I step up to a typical-looking ranch house in Middle Purgatory and ring the doorbell. Outside, the place looks just like my home: a one-story gray ranch house on a bland street of other one-story gray ranch houses. A few seconds pass before a beautiful blonde couple opens the door.
A willowy-tall woman tilts her head to one side, setting her blonde ringlets jiggling. “Hello, Myla.”
Damn, Cissy’s mom totally hates me. “Hi, Mrs. Frederickson.”
“I’m here, too.” Cissy’s dad’s handsome face droops into a frustrated frown. He hates me too. It’s the tail. Most quasis don’t see Furor as demons per se, since they have two deadly sins and all. We’re more like freaks of nature, which is how Mr. Frederickson is glaring at me right now.
“Hello, Mr. F.” No point using his full name; he loathes me anyway. I pop onto my tip-toes and peer over their collective shoulders. “Is Cissy home?” I look beyond her parents, seeing the familiar interior of oriental rugs, gilded furniture, and modern art.
“Myla!” Cissy bursts through the wall of her parents, grabbing my hand. “The gowns arrived last night!” She drags me past the parental gatekeepers and through their elaborately-decorated house. I’ve been here a hundred times, but I’m still shocked that any walls can hold so many tiny shelves, statues, and pricey knick-knacks. Cissy leads me into her bedroom and kicks the door shut behind us. “I had to empty half my closet to make room for them.”
Something colorful on the wall catches my eye. “Hey, you got a new painting.” I stare at it and wince. “What is it?”
“Some kind of human modern art thing my dad scared up. Jackson Polly-somebody. Dad got a deal on it.” She tilts her head, setting her blonde ringlets bouncing. “I think it may have fallen off a truck, if you know what I mean.”
I scan her room, looking for anything else that’s different. My bedroom’s standard ghoul issue: drab carpet, blah bed, and non-descript dresser. It hasn’t changed since I was two years old. Cissy’s room looks like a decorator show house from the old quasi republic days. There’s a matching bed-set, plush carpet, and line of funky paintings on her walls. Her dad is constantly adding new goodies from his black-market deals.
My best friend pulls the cover from her gown. It’s an emerald-green sheath with long looping sleeves that’s trimmed with black velvet.
I lean back on my heels and stare. “That looks lovely. What do the colors mean?”
“Green means I’m a single woman in a relationship. The black ribbon says I’m a guest of the House of Rixa.” She pulls the cover off my gown. It looks like the first one, only it’s blood red.
“What does red mean?”
“That you’re a single lady who’s unattached.”
“Why don’t they have me carry around a price list too? Sheesh.” A pair of stacked boxes catch my eye. “What’s in there?”
“Shoes and stuff.” Cissy holds her gown against her torso and models in the mirror. “This is even nicer than what I wore to the autumn tournament.”
I step over to the boxes and pull out my matching shoes. Inside the box I also find a complex set of winding strips like mummy wrappings. I pick mine up with two fingers. “What the heck are these?”
Cissy glances over her shoulder at me. “Your underwear.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
She sets one hand on her hip. “See? If you’d gone with me to the tailor instead of having your mom send in measurements, you’d know all this stuff. Thrax are nuts about their traditions, and those are traditional thrax undies.”
“I’m not wearing them.” Dropping the strips back into the box, I look at them out of my right eye. “I don’t even know how to get these things on.”
“You’re wearing them and I know exactly how to put them on you.” Cissy glares at me. “They look like typical underwear when they’re on, don’t worry. From what the Ryders told me, thrax are insane about this kinda stuff. If someone saw you in the bathroom wearing anything else, it could turn into a diplomatic horror story.”
My upper lip curls. “I don’t know, Cissy.”
“Oh, stop being a baby and put on your free gorgeous gown. We don’t want to be late.”
We slip on our dresses and I have to admit, I really like mine. The last two gowns I wore were the neon carrot and the marshmallow nightmare. This one’s simple, pretty and actually fits me.
And yes, I wear the traditional thrax undies. Whatever.
I drive Betsy over to thrax central. Cissy complains the entire ride how my beautiful green station wagon has barely-functioning air vents and sketchy radio. I remind her of Betsy’s loyalty and her own lack of car. Once we get to the thrax compound, it takes for-bleeding-ever to find a parking space. The winter tournament’s a much bigger shindig than autumn. I find a spot for Betsy, and then Cissy and I follow the crowd through a winding forest path that opens onto a large field.
Cissy shakes her head. “They must have cut down half a forest.” Compared to the autumn tournament, this field is huge and covered in fancy tents. There must be two dozen total, all in different colors.