Stop fighting in the Arena? No freaking way! I’m about to tell her that, but the hope glistening in her brown eyes stops me cold. I can’t burst her bubble yet. “Wow, that’s a really great offer.” I shift my weight from foot to foot. “But, you know, senior year started a few weeks ago. I’ve still got time.”
Mom zips up the back of my dress. “Don’t take too long. Graduation will be here before you know it, and Arena fights aren’t enough of a service on their own.”
“Uh, they aren’t?” My mouth falls open. “Are you sure?”
“What do you think?” She winks. She probably researched this years ago.
My body feels cold. “Uh, let’s not talk about that now.”
“Fine with me. But if you don’t start to advocate to be a seamstress, you could be assigned something awful like latrine duty.”
She may have a point.
“Okay, Mom. I promise I’ll think about it soon.” I fidget in my gown, dying to open my eyes a crack. The skirt feels a little weird, but then again I don’t wear dresses very often. “Can I look now?”
Mom claps her hands. “Yes!”
Glancing in my mirror, I see myself wearing an ankle-length gown with a massive hoop skirt. The entire monstrosity is covered in flounces, bows, and the color orange.
Hells bells, orange. I so want to puke, die, or both.
At that moment, the doorbell rings. “Cissy must be here.” Mom clasps her hands beneath her chin. “I’ll go get her. I can’t wait for her to see you!”
Um, I can.
Mom walks to the front door, letting a giddy Cissy inside. There’s a lot of cooing and hugging, then footsteps pad toward my bedroom. Cissy pauses in my doorway, her hand covering her bow-shaped mouth. She’s wearing a slinky black dress that’s floor length and sliced half-way up her thigh.
I let out a low whistle. “Cissy, you look gorgeous.” All quasis are beautiful by human standards, but Cissy’s dress takes it to a new level. Why couldn’t Mom have called Versace, too?
“Thanks, Myla. You look…” Cissy smacks her lips, searching for the right word.
“She looks amazing, doesn’t she?” Mom weaves her arm through Cissy’s. “Hard to believe I wore this gown twenty years ago.”
“I believe it,” says Cissy quietly.
Suddenly, I’d like nothing better than for the earth to open up and swallow me whole. I kill things; I don’t wear dresses.
“Just one second!” Mom rushes back to the box, pulling out a floppy orange hat with an enormous bow. “This goes with it.”
I picture Captain Hook’s hat, then realize Mom’s hat could eat that one and still have room for dessert.
“No, thanks,” say Cissy and I unison.
A knot of tension crawls up my spine; I can’t wait to get this dress off. “I’m not feeling too well, Cissy.” I fiddle with the zipper on my back. “You’ll have to catch the party without me.”
“You’re fine. It’s nerves.” Cissy turns to my mother, blinking her tawny eyes madly. “You wouldn’t mind if we made a few little alterations, would you? To bring the dress up to date a wee bit?”
“Of course. There are scissors in the box. Do you need anything else?”
Cissy smiles sweetly. “A little girl-time.” She stares pointedly at the door. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” Still beaming, Mom almost glides out of my room. Cissy closes the door firmly behind her, then grabs the scissors and goes to work. Within minutes, the flounces and bows lay on the floor, alongside the hoop. In the end, I’m wearing a very simple, very electric orange gown. I stare at my image in the mirror.
“I look like a nuclear carrot.”
Cissy grabs my hand. “No, you don’t, you look fine. Please let’s go to the party please, please, pleeeeeeeeeeease?”
I’m going to regret this. “Okay, let’s go.”
Cissy and I race toward the front door, but my mother’s too quick for an uneventful escape. “No, wait!” Mom holds up her hands. “I have an instamatic camera somewhere in the attic crawlspace. I want to capture this moment!”
Cissy pauses by the threshold, fluffing her blonde ringlets. “Sure.” Mom runs off, the sound of footsteps echo through the house.
I glare at my best friend. “No pictures, please. Besides, we’re running super-late.”
“Oh, yeah,” Cissy cups her hand by her mouth. “Gotta go, Momma Lewis!”
Mom’s muffled voice sounds from the attic. “Are you sure you can’t wait?”
I grab Cissy’s hand and lunge for the front door. “Absolutely positive.”
Cissy and I rush to the driveway and slide into Betsy. After Betsy coughs up a few clouds of toxic smoke, we putter along the route to the Ryder mansion, our gowns carefully folded around us. As I drive along, I watch Upper Purgatory slide by my windows.
What a bummer this place is. When I was a kid, this used to be the fanciest spot around, filled with rows of overly-large houses on overly-small plots of land. The lawns were always green and fancy black sedans lined all the driveways.