I glance over my shoulder into my room. Jen opens her tote and lays out measuring tape, sewing chalk, a thimble, and a box of straight pins on my bed. When I turn back to Morpheus, he’s already moved on to the last bug mosaic.
“Red hasn’t been here,” he says before I can even voice my concern. “Everything is much too tidy. You know how chaos flourishes in her wake. Besides, she wishes to see into your mind. Had she found your house, these masterpieces would be gone.”
This allays my fears momentarily. But I still can’t bring myself to leave him alone. “Morpheus,” I whisper.
He glances at me again.
“Don’t mess anything up out here. Promise.”
He frowns, as if offended by the suggestion. “I vow it. Keep your friend distracted, and I’ll look around. Perhaps your mum left a note.”
Not without some hesitation, I leave him to explore and step into my room, closing the door for privacy. Sunlight streams through my slanted blinds, revealing dust motes in the air. Everything’s in its place: my cheval mirror in the corner, Jeb’s paintings on the walls, my eels skimming in their softly humming aquarium. Yet the hair on my neck won’t lie down. Mom’s perfume is stronger here than anywhere else in the house. It’s almost like she’s standing in front of me, but I can’t see her.
I shiver.
“Yeah, that was my reaction, too.” Jen grins as she slides the dress from its plastic sleeve. “It turned out even better than the one in the movie, right?” She hugs the dress to her torso.
The gown is exactly as I envisioned it, and I let out an admiring sigh.
When Jen and I were brainstorming our “fairy-tale” costumes for prom, there was one thing I knew: I was not going to wear a princess pageant gown or some sequined, skintight Tinker Bell number.
My mind kept returning to a dress from a cheesy horror movie that Jeb, Corbin, Jenara, and I watched called Zombie Brides in Vegas. The gown was delicate and backless with a fitted bodice and flowing skirt—elegantly tattered and stained with bluish gray mildew from the grave. It appealed to me in ways I couldn’t explain.
As my accomplice in all things morbid and beautiful, Jen insisted on making a replica. Using some images we found online as examples, she drew several sketches, then gave a copy to our boss at the thrift store. Persephone looked for similar wedding gowns at estate sales each time she went shopping for inventory and finally found one for twenty bucks: strapless, white, satiny, sequined, and pearled … a paragon of vintage charm. It even had a long, sweeping train. Best of all, it was only one size bigger than what I wear.
With scissors, a few tightened seams, an airbrush tool from Jeb’s studio, and dye the color of faded forget-me-nots, Jen turned out a masterpiece.
She cut triangles out of the hem to create scalloped edges. Then she cauterized the raw satin so it wouldn’t fray, leaving the scallops crinkled like wilted flower petals. For the final touch, she airbrushed dye—enhanced with glitter—along the cut edges, across the sweetheart neckline, and also at the seam where the bodice and skirt converge in a cascade of pleats.
The result is shimmery, shadowy, and moldering.
Jen rotates the dress back and forth so the flower-petal edges swish. I feel a pang of something I haven’t felt in years: the thrill of playing dress-up.
“Uh-oh. We’re in trouble,” Jen teases, picking up on my unspoken reverence. “Is that excitement I see? Alyssa Gardner, looking forward to wearing a gown and tiara and hanging out with her peers? Definitely a sign of the prom-pocalypse.”
Smirking, she spreads the dress out on the bed and shakes a netted periwinkle underskirt out of a plastic bag. It reminds me of the iridescent mist that lingers on the horizon after a storm, just before the clouds clear and the sun emerges.
“Gotta tell you, Al. I’m really glad you’re not backing out.”
She’s wrong. I am backing out. But not because I want to.
None of this is helping my frazzled nerves. I’m worried about my mom, my blood mosaics, and Red … I’m worried about telling Jeb the truth and leaving him alone to spend time with Ivy instead of me. I’m worried about everything.
The last thing I should be doing is pining for a silly dance.
I can’t just keep pretending everything’s normal and okay.
“So, let’s see those boots,” Jen says, referring to the pair of knee-high platforms I found online about a month ago.
Moving mechanically, I drag them out of the closet. After stripping down to bra and panties, I tug the underskirt over my head and arrange the elastic at my waist. Then I step into the dress, and Jen zips up the back.
Seated on the mattress’s edge, I slip my left boot into place over my tattooed ankle and run my hands along the synthetic leather. It’s the same faded blue-gray as the dye on the dress, with three-and-a-half-inch soles and utility buckles that run the length of my shin—the perfect foil to all things princess.