“Hi.” He ducked his head through the window. “Can we give Marabelle a ride?”
No, I would really deny the pregnant girl a ride. “Sure.”
“Great.” The grin that took his face was electric. He went over to Marabelle and helped her up.
“So where do you live?” I asked when Marabelle was strapped into the back and Foster had taken his place in the passenger seat.
“Oh, I’m not going home. I’m helping out somewhere.”
I followed Marabelle’s directions. “Somewhere” turned out to be a powder pink building with an enormous, sparkly sign out front that read MISS VICTORIA’S SCHOOL FOR LITTLE BEAUTIES.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” It flew from my mouth before I could stop it.
“Of course.” Marabelle was already angling out of her seat belt.
“Well … have a good day,” I said.
“Oh, please, come in,” Marabelle said. “The girls love visitors.”
“Um…” I looked over at Foster, who nodded eagerly. “Okay. Sure.”
Marabelle headed into the building as fast as she could, and Foster and I lingered for a moment after parking the car and looked up at the giant sign. It showed a sparkly crown, a scepter, and a pair of ballet shoes.
“Little beauties?”
Foster shrugged and headed after Marabelle.
It was as if someone had spewed pink all over the interior of Miss Victoria’s School for Little Beauties and all over Miss Victoria herself, who clasped my hand and smiled with bright pink lips, exposing ungodly bright white teeth. She was probably midfifties and had masses of bleached blond hair teased into an updo.
“I’m Miss Victoria, but you can call me Miss Vicky,” she gushed, and then turned to Foster. “And what is your name, handsome?”
“Foster.”
“Foster, what an interesting name.”
“It’s my mom’s maiden name,” he said, and I couldn’t help but stare. This was the first time I had ever heard him mention her.
“Well, come on in, welcome to the School for Little Beauties.” Miss Vicky led us down a little hallway that opened into a large (pink) dance studio.
“So is this like a ballet school or something?” I asked.
“Oh, honey, no.” Miss Vicky had that old-time Southern dialect.
Marabelle entered the studio from what seemed to be a dressing room, followed by six or seven little girls. They were all wearing pink tulle skirts, but they weren’t doing ballet. They strutted behind Marabelle and swished their hips. Marabelle swished along with them, a sort of creepy, runway-walk Follow the Leader.
“This is a beauty pageant school. These girls compete in pageants all over the country. See Tiffany over there? Wave for us, Tiffany.”
Tiffany looked like a china doll I had when I was little. Brown ringlet curls and perfect tiny features. She waved and smiled, exposing missing front teeth.
“Tiffany won Supreme Ultimate Beauty last month at the Southern regionals. She’s our very best.”
“She’s cute,” I said, and couldn’t help but feel as if I were appraising an armchair or something.
“When she puts her flipper in, she’s even cuter. But Tiffany hates her flipper, don’t you, sugarplum?”
“What’s a flipper?” I whispered to Foster, like he would know the answer.
But he surprised me. “It’s fake teeth they make them wear.”
“How do you know that?”
“Marabelle told me.”
Miss Vicky overheard us. “Oh, Marabelle was our very best, our very, very best, student here at Miss Victoria’s. She won Supreme Grand Beauty three times at Fabulous Faces. I was so delighted when she came back to work with our girls.” She dropped her voice. “Some of the parents questioned the example she would set in her current situation, but I said, there is no way I’m letting my very best student go. And these little girls don’t know where babies come from, so what does it matter?”