“Where are we going?” I call out to her.
“It’s a surprise,” Madeline trills. She shoots a naughty smile to Charlotte. Laurel smiles, too. Does she know? She’d better not, if it has to do with a challenge.
A bright white party van speeds past, house music pouring out of the tinted windows. A sweaty, red-faced woman with crimped blonde hair peeks out of the sunroof, a plastic tiara attached to a mesh veil trailing behind her in the van’s wake. It’s obviously a bachelorette party, getting an early start on the day’s festivities. We walk for a while, and then Madeline stops short in front of a wild, over-the-top costume shop. The windows are crowded with headless silver mannequins draped in tutus, feather boas, and enough sequins to make a stripper call “uncle.”
“Here’s the place, girls,” Madeline says slyly, a small smile on her face.
I frown. “Here? Why? It looks like Mardi Gras threw up inside.”
Madeline taps her lips. “Let’s just say I feel a little late-morning challenge coming on.” Her eyes glimmer.
I eye a pair of thigh-high black vinyl boots with a fuchsia lace-up design. They’re paired with a plunging, open-front leotard that reveals fuchsia tiger-print pasties capped in silver-fringed tassels. “What do you want us to do in here?” I ask.
Charlotte takes a swig from the plastic water bottle she’s been carrying and nods excitedly. “This, girls, is a race. You have five minutes in the costume shop. The girl who comes out in the best costume wins.”
I scoff. “That’s the dumbest challenge I’ve ever heard.”
Laurel gives me a warning glance. “Does that mean you forfeit?”
“No,” I say toughly, turning toward the store. There is absolutely no way I’m losing another challenge. “Bring it on.”
Charlotte glances at her slim, gold Movado watch. “Time starts . . . now!”
Laurel and I bolt inside. The room smells like mothballs, and the aisles are a jumble of showgirl-ready metallic lamé, lace, and satin. Fortunately, there are no other customers in here this early in the day. At least we can do our extreme shopping in peace.
I spin around the place, trying to decide what the “best” costume might be. Something garish? Scary? Slutty? Just over-the-top? I survey a wall of rainbow-colored fishnet tights, flapper dresses, Elvis masks, costume jewelry, and ball gowns, and then I spy it: a gloriously retro, puffed-sleeve explosion of a Queen of Hearts costume. Between the sweeping, ruffled, full skirt, the boned corset bodice covered in a graffiti heart print, and the flame-red, sausage-curled Victorian wig, the effect is Tim Burton on acid.
I lunge for it on the wall. Another hand touches it at exactly the same time.
“I saw it first,” Laurel growls, tugging the dress toward her.
“You did not!” I leap forward. “It’s mine!”
We each grab on to a pink polka-dotted sleeve and tug violently. “You’re going to rip it,” I hiss.
“No, you are,” Laurel says.
The bracelet Thayer gave her gleams close to my face. I want to lean forward and rip it off her wrist. But instead, I give a sharp pull to the dress. It falls from the wall, still on its hanger, into my arms. Laurel reels back, stumbling onto the carpet. I lord it over her, grinning.
“You lose,” I tease.
Laurel glares at me and straightens back up, brushing a stray blonde tendril from her forehead. “Whatever. Maybe I lost, but at least I’m not a heartless bitch.”
I hug the dress tighter, hearing the fabric rustle. “I’m a heartless bitch? You’re the one who made fun of me at the club with that stupid jilted-bride thing!”
Laurel’s expression crumples. “I thought it was funny. I—I’m sorry. You didn’t?”
I thrust my chin in the air, annoyed that I showed any vulnerability. And please, like Laurel really didn’t know how mean she was being? “It was lame, Laurel, just like you are.”
Laurel blinks hard. “Sutton, why don’t you want me in the club?”
She’s leaning against a rack of flesh-colored bodysuits, suddenly looking small and wounded. It’s such a direct question that it knocks me off guard. “Because I don’t think you deserve it,” I snap. “Besides, why do you want in so bad?”
Two red spots bloom on Laurel’s cheeks. “Isn’t it obvious?”
I shrug. Maybe it is obvious. We’re the club to be part of. And more than that, Laurel has to steal everything of mine. All the affection. All the attention. And now this, too.
But then, ducking her head, Laurel says, “I miss being friends with you.”
I step back, blinking hard. “Huh?”
“Like we used to be. We had so much fun. I . . . miss that.”
My arms go slack and my mouth drops open. As I struggle to regain my composure, the salesclerk pops up, bobbing in front of us nervously. “Everything okay here? Would you like a fitting room for that?” She eyes the Queen of Hearts dress in my hands.