Page 17 of Pretty Dead Things

“I’ll stay the night with you,” I say to Cat now. Waylon won’t be happy about it. He’s probably already expecting me home, and the kids will be wanting supper. But I can’t take my chances with Cat.

Her hand drops from her neck and she shakes her head, refocusing on me. “I’m fine,” she says. “It just shook me up is all. Seeing Abel Sherman like that.”

“I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“I’m fine, Mel. Really. I can’t have you staying over and Mark and everyone else starting to worry. Seriously. I’m fine.”

I don’t like leaving her upset, but I can see that her eyes are clear, and I don’t smell any alcohol as I bring her in for a hug. “Okay, okay. You call me, you hear? If things are getting to be too much. Anytime. Don’t you do something stupid.”

“I promise,” she says, and I have to believe her.

“I’m proud of you,” I tell her when we say goodbye on the porch.

The sun is just beginning to set as I drive away, along the winding road that traces the river, past the skeletons of homes-to-be. I don’t realize how tightly I’m squeezing the wheel until I release the tension from my fingers, and they ache for the shape they once were. As I turn around the bend, the trees are cleared now. The river opens, and I see it. The well where we used to gather as kids. And the cave. I keep my eyes forward, refusing to look into the mouth of The Hollow.

CHAPTER FOURTEENSARAH LYNN

Hannah’s flopped on my bed, head dangling off the edge. Olivia’s curled in my pink velvet armchair, knees tucked up under her giant T-shirt like she’s hiding out in a tent. And I’m on the floor, blow-drying Hannah’s curls with a diffuser after an hour of washing, detangling, and loading her up with every curl product I could find in the shops on the square.

“I’m never going to do this myself,” Hannah yells over the blow-dryer. “It takes for-fucking-ever. I already got a job. I’m not looking to add hairstylist to the resume.”

I snap off the dryer, so she’s basically screaming the last of her sentence at us into dead air. With oil on my hands, I scrunch her curls to loosen them.

“Take a look,” I say, sitting back on my heels.

She hauls herself up and Olivia gasps so loud it makes Hannah whip around to her. “Does it look that bad?”

Olivia is covering her mouth with both hands. She shakes her head.

Hannah goes to my floor-length mirror. “Are you shitting me?” She turns her head, lets the waterfall of soft, bouncy ringlets fall over her shoulder. “You’re telling me I could have looked like this my whole life? I’m quitting Smoothie Palace. Fuck school too. I’m going full-time into hair care.”

I’m laughing, watching Hannah smelling herself, turning herhead this way and that, fluffing up her hair and adjusting one curl and then another around her face.

I lean forward to stand. “Time to talk outfits.” Orientation might seem like no big deal. But it’s your first chance to make an impression on the board members, the judges, the competition. “Show me what you brought.”

Hannah hands me a sweet-looking red floral dress, white flowers scattered across the cherry fabric. “It’s my church dress, but it’s the only one I have,” she says. “Besides my homecoming dress.”

I hold it up in front of her. “It might work. Put it on.”

Olivia gets up and starts to study the clothes in my closet, giving Hannah privacy with her turned back.

Hannah wriggles her pants off, then pulls her shirt over her head. Instinctively, she wraps her arms around her belly.

Hannah, who lets her mouth run miles ahead of her brain, who is always saying something just for the sake of making herself laugh, not really caring whether or not anyone else even finds it funny, who is completely comfortable with who she is. Seeing her now, shoulders rolled forward like maybe she can shrink herself into nothing—it sends a bolt of anger through me.

“If there’s one lesson you both need to know about pageants—it’s what’s underneath that counts.”

“You mean what’s on the inside?” Olivia asks.

The dressing room of a pageant is a stage before the stage, a psychological battlefield. Girls get modest. They get shy. Putting on gowns beneath robes, changing behind their travel clothing racks. But I don’t turn. I don’t hide. I enjoy maintaining eye contact with my competitors, keeping small talk going while I strip in front of them, I enjoy letting my body reflect every one of their hidden insecurities. But it isn’t just my body that’s doing the work. “It’s all about confidence,” I say. “I win that crown before the other girls ever put on their thousand-dollar dresses. Before I ever take one step onto that stage.” I pull Hannah’s hands away. “Never hide,” I tell her, looking right into her dark brown eyes.

I guide the dress over her, running my hands down her rib cage, sliding them to the hem and farther down the curve of her thighs. She’s already tied the front in a bow at her neck before I pop up. We’re face-to-face, and her cheeks are flushed. I’m close enough to smell the sweetness of the pineapple on her breath from the smoothies we picked up earlier. And I know she can smell it on mine.

“Curves are in,” I say. “So we use them.” I begin to untie the bow. I loop one end of the tie up through her bra and slide the other under, my fingers gliding between her breasts, along her sternum. I tie the ends together tight, pushing her neckline into a deep V, giving her a little more support, a little more exposure, so that her breasts swell up between the girly white flowers on either side. Perfect.

I turn her to face the mirror again. “You have cleavage we’d kill for,” I whisper in her ear, my chin resting on her shoulder. “So kill us with it.” The corner of her mouth lifts with a mischievous smile. She can’t help it. Beauty is power.

“Can I try this on?” Olivia asks, and I turn to see she’s holding up a sky-blue minidress.