“I’ll use the whistle,” Greta threatened, her eyes amused.
Calla stooped to pick up the lizard, stroking her back. “You’re a cruel taskmaster, Greta. But I’ll personally vouch for Twyla Faye. If she misbehaves, I give you permission to bring her in for show and tell to the kids at Miss Marjorie’s, and I’ll even let little Percival Gibbons take her home overnight.”
Twyla Faye gasped, but Calla pressed a finger to her jaw to quiet her. “So I’m just going to head up to Winnie’s closet, okay?”
But Greta held up a pudgy finger. “Um, no. You didn’t think stuffing my face full of these incredible cupcakes and distracting me with your scaly, back-talking familiar was going to keep me from grilling you, did you? They don’t call me BIC for nothin’.”
Calla made a comical pouty face, jutting out her lower lip. “But I brought cupcakes.”
“To grease my wheels, no doubt.”
“So not true. I just wanted to see your pretty face alight with joy at the prospect of sugar and multi-colored sprinkles.”
“Winnifred said you’d deflect, but I just want you to know before you go digging around in that closet of hers to find something fancy for the dance, Nash would be nuts about you if you wore a burlap sack and Crocs. I hope you know that.”
Tears stung her eyes, but she bit the inside of her cheek and forced a smile. “Do you think burlap’s my color?”
“I think everything’s your color. I’d beat the pretty out of you but you werewolves have sharp teeth. Now, in all seriousness, you and Nash have a good time tonight. And if you need to talk, old Greta’s always here.”
Clearly, she wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding her emotions if even Greta was offering an ear. Maybe Winnie had told her about her own suspicions regarding Calla? She and Greta were pretty close.
But it didn’t matter. After the cold, callous world of Boston, where everything centered around the egotistical Reed, if Winnie had confided in her ex-parole officer, it was just plain nice to have someone care enough about her to get upset on her behalf.
She threw an arm around Greta’s stout neck and squeezed it to keep those damn teardrops from falling, but her heart contracted with a sharp tug.
The people of Paris had adopted her and made her their own just like they had her grandfather. “Thanks, BIC. You’re really the best.”
Greta wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, yeah. Also, I have a Bennie riding on tonight. Don’t screw this up.”
Calla let her head fall back on her shoulders when she laughed. “Even you’re in the pool?”
Greta batted her away, but not before pinching her cheeks. “Beer for a year’s no damn joke. Now go on and get girlied up. I have parolees to keep in line.”
With a sniffle, Calla set Twyla Faye back on the floor and flew up the stairs, almost running right into Kirby.
The witch held out her hands to slow Calla down, her pretty face, with its evenly spaced features and clear skin, alight with a warm smile. As the sun began to fade in the big windows behind her, it highlighted her auburn hair. “So tonight’s the big night, huh?”
Calla rolled her eyes. “Don’t you start, too, Kirby Fisher,” she teased. “I’m going to a dance, not an orgy.”
Kirby stared at her for a minute, one that felt unusually long, before she said, “I think you were smart not to rush into anything. Really knowing someone takes time. If you muddy the waters with sex, it clouds your judgment.”
Hah. No truer words.
“Right?” Finally someone who was on her side. Calla hooked her arm though Kirby’s and took her down the wide hall to Winnie’s bedroom. “You’d think this was a NASCAR race, for hell’s sake.”
Kirby’s head bobbed up and down. “Even thought I’m not allowed to drink on parole, I have to admit, I was still pretty disappointed I couldn’t enter the raffle.”
“There are chicken wings, too,” Calla added with a snicker she couldn’t stop. Even though it was horrifying that people were betting on whether she and Nash had chosen tonight to be their night, it was still pretty funny.
Kirby stopped her mid-step, her eyes wide. “Shut up! Chicken wings? OMG. I love Skeeters’ chicken wings! I need to buy some raffle tickets before tonight,” she teased.
Calla pretended an irritated sigh and shook her head. “No more talk of brews and barn animals. Now, help me pick out something to wear that’ll make Nash drool buckets.”
As they entered Winnie’s bedroom, Calla spied Icabod sitting on her friend’s enormous bed. His plastic round eyes stared blankly at the far wall, his stuffed body rigid; he certainly came off as creepy. But in fact, when Winnie waved her magic wand, giving him the ability to speak to someone aside from her, he was quite intelligent.