Page 27 of Backlash

“We’re going to a party tonight,” Poppy says, throwing open my closet doors and walking inside it.

I scoot out of bed. I can’t trust her in there alone. Who knows what she’ll come up with. Kai follows me inside and whistles.

“This isn’t a closet. It’s Versailles,” he says.

“The MacLaines don’t do anything half-way,” I say flatly. Whoever built my walk-in had a flair for the dramatic. I suspect my mother had something to do with the way it turned out.

She’d been so excited to have a little girl that she went a little overboard with decorating, the closet being no exception. The ten-foot ceilings and two hundred square feet would have been over-the-top by any standards, but—whether due to hormones or excitement—she hadn’t stopped there. Carved moldings decorate the in-set shelves, covered lightly with gold leaf. The shelves themselves are a warm ivory. The far wall boasts a floor-to-ceiling antique, Rococo mirror, flanked by carefully buttressed shelves for shoes. In the center of the massive space was a large, marble-topped island with a fresh bouquet of magnolias in a towering crystal vase, delivered daily by one of the maids. The island itself houses drawers and drawers of jewelry, some of it family heirlooms, the rest cheap stuff I picked up at the mall. For as long as I can remember, mom had kept the whole closet stocked with clothing, adding to it each season and sending away old pieces. Standing here now, I realize that she’ll never sneak in a new dress from her latest shopping trip. I’ll never open a drawer to discover a new pair of earrings with a note from her that she couldn’t help herself. I never cared much about dressing up, mostly because she made it so easy. Now, everything in here is a reminder of her—of what I’ve lost.

“Can’t I just wear jeans?” I ask in a flat tone.

“When you have all of this?” Kai holds up a sequined mini-dress that shimmers like champagne in the light. “Does it suit me?”

“It’s yours.”

“Jeans?” Poppy repeats theatrically, like she has never heard the word before.

“Lots of people wear jeans to parties,” I tell her.

The look on her face says that might be true, but not in this zip code. She bites her lip as if considering how far to push me on it. Finally, she shoves the hangers she’s rifling through back together. Trudging across the closet, she pulls out a pair of dark denim jeans so skinny I’ll have to wear them inside my skin.

“Here.” She tugs them off the hanger and tosses them to me. Then she moves to another rack, flipping through the hangers until she finds a boxy, white blazer. “And this.”

Kai moves next to me and we watch her work her magic.

“She’s really in her element,” he says. “It’s like watching one of those wildlife shows on the Discovery channel.”

“The female predator moves in for the kill,” I narrate as she digs into a drawer.

“Aha!” she says triumphantly, ignoring us entirely. “The final piece.”

“And pounces,” Kai adds to my narration.

“What are you two on about?” she asks, spinning to hold up a delicate black bralette.

“What are you on about?” I stare at it, trying to figure out how all of the pieces go together.

She lays the blazer on the marble counter, tucking the bralette under it. “Sexy but comfortable.”

“I was thinking t-shirt,” I mumble. She shoots me a look that tells me I better not push my luck.

Rolling my eyes, I strip off my satin pajama shorts and wriggle into the jeans. I forgot how tight they are. They come up high on my waist, covering my belly button, which is a blessing given that I’m not allowed an actual shirt. Poppy tosses me the bralette, and I put it on, thankful to discover it’s not sheer enough to show my nipples. Finally, I slip into the white blazer.

“So?” I turn for their inspection.

“You look amazing,” Kai says.

“Seriously.” Poppy takes me by the shoulders and guides me to the mirror. She bunches my hair up on top of my head, lets it fall down, then repeats the process. “I can’t decide.”

“Up,” Kai says.

I feel like a paper doll being dressed up by two gleeful children, but I can’t deny that I actually look pretty cool. It’s not something I would have come up with on my own. Poppy piles my copper hair on top of my head while Kai offers critical analysis.

“Can I wear sneakers?” I ask as Poppy holds up a pair of thin hoop earrings.

Neither of them answer, which is a response in itself.

Twenty minutes later, after I talk them down from a pair of gorgeous—but impossible to walk in—Louboutins, opting instead for ankle booties with a stacked platform heel, we head out through the kitchen.