honey when you’re sitting on a throne.
Fuck this idiot cop, I think, opening the door and watching as Sara’s estimation of me changes based on what I’m wearing. I look like a slut, but one that she wishes she could be, and that terrifies her. It makes her hate me. Oh, look, Bernie, you’ve become a psychic overnight.
“Ask around and see how well-liked Kali is,” I tell Sara with a shrug, moving over to a raised dais and its half-circle of mirrors. As soon as I see myself in that dress, but with bare feet, I ask the salesgirl to bring me some classic black pumps. Louboutins, just because the soles are as red as blood. Bloody shoes. And now I’m singing Cardi B again in my head.
I’ve only ever liked rock or metal in the past, but she’s making me feel like a bad bitch today, so how can I say no?
Once the heels are on, and I’m standing in front of the mirrors, I know that I’m losing ground with Sara. Picking this outfit, of all things, this color … well, it may as well be the scarlet motherfucking letter.
Just to summarize: it’s a book about a Puritan chick who screws a minister, gets pregnant, and then refuses to tell anyone in town who the father is. Poor girl gets a red letter ‘A’ slapped on her chest; it stands for adulterer. That’s what I feel like today, like some fucked-up Puritan girl made pariah through no fault of her own.
“If you want to find Kali, start by looking for Mitch.” I hope the admission—while it means nothing to me—will build some fragile trust between us. Nope, not this dress. As much as my inner Prescott ho likes it, I know that it won’t gain me anything with Ophelia. The color red can either be bold … or cheap. This is coming across as cheap.
I move back into the dressing room and lock the doors.
“Already tried,” Sara continues, seemingly content to sit and wait for me. “He, and his brother Logan, have been missing since the night of the dance.”
I switch out the sheath dress for the silk one, but as soon as I put it on and look at myself in the mirror, I know that it isn’t right either. I look like a trophy wife, some old man’s arm candy, an accessory instead of a fixture.
“And? It’s been two days, Sara. Relax.” I drop the pile of silk to the floor and kick it aside with one of the Louboutin heels on my feet. Salesgirl can clean it up. Show her what it’s like to take care of someone from Prescott for a change. Usually, we’re the ones pumping gas or wiping tables and being treated like shit by Fuller folks or Oak River Heights assholes.
The next dress I try on has a price tag that quite literally makes my teeth hurt. Four-thousand, eight hundred dollars. It occurs to me that anyone that purchases a dress this expensive should likely be slapped, just for being an asshole. And this is exactly the sort of dress that everyone in that art gallery will be wearing.
I try it on, sliding the crepe material over my head and letting it fall into place. Someone will have to button the top button and zip it up for me, but I turn anyway and examine myself in the small mirror.
This dress has a sweetheart neckline, just like the other one, but it’s floor-length with a mesh inset at the thigh, leaving the pale flesh of my upper legs visible. There’s just a hint of a tattoo peeking through. I swipe my hand down the front of the dress, enjoying the lush feel of the fabric. It’s not as red as I’d initially wanted; instead, it’s a red to black ombre, bloodred against my collarbone and fading to ebony at my feet.
I head back out of the dressing room, swing my hair over one shoulder, and put my back to the cop. Look, my posture says, I’m not afraid of you. Not at all. You know that, right?
“Tell me where the afterparty took place,” Sara says, zipping me up and fastening the single button. Her fingers are gentle but calloused, like she does more with them than you might expect. Like, maybe she hits the shooting range regularly. “That’s all you have to do.”
I ignore her for a moment, climbing back on the dais and wishing I could just wear my wedding dress to the gala. But Ophelia would recognize it. She’d know we didn’t have the balls or the funds to get another outfit. And that, that would be a poor move in this game of chess.
